by Bodie Thoene
He pored over the accounts of the situation in Poland until the lines published in the Parisian Daily were memorized like the script of a play in which he must act.
. . . Critical situation of Polish Jews deported from Germany. Overnight, more than twelve thousand persons have been rendered stateless. Rounded up and deported to Zbonsyn, the no-man’s-land between Germany and Poland, their living conditions remain inhuman and depressing. Twelve hundred of them have fallen ill and several hundred are still without shelter. As there is a risk of epidemic, Red Cross doctors, with the help of private doctors, have distributed typhus vaccinations and ten thousand aspirin tablets. A number of instances of insanity and suicide have been recorded.
These vivid images were reenacted in his mind with the face of his mother and father and sister placed alongside words like epidemic, typhus, suicide, insanity . . . aspirin.
He was fed and sheltered, yet even here thoughts of his own suicide plagued him. Would not death be easier than living like a hunted animal?
Had it not been for the urges of Hans to give his life a purpose in revenge against the Germans, Herschel would have used the rope from his bed to end the torment.
The obsession of his hatred kept him alive through these days and nights. Tonight, Hans gave him a date to look forward to. A day when his desire for vengeance would be accomplished.
Hans passed him a cigarette; his eyes seemed animated as he explained his plans. “These filthy Nazis.” Hans swaggered as he paced in the tiny cubicle. “They have their big celebration coming up. The one where they celebrate the failed coup in the Munich beer hall. You remember?”
Herschel did indeed remember. Every year in mid-November the strutting Brownshirts and their SS companions roamed drunkenly through the streets of every German city looking for Jews to bash. Herschel nodded. The thought of it made him angry with new intensity. “Yes. It is the same each year.”
Hans lifted his head like a hunter sniffing the wind. “They celebrate the deaths of their comrades. They glorify the fact that Adolf Hitler was tossed into prison. They make speeches and spew their venom. And they will surely find more Jews to beat up this year, too.”
“If I could.” Herschel’s eyes smoldered with hatred as he conjured up the images. “If only . . . I would shoot them all down! Every one of them! A machine gun in their stinking beer hall, and they would be sorry! All of them!”
“Ah, but you are in Paris,” Hans said. “They are back in Germany. We must think what you can do here to disrupt their little celebration, eh?” He patted Herschel on the back. “We must give them a new martyr. And where will you find him in Paris, eh?”
Herschel’s eyes glazed as he thought of it. He had made deliveries to the embassy before. It was a simple matter. “The German Embassy!” he whispered, as if the idea was his own, as if the idea had not come straight from the dark minds of those he most wanted to hurt. Suddenly the idea spawned in Darkness became Herschel’s own plan. “I know of someone in the embassy in Paris. If I could find him—”
Hans frowned and shook his head. “It does not matter who dies as long as it is a German, eh, Herschel? Providence will direct you to the one you are to teach a lesson! We Jews are not dogs—we are humans! They will hear that in their Nazi meetings. Let their speeches be tainted with sadness as they lose one of their own kind! Have we not lost hundreds?” Hans picked up the newspaper to make his point. “And now, how many more are dead? Even today? Maybe your own family, Herschel. Who can say?”
Herschel clutched his sleeve. “You must help me!” His voice was shrill with desperation. “It is the only thing to do—the only thing I can do. There is no other way!”
Hans sighed with relief. No more needed to be said. The frail young Jew had finally reached an end. Herschel Grynspan would follow every instruction, say every word that was put into his mouth. On November 7, he would walk into the German Embassy of Paris with one goal in mind.
***
Victoria’s eyes flashed a warning to Ibrahim as she left the house for work. Do not follow me or bother me, the look seemed to say. He simply stared at her in sullen reply.
