by Bodie Thoene
***
It was, of course, the answer to Eli’s most fervent prayer. His arms laden with food, he hurried through the dark streets of the Jewish Quarter. Shimon and Leah Feldstein’s flat was in the poorest of the poor sections of the Quarter. Leah’s matching dress and shoes notwithstanding, he sided with his father. They could not be very rich and wish to stay in such a place. He had been searching for some reason to visit them to mention Victoria’s name. To thank them for the ticket and then to talk about Victoria. Surely they knew her well. Or at least well enough to notice what a wonderful person she was. Had she mentioned his name to them? He wondered. Were they also part of the little conspiracy?
Dodging a particularly deep puddle, Eli considered that coming from a place so decadent as Vienna, these liberated Europeans would not be at all dismayed by the fact he and Victoria were in love.
A dim orange glow shone in the window of the Feldstein flat. The window was quite dirty, Eli noticed. It probably had not been washed in years. The contrast between that straining little light and the spotlight at Allenby barracks was startling. Eli could not imagine the woman he had listened to last night would choose to live in such a gloomy place as this.
Leaning against the wall for balance, Eli climbed the steps to the flat. It had always been a marvel to him that old Idela had managed to climb these steep steps at eighty-something. Her legs must have simply gotten into the habit.
On the stoop he waited a moment, trying to juggle his burden. Through the thin wooden door, the sound of peaceful music emanated. Music? Here? He knocked with his foot. The door swung back, revealing the enormous form of Shimon Feldstein. He was smiling. Strangely peaceful as if the music were coming from inside him.
“Shalom,” he said.
Eli remembered his voice. “I am . . . my mother is . . . Ida Sachar . . . and I . . . she sent me here with this, in case you have not eaten.”
Shimon stepped aside. The light behind him fell on Leah as she sat on an upturned packing crate. Another packing crate served as a table, complete with candlesticks and real china plates and linen napkins. A third crate was laden with food in all sorts of containers. Small tin buckets held stew. There were bowls of boiled potatoes and a bit of lamb. A phonograph stood in the corner of the clutter, playing some wonderful music. An orchestra. Violins. It was . . . so very elegant!
“Another one!” Leah said in delight. “Come in. Won’t you join us? Everyone else is gone, and we have plenty.”
Dumbfounded, Eli stepped past the big man. He thought about how amazed his mother would be when she found out that everyone had brought supper to the new arrivals! Could any disaster have been greater for Ida Sachar than to have been left out of doing good when everyone else did good? The thought of it made him shake his head as he placed the Sachar offering on the crate. A glance showed there was no fresh strudel among the plates. This would please his mother. No one else brought strudel!
“My mother sent me with some supper. And strudel. Have you had strudel yet?” Eli asked, just to make sure. His mother would ask him if he asked.
Shimon unwrapped the package and inhaled. “Not since Vienna,” he replied. “And that was too long ago to remember.”
Eli hesitated in his real purpose as Leah and Shimon filled his ears with the kindness of the Jewish Quarter. Eli told them his name again and watched their faces to see if there might be a flicker of recognition. There was none. This was disappointing. Shimon pulled up a crate for him to sit on as he told how Hannah Cohen had showed them how to start the primus stove. Eli mentioned that Hannah was their landlady and that she knew everything. He did not say, however, that probably every woman who came through the door had come bearing gifts and left bearing tales. China plates! A phonograph! Candlesticks on a packing crate! Oy! But is she expecting?
That question played over and over again in Eli’s unwilling mind. He forced himself not to look at Leah for fear his eyes would lock on her stomach as he spoke. The sheer romance of this strange little dinner party made him flush slightly and think about Victoria. What would it be to be someplace with her alone? Candlelight. Music. Maybe his child within her?
He should not have let his mind wander from the trivial to the magnificent. Suddenly he blurted out, “Victoria sent me a pass to your concert last night.” Pain and longing were etched on his face. “I saw her. I could not speak with her in public, of course.”
