by Bodie Thoene
Churchill chuckled softly. He had been found out. Indeed, he did know of a man who would serve the purpose splendidly. The fellow was not a journalist by profession, but a staunch supporter of Zionism and the Jewish national home. Better than most men, he understood the cost of current British appeasement policies and had quite a grasp of the connection between Nazi Germany and the terrorist activities in Palestine.
“He is a brilliant fellow,” Churchill said. “Reminds me of me forty years ago.”
“And is he modest?” Murphy asked.
“To a fault.”
“I am convinced.”
“I thought you would be.”
“Then how do I get hold of this boy wonder?”
“I have known his family for years. The lad is currently a captain with the British military in Jerusalem. He’s had several articles published in the Geographic. Scholarly. Historical. I don’t think it will raise any eyebrows if you contact him. But he may wish to write under a pseudonym.” Churchill coughed slightly. “The name is Samuel Orde. I took the liberty of ringing the Geographic editorial offices for his address this afternoon.”
21
Hopes and Dreams
The light from Murphy’s study still burned, illuminating a square of sidewalk below the Red Lion house where Freddie parked the Duesenberg.
Both Charles and Louis had fallen asleep on the drive home from the theater. Freddie gathered them up in his massive arms to carry them up the stairs as Anna and Elisa climbed out of the backseat.
A tousled blond head resting on each shoulder, Freddie preceded the ladies with his bundles.
“Murphy can carry one, Freddie,” Elisa called after him.
“Ah, missus . . . they’re both of ‘em not so heavy as even one bundle of the Times.” As if to make his point, he took the steps two at a time.
Anna laughed as he reached the landing, and then the laughter died on her lips. From the shadow beside the stairs, a man emerged. His face was half-concealed beneath the brim of a hat. He blocked the way of Anna and Elisa up the steps.
First startled, then alarmed, Freddie charged back down, still lugging the boys. “Who d’ya think y’are, there?”
The stranger’s hat was doffed. A polite but strained voice said, “Mrs. Lindheim?”
Anna squeezed Elisa’s hand as if to reassure her. “Mr. Beckham, is it not?” Anna replied coolly.
“Mother . . . ?” Elisa backed up a step.
“’ey there!” Freddie bellowed as the boys raised their heads.
“It is all right.” Anna held up a hand to quiet Freddie.
Beckham glanced at the big man with some amusement. He bowed slightly to Anna. “I am relieved you remember me.”
“The British Museum,” she said. “Hardly a day has passed that I have not thought of that encounter.”
“Your husband is in the house?”
“You must know where he is.” Anna was not unfriendly.
“Of course.” Beckham seemed almost apologetic. “I have been requested to have a word with him. We realize the hour is late, but—” He glanced beyond Freddie toward the top of the stairs. “Perhaps we should talk inside?”
After a few minutes alone with Mr. Beckham behind the closed door of Murphy’s study, Theo emerged. His face radiated peace and assurance as he embraced Anna.
“I will only be gone a short while,” he whispered. “Something important has come up. Something I did not expect.”
He could offer her no other explanation than that. And so, praying silently, Anna stood at the window beside her daughter and watched as Theo was led to a black government-issue sedan and driven away into the gray fog of London midnight.
***
Theo took his place at the long horseshoe-shaped table among thirty other men who had gathered at this emergency meeting called by the British foreign minister, Lord Halifax.
Some faces among the party Theo recognized. Lord Winterton, who had represented British interests at Evian. George Rublee, the American lawyer who had been in charge of the international refugee question since the Evian Conference. Chaim Weizmann, looking particularly aged and weary, waved and nodded tacitly at Theo. They were not seated near enough to one another to speak. Colonial Secretary Malcolm MacDonald glanced almost apologetically in Theo’s direction. There was no mistaking the fact that Theo’s plan of trade with Germany in exchange for Jewish lives and assets had gotten a favorable reply from the Nazis. If that was not the case, then why would such prominent men have bothered to come here to meet and confer in the middle of the night?
