For ten minutes the three men sat silent. After twenty minutes there was still no sound, and visitors who had never participated in a Quaker meeting grew uneasy. They did not shift or shuffle, but it was plain that they expected something to happen. There was no singing, no collection, no prayer, no sermon. Thirty minutes elapsed, and forty. Then the Episcopalian clergyman rose and said briefly, “Brother Paxmore, we do hope you will feel called upon to speak with us. We have heard that your messages are inspiring.”
This was very un-Quakerish and it caught Paxmore by surprise; he had been overawed by the responsibility he had assumed, that of serving as the conscience of Christianity, and had felt that it would be intemperate of him to speak at such a hallowed moment. The journey was engaged; the obligation had been assumed; there could be no turning back; words were no longer needed.
But he was a true Quaker, a man of total simplicity, and whereas he had felt it improper to speak, it was not intemperate of the Boston clergyman to point out that the assembled group had hoped to hear what a Quaker preacher might be like. His personal inclination was not to speak, but if others demanded that he do so, he would.
Nodding gravely to the clergyman, he rose, but the ship was moving through vast and easy swells and was unsteady, so he grabbed at the chair and stood behind it. Tall, black-suited, gray of head, angular of face and bony-handed, he stood in the swaying salon and said, “Women and men must meet the challenge of whatever specific time they have been chosen to fill, and the inescapable challenge of our time is the treatment Herr Hitler is according the Jews of Germany.” He predicted that if Hitler were allowed to mistreat the German Jews, he would soon extend such acts to the Jews of Austria, Poland and France. “And then he will turn his attention to other nonconformists, like the Seventh Day Adventists and the Quakers. And pretty soon the malignancy will encompass thee, and thee, and thee.” With these words he pointed his massive right hand at specific members of the congregation, and three passengers with German backgrounds, who felt that Hitler had done much to restore the dignity of Germany, rose in anger and left the salon.
Woolman Paxmore did not even notice. He was in the process of developing an idea which he knew to be just and inspired by God, so he continued, “But if men of good will were to go to Hitler and remind him of the fact that Jews and Jesus are descendants from a common stock, this infernal slippage into barbarism might be halted.”
He then proceeded to expound the concept that had become a fixation with him: “Thee must acknowledge that Jesus Christ was Himself a Jew. Living in Palestine under the hot sun, he was probably darker than many American Negroes. And his features could not have been the sweetly simple ones of our religious calendars. He was a Jew, and he doubtless looked much as thy tailor or doctor or professor looks today. If Jews have large noses, he had one. If they are swarthy, he was swarthy. If they talk with their hands, he did so too. During much of his life Jesus Christ was a Jewish rabbi, and if we forget this, we forget the nature of Christianity.”
At this two more passengers departed. Ignoring them, Paxmore concluded, “We believe that if these simple truths can be pointed out to Herr Hitler, he will have to concede them.” He did not spell out what good might thus be accomplished, but his logic had been so forceful that when, at the close of the hour, the meeting ended, various listeners crowded about him to ask what proposals he intended making, if he did meet Hitler.
“Very simple,” he explained. “We shall beseech him to turn the Jews loose, let them emigrate.”
“To where?” a businessman asked.
“Where?” Paxmore asked in astonishment. “Any country would be glad to receive them.”
“Do you think that?” the businessman pressed.
“Of course. Wouldn’t thee welcome the arrival of such a group? Educated men and women? Children with fine schooling? There’s no limit to what they might accomplish in America. And I’m certain that France and England will feel the same.”
Out of politeness the businessman did not comment, but he did look at his wife and shake his head. “These religious nuts,” he whispered to her as they left the salon. “We have them with us always.”
“But it was interesting,” his wife replied.
“Fascinating,” he agreed. “I like their idea of talking directly with God. I’ve always thought you didn’t need all the priests.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I suppose that if you do talk directly with God, you could get hung up on the Jewish thing. Jesus may have started as a rabbi, but he was smart enough to quit.”
Another passenger stopped to talk with Paxmore. This man was a Jew, a merchant from Baltimore, and he asked, “Let’s suppose for the moment that you can get to Hitler, and let’s suppose he listens, and then let’s suppose that he is willing to make some gesture. What are you prepared to offer him?”
“We’ll take all the Jews he doesn’t want and settle them in some other country,” he repeated patiently.
“Do you really believe the other countries will accept them?”
“It would be inhuman to do otherwise.”
To this the man from Baltimore made no comment. Instead he changed the subject dramatically. “Have you given any thought, Reverend Paxmore ...”
“I’m not a reverend,” Paxmore corrected.
“In my book you are. Have you given any thought to the possibility that Hitler might offer to release the Jews—some of the Jews, that is—providing the outside world puts up a certain sum of money?”
“That would be blackmail!”
“Precisely. And you must be prepared to meet it.”
Woolman Paxmore fell silent. It was difficult for him to believe that the leader of any state would resort to blackmail, and after some contemplation of this evil possibility he summoned his two colleagues. “This gentleman has raised a most disconcerting point. Will thee explain it to my friends?”