Shimon and Leah stared at him blankly until the full meaning of his confession sank in. Leah smiled gently, sympathetically. “Ah. You and Victoria . . . ?”
What relief it was to spill it out to these strangers. So maybe he was interrupting their romantic candlelight dinner with his tale of misery! Why should any couple be so lucky as to have candles to blow out and a bed to lie on together and no one to say they could not, when Eli and Victoria lived in such torment?
He did not tell them everything, of course. There were some things he did not admit, like how he ached at night when he thought of her.
And then he finished with a sigh. “She looked so happy last night beside you both. It is so hard. We live in two worlds. You cannot understand what it is like.” He hung his head, feeling the first violent wave of embarrassment. Why had he told them this? “It must be the music,” he finished lamely and stood up.
Their understanding eyes followed him. “I am going to have tea with her next Tuesday, Eli,” Leah said gently. “I would be happy to give her a message if you like.”
“Oy! You are the only one who can do it without risk.” He tugged his beard in thought. “I will bring a letter on Sunday.” He smiled at Shimon. “Would you like to join us for morning prayers at shul? The men are less nosy than the women, I promise.”
The music had stopped by the time Eli left. He descended the stairs and looked back over his shoulder at the orange glow of the candle through the window. The music began again. It floated through the grimy glass into the cleanly washed night stars. And then, as Eli watched and envied, the light of the candles went out.
***
Tonight an American double feature was playing at the London Palace Theater. Charlie Chan in Paris and Song of the Thin Man.
Charles and Louis had not stopped bouncing since Elisa had announced that she and Anna held four precious tickets for this evening’s program.
Murphy read the advertisement over the dinner table.
“The world’s greatest detective, Charlie Chan, spots forgery in gay Paree!” He lowered the newspaper and screwed his face up in an imitation of the Chinese sleuth. “Ah-so. What you think of that, Charles? You named Charlie too!”
Charles laughed and clapped his hands, ducking down in embarrassment at being named after a Chinese detective. “I . . . talk . . . be’er.” He giggled.
“Better, better, better,” Louis corrected, sounding each letter T distinctly.
Murphy continued his imitation. He peered at Charles through squinting eyes. “Charlie Chan not say the or a when he talk. Not good for boy-detective learn English from Charlie Chan.”
Charles frowned and tried again. “Bet-ter. I talk bet-ter!”
Elisa nodded approval and stacked the dishes. “He figures out the mystery quicker too. Charlie Kronenberger, master private eye.” She winked. “Go wash up. Comb your hair. Freddie will be here in five minutes with Mama and Papa.”
As they ran happily up the stairs, Murphy took her hand. “You’re more than I bargained for,” he whispered. “Married a few months, and already you’re a terrific mother of five-year-old boys.”
“I should have listened when they told me you work fast,” she teased. Then, changing the subject. “You’re sure you and Papa won’t come along?”
Murphy shook his head. Tonight he and Theo Lindheim would listen to Hitler’s speech from Saarbrücken. Murphy had a reporter on hand in Germany to cover it live, but he wanted to hear for himself what pretense the Führer might have for serving up another portion of Europe on the Nazi platter. He did not trouble Elisa with
the details.
“You and Anna have a good time. Theo and I will stay here and bemoan the condition of the world.” He smiled at her, but she saw the reality behind his words. Worry flashed across her face. She did not want to know!
Dressed in matching tweed jackets and knickers, the boys clattered down the stairs. Caps in place, they seemed the very picture of English schoolboys. Charles carried a magnifying glass in his hip pocket to aid in his search for clues. He examined Louis’ hand under the glass as Elisa retrieved her coat and Freddie honked the horn outside in Red Lion Square.
They flung the door back to reveal Theo with his hand raised to knock. With steel-gray hair and craggy features, Theo appeared to have completely regained his health, but his eyes still betrayed sorrow at all he had seen over the last few years. Even a smile of greeting did not hide Theo’s private anguish from his daughter.