It was cold this morning. Water had frozen on the stones of the streets, making them slick. Fires burned in smudge pots throughout the Old City, and Arab merchants stretched out their hands to the warmth as they spoke about the curfew and discussed the faces on the posters that had appeared magically on the walls of houses and shops last night. These English were offering a large reward for the capture of the terrorists. A thousand pounds for each of the men who had bombed the bus on Julian’s Way. Such a reward made every man search the face of his neighbor to see if perhaps a murderer was lurking there.
Victoria passed through the pedestrian entrance to Jaffa Gate before she noticed the faces on the posters. She looked away and then looked again harder. She frowned and stepped back, trying to deny the similarity she saw there to Daud and Isaak in the sketches. The chin of this one was too round, the lips of the other too thin, the cheekbones not defined enough. And yet, there was enough there to make her breath come faster with apprehension.
She boarded the bus and paid her fare mechanically. It could not be, and yet . . . The posters were also taped up inside the bus. Passengers squinted into the penciled eyes of the sketches. Did everyone see someone they knew in those faces?
Victoria forced her eyes away from the posters. She focused on the busy intersection of Allenby Square—the post office and Barclay’s Bank, taxis and civil servants hurrying because of the chill that swept over the city.
The bus turned onto Julian’s Way. A section of the road was under repair. Scorch marks were evident on the cracked sidewalk near the bus stop. The broken-off trunk of a sapling was being trimmed back. On the pocked wall of a building, the wind blew a poster up and then back down, showing glimpses of the faces. Chin. Eyes. Mouth. Nose.
Victoria stepped from the bus and stood transfixed before the flapping paper. Isaak’s nose and mouth. The eyes of Daud! She felt sick. She wished she could sit down someplace.
She put a hand to her forehead, aware that her brothers stared back at her, daring her to speak—accusing her of betrayal just as she now accused them of murder.
She turned back toward the bus and impulsively raised her hand to stop the driver from closing the doors. She hurried back on and paid her return fare again. She did not need to look at the posters again; she was certain now.
Staring at her hands, she tried to think where she should go, whom she should talk to. At Jaffa Gate she inclined her head toward the ramparts of the citadel of David, where British soldiers stood bundled up against the icy wind. Their eyes scanned the buses. Of course they would look at every bus today. It could happen again, couldn’t it?
Victoria tucked her scarf tightly around her neck as she walked quickly back through the gate and into Omar Square. She glanced over her right shoulder toward the bell tower of Christ Church. In that moment she knew what she must do.
***
The voice of Reverend Robbins was gentle and reassuring as he introduced Victoria to the British captain. “You have done the right thing in coming here, Victoria,” he said. “And now if you will tell Captain Orde everything, just as you told it to me.”
Holding a cup of tea in her hands for warmth, Victoria found that she still trembled as she repeated the story of the midnight trip to the Dead Sea, the German man who had ridden back to Jerusalem with her and Ibrahim . . . and then the posters. Victoria could not bring herself to say that she was certain. Somehow the fact that Isaak and Daud were the sons of her father made it impossible for her to accuse them openly.
“I am afraid they have gotten themselves into something,” she said haltingly. “I do not know what it is. But . . . I am afraid for them. Things are so uncertain these days, and young men are so full of passions. I . . . cannot tell you more than this.”
Samuel Orde sat on the edge of the pastor’s desk as he considered the words of the young woman across fro
m him. She was brave to say anything at all. It would be difficult enough to speak up if one suspected a stranger in the street. But to have to talk about her own family! The strain showed on her face, and Orde pitied her.
“Miss Hassan, I would like you to return to your home.” His words were also gentle.
She looked up sharply. “I am leaving there soon.”
Reverend Robbins nodded. This was the only mention of the upcoming marriage.
“If possible, I would like to ask that you return to the house just for a while. Keep your ears and eyes open for us.”
She bit her lip and searched the face of Reverend Robbins for some hint as to what she should do. He answered for her. “Victoria is to be married here on Friday.”
Orde rubbed a hand over his cheek and frowned. “Would you be willing to help us until then?”