Portraits of long-dead English kings and lords gazed down regally from gilded frames on the red satin walls of the room. Illuminated by small lights, these painted onlookers had more color on their cheeks and more expression in their eyes than the living humans who met together amid the rustling of papers and clinking of water glasses.
Theo stared back into the smirking face of an amused King Charles II. Dressed in ermines and flowing wig, the king seemed warmer on his canvas than Theo felt in the drafty room. Ah, well, these kings had lived and committed their mistakes already. Now they were dust; it was someone else’s turn to change the world or fail in the task. Tonight was a call to action, or a call to judgment.
Lord Winterton stood and banged down the gavel as a call to order. “HEAR YE, GENTLEMEN! PRAY SILENCE AS FOREIGN MINISTER LORD HALIFAX ADDRESSES THE MEETING!”
There was a pattering of polite, if exhausted, applause from the gathering as Lord Halifax, pale and languid, stood to speak.
“Last week, we were so fortunate as to receive a suggestion for a possible solution to the economic woes brought upon the empire and the free world by the refugee question.” He paused and inclined his head toward Theo. Others also looked at Theo curiously. Halifax continued. “The suggestion of a trade agreement with Germany, which would allow refugees to depart with a portion of their assets, was presented to German Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop.” A long pause. “A representative of the Reich, von Ribbentrop rejected the offer outright.”
A murmur of surprise filled the room. Theo looked unhappily at his clasped hands. Useless hands, tied, helpless to help others. How he had prayed for a different response from the Germans!
Halifax continued, raising his hand to silence the questions. “Three days later, however, our office received word that another high official in the Nazi government may well be interested in personally negotiating such an agreement in Berlin.”
Theo exhaled loudly with relief as other members of the group first exclaimed their pleasure audibly and then applauded the news. Here at last was hope, some glimmer of light! There was a smile on every face around the table now.
Halifax nodded and raised both hands. He was the only man not smiling. Silence. “There are certain conditions for these discussions with the Germans, however.” He waited as the word conditions cut through the exuberance of the group. Questions filled the minds of the men. And dread. There were always conditions when negotiating with Nazis. The terms were never favorable to anyone but the Nazis.
Halifax continued and turned his eyes toward Theo. The look was open and serious. These worlds were directed at him. “Those men with whom we have had contact have indicated that the plan must be drawn in its entirety for presentation at a meeting in Berlin next week.” He held up his hand again. This was not the only condition. “And . . . they request . . . no, insist, that Theo Lindheim, who is the originator of this plan, present it himself without members of the committee to accompany him to Berlin or to the meeting.”
There was no response. Not a murmur of sound. Weizmann caught Theo’s gaze and held it in strong sympathy and a hint of fear. Theo to return to Berlin! Were there any in the room tonight who did not understand the significance of that Nazi demand?
Theo looked up at the smirk of King Charles. I am dust, the portrait seemed to say, and so too will you be, Theo Lindheim, if you return to Berlin.
Halifax broke the thick silence. “Of
course, it serves us no purpose to work to complete such a plan unless that condition is met. They have made that clear. And yet we cannot expect one man to place himself in jeopardy when the entire scheme might be a ruse. As heads of various organizations with concern for the Jewish refugees and political refugees of the Reich, we thought that it was imperative that we keep this channel open with the Reich. They have given us a deadline of noon tomorrow to respond. We should have an alternate plan to present.”
Blank stares were exchanged. What could be said at this late hour? Who had a better idea for some economic relief for the refugees and the governments expected to take them?
For an instant Theo wondered how the Nazis knew that he had proposed the original plan. How had his name been brought up in such a delicate matter? Perhaps that was a question he would ask later. For now, however, there was no denying that in an odd and frightening way, his prayer had been answered—not as he expected. Not as he would have wished or imagined.