“Two old bachelors,” he tried to joke as Charles and Louis led Elisa down to the waiting automobile and the enormous chauffeur.
She waved without smiling as Freddie opened the door and she slid into the backseat. Without being told, she knew the news Theo and Murphy heard tonight could not be good. Like the two small boys, she would stare at the screen and try to figure out “whodunit” in tonight’s murder mystery.
***
Murphy and Theo fiddled with the radio dial. There was no mystery left for them as they once again listened to the shrieking voice of German’s undisputed leader.
Murphy stared at the radio perched on top of his huge desk. Behind them, a fire crackled on the hearth. Theo sat with his head back, eyes fixed on the low rafters, mouth pressed into a tight line.
***
Radio Cairo broadcast Hitler’s Saarbrücken speech in its entirety. Still in his British uniform, Samuel Orde joined a small group of dedicated Zionists on the campus of Hebrew University, where the speech was to be analyzed and discussed.
The room held a group of twenty young men and women as well as a handful of professors and the Jewish Agency leader, David Ben-Gurion.
The British government’s present policy of yielding to violence and pressure did not bode well for the Jews of Palestine—nor for the Jews of Europe who clambered at the gates of every embassy to escape the shadow of Hitler’s Reich. Tonight David Ben-Gurion was more grim than usual. The time of Hitler’s speech in Saarbrücken had been announced by the Arab Council in the Middle East. That proclamation alone seemed ominous for the Jewish Yishuv.
Samuel Orde had known Ben-Gurion for ten years. When suspicious glances were cast at the captain’s uniform, Ben-Gurion made it clear that Orde was present as his guest, his friend, and his advisor. How would the English react to Hitler’s newest attack on the Jewish settlement?
There was no confusion in Orde’s mind as to his government’s response to Hitler’s speech.
Orde stared at the radio at the front of the classroom. David Ben-Gurion sat with his hands clasped, eyes focused on the light fixture.
Hitler began his attack on the Jewish settlement in Palestine by first attacking democracy.
“The statesmen who are opposed to us say they wish for peace . . . and yet they govern in countries that make it possible that these men may be removed from office. What if, in England, instead of Chamberlain, Mr. Duff Cooper or Mr. Eden or Mr. Churchill should suddenly come to power?”
There was an ominous pause. Had the Nazi audience not heard that all three of these English statesmen had been booed from the chambers of Parliament for their strong stand against appeasement? Was it not clear that their public political careers had never been more bleak? It made no difference to Hitler or his audience. Hitler continued his attack on a personal level.
“We know quite well that the aim of one of these men would be to start another world war. He makes no secret of the fact. And we know further that now, as in the past, there lurks the menacing figure of that Jewish-international foe. And we know further the evil power of the international press, which lives on lies and slander.”
Ben-Gurion smiled bleakly. “Well, he has managed to condemn everyone in this room. The Jews . . . strange how this lord of Darkness ascribes us so much power when by the millions we are so powerless. Of course, I would hate it if a man like him had something good to say about me,” Ben-Gurion added.
Hitler continued.
“These enemies oblige us to be watchful and to remember the protection of the Reich. I have, therefore, decided to continue construction of our fortifications in the West with increased energy.”
Orde exhaled loudly. “So much for ‘peace in our time.’”
Ben-Gurion’s lined face seemed suddenly older. “We can only hope that Chamberlain is listening. Hearing. That the English will use this peace as a time to rearm.”
The voice of Hitler drowned out his comment.
“We cannot tolerate any longer the tutelage of British governesses! Inquiries of British politicians concerning Germans within the Reich are out of place! We do not concern ourselves with similar matters in England! They should concern themselves with their own affairs—for instance, with affairs in Palestine!”
At the mention of Palestine, Ben-Gurion leaned forward. For nearly twenty minutes, Hitler raved about the unrest in the British Mandate of Palestine. He recited the minute details of every violent act against the government there. The Arab attack and murder of Orde’s young sentry on the Old City wall was somehow twisted until in Hitler’s mouth the English had fired upon innocent civilians in Omar Square. Upon such distortion of events the Führer based his argument that England had enough trouble of its own without concerning itself with what happened to a handful of Jews and Catholic protesters within the Reich.