“I did not intend to become a spy in the house of my father.” She paused, then added, “And you must understand, my father is not part of this. He is a good man. He would not . . . ” Her voice faltered. She realized that there were many questions in the eyes of Captain Orde. Had he somehow seen that there was more that Victoria was not willing to say?
“No need to report anything to us but something unusual, Miss Hassan—for instance, if that German fellow should come around again. You understand? If there is some involvement on the part of your brothers with the perpetrators of the rebellion, the best thing for everyone in Palestine is to put the rebels where they belong.” He smiled reassuringly.
Victoria was not reassured. Her head moved in acknowledgment. “I have a job at the Mandate offices. I am missing work even now.”
“I can square it with the office. I will tell them you have a special assignment with me. You will still have your job when you return.”
“All right then.” She looked fearfully at the captain. “I do not want my brothers harmed because of . . . because I have come here. Please?”
Reverend Robbins cleared his throat at the sight of tears in her eyes. “The captain is a fair man, Victoria. You have done . . . are doing the only thing you could do.” With that, he stood and saw the captain out. When he returned, Victoria sat staring thoughtfully at his desk.
“I had hoped that this would be the week of my freedom,” she said. “That I could leave the Dome of the Rock and have no shadow or guilt follow me away.”
Reverend Robbins placed a hand on her shoulder before he sat down again. “I think your hope has been realized, Victoria,” he said, opening his Bible. “God is clearly showing you the Darkness you leave behind.” He patted the open book. “I have seen the hunger in your eyes for the Light. The same Light your mother knew, God rest her soul. I should have told you sooner,” he murmured, as if talking to himself. “But I was afraid for you. I saw no way for you to escape as long as you lived in that house. But it is time now. Time for us to speak honestly, dear girl. This is the week of your freedom. Yes. I am certain of that!”
***
A handful of posters had been torn from the walls in the souks. They lay face up on the table between Leo Vargen, Hockman, Ram Kadar, and the Hassan brothers. In a corner of the room to the right of Vargen, Ibrahim’s father sat with his head bowed. He wept silently as his wife stood over him.
Vargen’s voice was cold and unfeeling as he directed his question to Ibrahim. “Where did your sister go after she left Christ Church?”
“She is coming home. I left her in the souks. She was walking slowly. Shopping. Looking at things as if she were a tourist.” He shrugged. “I do not know.”
“You think she has recognized the faces of her brothers?” Hockman first eyed the poster and then the hunched figures of Isaak and Daud.
“My sons,” Amal Hassan said quietly. “Why? Why my sons?”
Vargen ignored the man. Such sentimental nonsense did not address the issue of Victoria Hassan. Why had she gone to the King David and then returned immediately to the Old City? And why had she gone to Christ Church?
“You assumed she would be of service to us, Ibrahim.” Vargen raised an accusing eyebrow. “Now you believe she could be our undoing?”
“All I know is that she was behaving strangely this morning. I followed her, as I have told you. She was behaving strangely.”
Vargen stuck out his lower lip and sat back, crossing his arms in thought. He turned to Hassan’s wife. “Go upstairs and take her clothing.” He snapped his fingers and the woman hurried away, leaving her broken husband to shake his head in grief and amazement at what had come upon his house.
Vargen directed his attention to Ibrahim. “When she comes home, see to it she is locked in her room.”
Kadar straightened. “I do not believe ill of her.” He scowled at Ibrahim. “No harm must come to her. There is an explanation to this.”
“Until we have the explanation,” Vargen said quietly, “your beloved will have to remain under our watchful eye. Anything less would be foolish.” He raised his head angrily, “Just as you have all been foolish and careless in your handling of the situation here in Jerusalem.” His eyes narrowed. “Before we have even started, the British could stop us. All it would take is one word from a silly young woman, and all our plans could come crashing down.” He pointed toward the weeping father. “And what about him?”
All three brothers leaned forward fearfully. “He will not say anything!” declared Daud.