As the other passengers left the salon the three Quakers sat down with the Jew from Baltimore, and he explained in cruel, harsh terms the blackmail he expected Hitler to propose.
“Thee speaks of him as a monster,” Paxmore objected.
“He is. Reverend Paxmore, I think it a certainty that if you good men do not rescue the Jews of Germany, they will all be executed ... hanged ... shot.”
“That’s infamous!” Paxmore protested. He rose in great agitation. “Thee speaks as if we were dealing with a madman.”
“You are,” the man from Baltimore said. “And what are you prepared to offer him?”
The thought was alien to anything that Paxmore had contemplated. Offer him? They were coming to offer him the truth, a glimpse of God’s eternal message of justice and salvation.
“Dear friends,” the Jew said at the conclusion of their abortive discussion, “he will ask you for money.”
“Where would we get money?” the schoolteacher asked.
“I could sell Peace Cliff,” Paxmore said simply, with no doubt in his mind that saving human lives was more important than holding on to his ancestral home beside the Choptank.
“Dear friends,” the Jew said, “Hitler will want far more money than you could ever raise. But if he does demand it, remember that I and my acquaintances stand ready to collect whatever ransom he demands.” He shook hands with the three Quakers, giving each a business card.
When the missioners reached Berlin they were greeted with contempt by German officials and with amused condescension at the American embassy. “You’ve come to persuade Herr Hitler to treat the Jews more kindly?” one young secretary from Virginia asked.
“We have,” Paxmore replied. “I trust thee will do everything possible to speed our mission?”
“Look, our ambassador can’t even get in to see him. Small chance for you.”
“We’ll wait.” Paxmore said.
They stayed in Berlin, trying to make contact with the few Quakers who lived in that city, but the German Friends were not eager to expose themselves as associates of the three strange men from Am
erica. One family, however, had English roots—a daughter had married a Quaker from London—and they discounted possible danger. They came to the hotel where the Americans were staying and met openly with them.
“We are the Klippsteins,” the father said stiffly.
“The name sounds Jewish,” Paxmore said.
“Way back.”
“Are you at a disadvantage?”
Herr Klippstein considered this question a moment, then relaxed his stiffness and broke into a smile. “We are condemned three ways,” he said, indicating to his family that they should sit. “We were Jewish. We are Quaker. And we have always been liberals.”
“Condemned is a harsh word.” Paxmore objected.
Now Klippstein’s levity vanished. “Within two years we will all be dead ... if you do not help us.”
“Dead! That’s impossible. We’re dealing with human beings.”
“You mean they’re human beings? Or we’re human beings?”
“Herr Paxmore,” Frau Klippstein interrupted. “This is no ordinary problem.” She spoke English haltingly; her sentence came out, “Ziss iss not ord-i-nar-y prrroblim.” She said that each day the restrictions grew harsher.
“That’s what we’ve come to talk with Herr Hitler about,” Paxmore explained. “To convince him that he must release the Jews ...”
Herr Klippstein laughed. “No possibility,” he said.
“But the foreign ambassadors? Don’t they take action?”
“Most of them approve of Hitler. They believe he is good for Germany. Because most of them despise Jews ... and Quakers ... and liberals of any sort.”
“Certainly not the American ambassador.”
“I don’t know him. I do know some of his staff. They would help no one who was not rich and well educated and socially important. They’re as bad as the English.”
“The English embassy won’t help?”
“Herr Paxmore!” Klippstein went on to advise the Americans to go back home. No one in authority would see them, of that he was convinced.
But in the middle of the fourth week a uniformed messenger appeared at the hotel to inform them that at two o’clock that afternoon Hermann Göring would see them. This news did not surprise Woolman Paxmore, who had always believed that he and his two associates would ultimately see Hitler and convince him that he must release the Jews. “We’ll see Göring today and he’ll probably arrange for us to see Hitler tomorrow,” Paxmore told his companions.
A Rolls-Royce called for them at half past one, and they were driven through magnificent streets to a palace where hordes of uniformed personnel protected the dignity of the Third Reich. Paxmore was impressed. “Aren’t they handsome-looking young men?” he said to the schoolmaster from North Carolina.
The three Quakers were ushered into an enormous room decorated with colorful maps that were works of art rather than accurate depictions. They showed the consolidation of the German empire, with heavy Gothic lettering that made them doubly impressive. At the far end of the room—twice the length of the biggest room any of them had ever seen before—stood a white desk covered with small golden ornaments. The schoolteacher whispered, as they approached it, “Looks very unfunctional.”
The three were brought to a position some ten feet short of the desk and told to wait. Paxmore noticed that they were standing on a white carpet, and reflected on how difficult it must be to keep such a thing clean.
After a fifteen-minute wait, during which the three tall men talked quietly among themselves, while six uniformed guards looked at the ceiling, a door opened and an enormous man dressed in white and gold strode into the room, followed by a most beautiful blond woman in a riding habit.