For a moment he thought of Anna. Elisa and the boys. The baby. Those he loved with all his heart. There was no doubt that he would lay down his life for them, return to the hell of Dachau if it was for the sake of their lives. But that was not required of him. They were safe. That made this decision all the more difficult. A demand was being made on his life for the sake of strangers, people he knew only as thousands who shared a common heritage with him. He smiled slightly as he asked himself, What would the Lord do? In that instant, he knew what was required of him.
The expressions on the faces of the canvas kings remained unchanged as Theo stood slowly at his place. The eyes of the others around the table filled with respect, with fear. They doubted they would do the same in Theo’s place.
And so the choice was made. Only hours remained between this moment of decision and the time when Theo would have to leave for Berlin. Hard work would fill the time.
***
In the dining room of the Hassan residence, in Old City Jerusalem, sat a dozen men whom Victoria did not recognize. Her stepmother poured strong coffee for them from the large brass samovar reserved only for guests.
As Victoria passed by the open archway, buzzing voices fell silent. Her stepmother paused in filling a cup. Victoria looked in at a still and sinister tableau, a council of darkness here within the walls of her own home.
Ibrahim, whose face betrayed a nervous guilt, hailed her with a smile. “It is only Victoria. Only my sister.”
The urgent whispers of conversation did not resume. The eyes of these keffiyeh-clad men evaluated her in her Western clothing as though she were a piece of meat in a marketplace.
She bowed in salaam. Something flickered in the eyes of several of these guests as they let their gazes sweep across her body and then return and linger on her throat. Instinctively she put a hand to her open collar. She backed up a step and resisted the urge to turn and run.
“Victoria works as a secretary for the British government,” her stepmother volunteered.
A new interest sparked in the faces of the men.
Ram Kadar nodded and flashed a smile at her. “Such beauty should not be wasted on the Englishmen, Ibrahim.”
Ibrahim glanced nervously at Victoria, then replied, “Perhaps if you will instruct her, Ram Kadar. She may be beautiful, but my sister is ignorant as women often are. The Englishmen, being also ignorant, do not seem to mind.”
Victoria continued to smile throughout this unflattering flattery. She kept her eyes downcast and did not dare to meet the gaze of Kadar, who stared at her more intensely than the others.
“If my brothers and my mother will forgive me—” Victoria backed another step. She touched her hand to her forehead in salaam, and twelve male voices responded as she hurried up the stairs.
Victoria paused on the landing as the voices resumed. “It is only in these ways that the English will see our dissatisfaction.” She recognized the voice of Kadar. “These politicians must return to England with their eyes smarting from the smoke of Palestine.”
Late into the Jerusalem night, Victoria sat, unmoving, on the edge of her bed. A cold fear filled her. She had heard the whispers of her brothers before. She had not been surprised by the faces of Daud and Isaak and Ismael. But the words of Ibrahim somehow felt like a personal betrayal. He was one of them! He was part of those who murdered the Englishmen and cheered the voice of the Arab Council in Cairo! She had not known. She had not expected his complicity in the works of Darkness.
Victoria wished that her father would return from his buying trip in Iran. He would know what to do. He would talk sense to Ibrahim!
Never had Victoria felt so alone. Eli, though just a few blocks away, was another world from this world.
Not even Allah could help her now. It was Allah, was it not, who breathed the dark anger into the hearts of her brothers? It was for the sake of Allah that they gathered together and made their plans.
Victoria frowned. She must not speak the treason she felt in her heart against those plans. For Allah might whisper in the soul of Ibrahim Hassan: “Your sister, Victoria, is a traitor to her people. Listen, Ibrahim! Victoria is no longer one of us.”
***
The entire Lubetkin household seemed preoccupied with tiny baby Yacov. Could it be that he was smiling already?
Frau Rosen declared that it was not a smile but a gas bubble in the infant’s stomach! Aaron insisted that it was not gas but a genuine smile! Did Frau Rosen not see what innate intelligence the child had? Of course he could smile at such a tender age!