“And if the entire Arab world in all its vast domain cannot tolerate the presence of Jews in Palestine, how then are we to tolerate them within our limited borders?”
These words were established with thunderous applause by the Nazi audience of Saarbrücken.
***
Murphy and Theo exchanged glances. There was never a mystery about whom Hitler would blame for the world’s problems. Murphy scribbled notes on the Führer’s phrases and word choices: “cannot tolerate . . . vast Arab domain . . . limited German borders . . . ” All of this was uttered when twelve thousand Jews had been deported to Poland without a word of protest from the League of Nations. And as for limited borders, the echo of German jackboots on the streets of Czechoslovakia had not yet died away.
“He’s still raving about this living space for Germans,” Murphy said under his breath.
“Such talk can mean only one thing.” Theo did not finish the thought as Hitler’s voice broke through the acclaim from his audience.
“If the English themselves cannot control the immigration of Jews to Palestine, if they turn them back and imprison them, then how can they condemn those of us who cry, ‘Germany for Germans’?”
Here the speech was interrupted by an unending chant: “Germany for Germans! Deutschland über Alles!”
Murphy did not doubt that in Palestine the same chant was being repeated by the Arab Council with a slight variation: “Palestine for Arabs! Jihad! Holy war! Jews to the sea!”
The image made him shudder. Suddenly it seemed as though the fate of the coffin ships like the Darien was the only alternative left for the Jews of Europe. The dark waters of the ocean would not refuse them. The yawning chasms of the deep would offer them their only peace.
Hitler let the German voices of his audience carry the rest of his message to the world.
The cheering had not stopped before the telephone rang. The gruff voice of Winston Churchill was on the other end of the line.
“We should all be quite flattered that Herr Hitler has singled us out as personal enemies,” Murphy quipped. “Winston Churchill. The press. And the heritage of my father-in-law.”
Churchill also sounded amused. “Interesting minds these Nazis have. Hitler asks, ‘Is this the trust and friendship of our Munich Pact? If we are fri
ends and you trust us, why must England rearm? Let me have the arms and you show the trust.’”
Murphy laughed in spite of the dark truth in Churchill’s humor. Theo simply frowned and stared at the radio as if it emitted a poison gas through the speaker. “Certainly interested in British troubles in Palestine tonight, wasn’t he?”
Churchill’s drawl became somber. “You have a good journalist in Jerusalem, I trust? There will be a story to cover soon enough, I’ll wager.”
“No one yet.” At the statesman’s warning, Murphy thought of Leah and Shimon and shuddered at the ominous words he was hearing tonight.
Churchill exhaled in amazement. “No reporter? Why? That is Hitler’s second front against the Jews. And also against British foreign policy!”
Murphy tried to explain. “Just getting started . . . haven’t had a chance to . . . ” He mentally thumbed through a card file of reporters who had at one time covered Middle-East politics.
“There is no time to lose in this matter!” Churchill’s voice carried the emphasis he might use on the floor of Parliament. “The British foreign secretary has sent his lackeys to Palestine to examine the questions of Jewish homeland and immigration for the second time in sixteen months! That can mean only one thing—they mean to disavow our promise of a Jewish national home. The Woodhead Committee will most certainly reverse every other White Paper, and this will be done at the most crucial time in the history of the Jewish people!” He coughed. “And you do not have a reporter in Jerusalem to cover the outrage? Hitler’s speech tonight must be reason enough for you to acquire one before the week is out!”
Murphy had only asked Winston Churchill to write a few articles, not to run the European operation for Trump Publications. He felt embarrassed, indignant—and properly chastised by the great man. “You would not be so insistent that I hire a man for a position in Jerusalem if you did not already have one in mind, Winston.”