An interpreter leaped to position between the two and said, “This is General Göring and Madame Göring.” Then the general began to speak, in deep, reassuring syllables. “The general says that he has always known of the Quakers. They have in Germany a splendid reputation for fairness and honesty. He knows of the good work your people have done throughout the world, without ever taking sides or embarrassing local governments. He welcomes you with open arms to Germany.”
Woolman Paxmore thought it obligatory to acknowledge these generous words, but Göring stormed ahead. “General Göring says that he brought his wife along because as a Swedish lady, which she is, she, too, has heard of the Quakers and wanted to see some.”
“You have Quakers in Germany,” Paxmore said. The interpreter thought it wisest not to repeat this, and Göring continued, “So because of your fine reputation, the Third Reich will always be most eager to cooperate with you in any practical way.”
“We have several suggestions—” Paxmore began.
“Gentlemen,” Göring interrupted in English, “let’s be seated.” He led them to a corner of the great room to a table where tea had been arranged. The interpreter said, “The general knows you are not English, but perhaps ... some tea ...”
“Please do!” Frau Göring said in English.
“I doubt if there are many Quakers in Sweden,” Paxmore said.
“I’ve not met them, if they’re there,” Frau Göring said in perfect English. She was a charming woman and offered each of the Quakers tea and small sandwiches.
“We don’t come as Quakers,” Paxmore said.
“But that’s what you are?” The interpreter’s voice rose. “That’s why the general consented to see you.”
“Of course we’re Quakers,” Paxmore conceded, indicating the other two men. “But we come as Christians, General Göring, to beg you to allow the Jews to leave Germany.”
The huge man chortled, then spoke rapidly in German, which the interpreter summarized sporadically. The upshot was that the Jews of Germany were completely free to depart at any time, to take with them all their possessions, to settle in any nation that would accept them. “But no nation wants them,” Göring concluded.
Woolman Paxmore coughed. Taking a sip of tea, he controlled himself, then said quietly, “Our evidence is that almost no Jews are allowed to leave Germany, and only then if they pay considerable amounts of money to do so.”
Göring did not flinch. He said, “Of course we expect to be indemnified for the free education we’ve given them. Truly, Herr Paxmore, you wouldn’t expect us to let these able and brilliant Jews depart without some kind of compensation? To take their skills, which we gave them in our free schools, to serve our enemies?”
“You have no enemies,” Paxmore said.
At this, Göring exploded. Reaching out, he slapped Paxmore resoundingly on the knee and said, “You peace-loving Quakers! You see nothing. We’re surrounded by enemies, ravenous enemies ...”
The interpreter could not handle the word ravenous and fumbled with it until Frau Göring interrupted. “Ravenous enemies, Herr Paxmore. And they are ravenous.”
“They could be converted into friends,” Paxmore said quietly. “And the way to achieve this is to make a gesture toward the Jews.”
“We intend to make gestures toward the Jews,” Göring said, laughing at his joke.
“And if it is reasonable for your government to demand ...” He stopped. The only word he could think of was ransom, ransom money for the Jews, but he knew he ought not to use that word.
“Ransom money,” the North Carolina schoolmaster blurted out.
The interpreter fumbled with the word, trying to soften it, but Frau Göring broke in again. “It’s not a ransom, Herr Paxmore. It’s rather a repayment for the free education they’ve received.”
“That was the expression I was searching for,” Paxmore said honestly. “And if it is such payment that is preventing the emigration of your Jews, I can promise you that the required funds will be forthcoming.”
General Göring asked that this information be interpreted again, and after he had satisfied himself that he understood what the Quakers were proposing, he asked Paxmore bluntly, “You are prepared to put up the money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”<
br />
This stumped Paxmore, who had never discussed such matters seriously with anyone. “A million dollars,” he said, amazed at himself for having mouthed such a figure.
“A million!” Göring repeated. “A million ... hummmmm.”
The meeting broke up. “You are to stay close to your hotel,” the interpreter said. The man was a Prussian, educated in military schools, and everything he said carried an ominous reverberation.
Two days later a pair of black military cars drove to a rear entrance to the hotel and the three visitors were told to pack small overnight bags. “I will inspect them,” the same interpreter said, and he went to their room as they packed, watching carefully as each item was placed in its bag. He then led them quickly down a back stairs and into the cars. They were driven to an airfield where a small plane with only four passenger seats waited. The interpreter came along, saying nothing until they were well airborne; then he said crisply, “You are going to meet der Führer ... at Berchtesgaden ... and when you are brought into his presence you are to stand at attention, your hands at your sides, and say nothing. Do you understand, nothing.”
Woolman Paxmore wanted to respond to such a ridiculous instruction, but the merchant from Pittsburgh nudged him, so he said nothing. But when the interpreter wasn’t looking, he shrugged his shoulders so that the schoolmaster could see. That man raised his eyebrows and smiled.
They landed at an airfield near a lake and were ushered immediately into a Rolls-Royce, which started a steep climb up a road of exquisite beauty. “We are going to the Eagle’s Aerie,” the interpreter said with the proper amount of awe, and after a long ascent through forested trails the car broke through to a view of staggering grandeur.
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