“Is that true, Mr. Hassan?” Vargen asked with amusement in his tone. “Your sons will hang, you know, if word of this gets out. You understand?”
The elder Hassan nodded silently. He understood only too well.
***
Victoria hoped that at this odd hour of her mid-morning return, no one would be home. She had not taken two steps into the foyer before she realized what a mistake she had made to return here at all.
Ibrahim, Isaak, and Daud stared openly at her. Her stricken father did not look up. The German and another man were smiling curiously at her as if they knew something about her that she did not know yet. Ram Kadar stood. His face looked pained.
“Salaam,” she managed to stutter.
There was no reply. Ibrahim answered after a long silence. “Salaam, my sister. Why are you at home at such an hour?”
“I did not feel well,” she answered. “I came home for a few minutes only. To take some aspirin. I am gong back to work.” She pretended not to notice the face of her father.
The German smiled more openly now. “You are a clever girl,” he said in a low, menacing voice, “but you will not be returning to your job at the Mandate office this morning.”
She tried to act indignant. “Who are you to say?”
“You will escort her up to her room, Ibrahim,” Vargen instructed. “Go along, Kadar. Teach your bride-to-be obedience.”
“Father!” Victoria cried as Ibrahim took her by one arm and Kadar by the other. “Father!” But her father did not lift his eyes to her.
She did not fight them, realizing that they would hurt her and she would still be locked in her room. They did not speak to her. Passing her stepmother in the hallway, Victoria caught a glimpse of her dresses and clothes for work on the floor of Ibrahim’s bedroom. “What are you doing with my clothes?” she protested.
Kadar grasped her arm more tightly, a signal for her to be silent. “You will wear the traditional clothes of a Muslim now,” he said. “There is no reason to wait.”
They let go of her arms in front of her bedroom. Ibrahim turned the latch and stepped aside for her to enter. The closet door was open, the rack empty. Drawers were empty and lay piled on the floor. On the bed was a stack of folded robes and veils.
Ibrahim gave her a slight push forward as he stepped out and closed the door, locking it behind her.
***
It was barely light in the tiny apartment of Leah and Shimon. Leah rolled over and wrinkled her nose. Something smelled strong and unpleasant. She resisted opening her eyes.
Leah heard music far away, as if in a dream. She
sensed the light of morning filtering through her eyelids. Was she dreaming? Opening her eyes, she peered around their tiny apartment. Shimon was cleaning the dingy glass of the windows. The pungent smell of ammonia filled the room and made her eyes water, awakening her against her will.
Still the music played. Beethoven. “Sonata for Piano and Violin.” A dream?
The lid of the phonograph was propped open. Leah could see the tone-arm bobbing across the record. It was a recording she had packed with special care. The violinist was Elisa on a recording made years ago in Salzburg.
Leah sat up. She put her hand to her head. One of the bandages had come undone during the night. “Shimon?” she laughed.
He turned and bit his lip as he searched for the notepad and pen they had used to communicate for the last few days. He held up a finger for her to be patient. There it was, beside the phonograph. He held it up. A message was already written: Would you like coffee or tea?
“Tea this morning, please. And after Elisa is finished playing, I would like to hear a little Benny Goodman, if you don’t mind.”
***
Victoria was dressed in the traditional robes of her Muslim sisters. A veil covered her face. She studied her reflection in the half-light of morning. She looked the part of a Muslim woman, but she knew her heart had forsaken that life and begun a new one. She was a prisoner, and yet this morning she finally felt free.
It was a twenty-foot drop from the rail of Victoria’s balcony to the flagstones of the garden below.
Sheets and blankets were knotted together, then tied to the railing and threaded down to the ground. She stuffed a pillowcase with clothing and tossed it onto the stones where it landed with a dull thud.
For a moment Victoria peered over the edge of her prison. A cold wave of fear gripped her. The rope passed just outside the window of the room where Daud and Isaak slept. Had they heard her? Were they waiting below to catch and beat her? She prayed for help.