Such conversation made Etta smile. If there was one thing she could say about her beloved Aaron, it was that he believed that his children had been born with an understanding of the Law and Prophets . . . they simply had to be taught to speak and read and write before they would know what they knew!
David was fascinated by his new brother; little Samuel was hurt because he was no longer the baby. For Rachel, the arrival of little bundle Yacov was the awakening of some hope within her that one day she, too, would present a son to her future husband.
She watched her mother nurse the child and suddenly was filled with a wonder at her own budding breasts. She had not thought of the changes in her body as anything but a bother until now. But there was something miraculous about the way this new and tiny life turned its face toward Mama. Something overwhelming about the look of joy and peace in Mama’s eyes as she cradled the new Lubetkin.
As Samuel walked unhappily up to bed and David took one last big-brotherly look at the little one, Rachel stood in the doorway and absorbed the scene with a sense of awe. Perhaps someday she would sit where her mother sat and a man would gaze at her with the same love that Papa carried in his eyes.
“Good night, Mama,” Rachel said, feeling as if she must turn her own eyes from such a private moment.
Mama glanced up with a soft, dreamy smile. Had Rachel ever known her mother to wear such tender emotion so plainly on her face? “Good night, kinderlach,” she said. “Don’t forget to say your prayers. Tomorrow is the berith milah of your brother. Rachel, wash your hair before bed, nu? David, take a bath.”
These mundane instructions were issued in a tone laden with love. Tomorrow baby Yacov would be circumcised. Tomorrow another son would enter the Covenant! Such an event made the washing of hair practically a holy ritual—or at least that was the way Mama made it sound.
Rachel wondered if David noticed the magic that surrounded their mother and father. No. At the mention of bath David groaned and asked if Samuel must also bathe. Still smiling, Papa looked up and told him sweetly to mind his own business. Samuel’s bath was not his affair.
Had Papa ever said such a thing in that tone of voice? This new baby Yacov must indeed be very special. Not even a scowl of authority accompanied Papa’s words.
David shrugged and followed, grumbling, after Samuel. Rachel lingered a few seconds longer in the doorway, and when she left they did not notice her absence.
***
Like an old f
riend, the wishing star hung in the azure sky above Warsaw. From the window of her bedroom, Rachel watched it glisten blue and red in the reflection of the northern lights. It was a beautiful star. Her own star. Sometimes she thought it must be an angel God had placed in the sky to watch over her. Such thoughts made it impossible to be afraid of the dark.
Often she lay awake when the voices of her parents drifted up through the floor and she imagined what it would be like when she and Reuven were married. She would share her star with him. She would point to its place in the sky and tell Reuven, I asked it to shine on you, too. I prayed that you would be handsome and smart and that someday you would make a good husband. And now I share my star with you . . .
She had never met Reuven, although they had been pledged to each other many years before. He was three years older than Rachel, and Papa said that he was a kind young man and that he excelled in Torah and now at the Yeshiva.
When she asked if he was handsome as well, Papa had answered that he was handsome enough to make her forget such a question.
Rachel hoped that he was as handsome as her own father. She saw the way Mama looked at Papa. Handsome! Yes, and smart. From a good family descended from Baal Shem Tov! Someday Rachel wanted to look at her betrothed with the same light in her eyes that Mama had when she looked at Papa.
Rachel gazed very hard at her wishing star. “Do you hear me, little star? Someday when Reuven and I are married, I will thank you if he is all these things and handsome too.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and said a prayer for Reuven. Then when she opened them the star seemed to be blinking a happy yes down to her. Someday, someday, someday!
In another year she would meet Reuven face-to-face. She would be almost fourteen and he would be seventeen—almost a grown man. She wondered if he would see how much she loved him even now. Would he imagine that she had sat at her window and dreamed what it would be like to have him beside her?
