by Bodie Thoene
“German,” Rachel muttered, suddenly noticing her own feeling of lightness had vanished, just as Baker Menkes’ smile had done a minute before.
“He was out there three days ago,” said Menkes. “And then day before yesterday. And yesterday. His face keeps getting thinner until now there is not much there but hair and eyes. I gave him bread yesterday.” He shrugged. “Told him to go to the Community Center at the synagogue. He said he was not religious and did not believe in a Supreme Being. Therefore, how could he take charity from the synagogue? he asked.” Menkes shrugged. “I told him if he was hungry, one piece of bread was as holy as another. So here he is again. I won’t feed him. He can go to the community soup kitchen. Either that, or I will end up with a stray on my step forevermore.”
Rachel did not look at the stray again. She sighed and pulled her attention back to the display of strudel. Something for the entire Groshenski household would be suitable. After all, the Groshenki family had put up baby Yani, David, and Samuel ever since Papa had come home.
“There.” She tapped the glass. “That big one.”
Baker Menkes took out the largest of the strudels, wrapped it happily, and said he had been saving it just for her today. For this, he let her pay. But he would not take one penny for the sweet rolls.
The transaction complete, Rachel left the shop. The scarecrow redhead who had been across the street was gone now, as though he had sensed Baker Menkes’ comments to Rachel. She scanned the crowded square in search of him. He would have been easy to pick out, but he had melted away, and suddenly Rachel noticed that there were many more just like him all around. Some sat on curbsides. Others leaned against lampposts or shaded themselves beneath the awnings of shops. Certainly all had the same lean and hungry look as the red-haired young man. Why did they torture themselves by loitering so near the mouth-watering smells emanating from the bakery? The baker was right not to feed just one. He would have soon taken over the job of the charity soup kitchen.
The package of rolls and strudel felt heavy in her hand. There was so much in her package, and so many hungry eyes staring at it!
She quickened her pace and looked at her dancing shadow again. It was just a shadow after all. Like the new green leaves on the trees, the homeless beggars seemed to have suddenly bloomed in Warsaw.
***
Tutoring sessions had taken on an interesting dimension since the children’s ships had begun to come to England. On Thursday afternoon, Dr. Grogan gathered not only Charles and Louis under his wing, but a dozen other sad-faced young boys and girls as well, herding them off to the weekly scheduled London field trips.
Charles and Louis, who had been almost everywhere in London at least once, were at the head of the double line. Following Doc Grogan like newly hatched ducklings, the silent group entered the enormous courtyard of the British Museum. Of the twelve new hatchlings, not one spoke a word of English. Their eyes reflected the heartbreaking wonder of children who had spent a lifetime being shut out of public places in Germany.
Grogan walked backward, waving his hands like a conductor over their heads as he explained everything first in their own language and then in English. Charles and Louis enjoyed the introduction of the German language to their tour. Doc had always spoken to them only in English. It was much easier to understand everything when it was explained twice. Charles decided that this would be his best visit to the museum ever.
The broad steps and high double row of columns of the entrance were reminiscent of the great museum in Berlin. A dozen heads turned in fearful unison to gape at the blue uniforms of the bobbies on duty at the top of the steps. Were they there to keep Jewish children out? Were the wonders beyond the doors for English schoolchildren only?
“It is free to get in,” Louis called in German over his shoulder, as though he were the guide and giver of this great gift.
“Now tell them in English, Charles,” Doc instructed as he tipped his hat to the guard and smiled.
“It . . . don’t cost—”
“Doesn’t cost . . .”
“Uh-huh . . . It’s free and everybody can go in.” He felt as if he owned a piece of the museum when he said that. It was a good feeling.
Still the ducklings looked worried as they entered the vast portals of the British Museum.
“It is the greatest in the world,” Doc said with dignity. So much for Hitler’s claims about Aryan culture being the greatest! The museums in all of Germany put together did not have even one-tenth the Egyptian mummies that were right here!
“Let’s take them—” Charles pronounced his words very carefully, even though their companions could not tell if he was speaking exactly right or not.
“Take them where?” Doc knew where, but he insisted that it be said.
“To see the mummies.”
“To see Ginger!” Louis cried.
So much for the ancient Greek urns, Roman busts, and Etruscan bronzes. Pottery, seals, and hieroglyphic characters of the Hittites held little fascination to a tribe of homesick six-year-olds.
It was enough to troop through the endless rooms of ancient artifacts. The sheer enormity of carved pillars from the walls of Assyria were impressive without having to be understood.
Charles and Louis were correct in their assessment of what was guaranteed to make a smash hit for the day. Proceeding straight on to the main staircase and the Northern Gallery, passing through the second Egyptian room and turning left, they entered Ginger’s room . . .
All eyes suddenly brightened with fascination. In case A lay Ginger, a favorite mummy of Charles and Louis. As withered as a piece of old shoe leather, the little man had a shock of ginger-colored hair and was billed as “the oldest dead man on earth.”
Impressive! Now this was a museum worth visiting! Certainly the greatest on earth—who could argue?
Dr. Grogan explained that the fellow had been found buried in the sand; quite possibly he was one of the Hebrew slaves in Egypt. Or perhaps the fellow Moses had killed and buried?
This filled the air with a series of ooohs and ahhhs. It gave the exhibit a familiar feeling, because everyone knew about Moses killing the Egyptian. That was back where Egyptians were like Nazis.
Jews were in trouble then too.
So this was the fellow? Mummies, mummy cases, and coffins were all on display in cases around the walls. Not exactly what the ancient Egyptians had in mind when they sketched the blueprints for the pyramids to be sure. A nice Thursday afternoon outing for the young descendants of the slaves who built the great monuments of Egypt . . .
Doc Grogan was Moses for the afternoon, guiding them in two hours through a museum where a person could wander forty years if he made a wrong turn.
The most important lesson of the day was the introduction of the lavatories at the end of the tour. G-LAV for gentlemen, L-LAV for ladies.
All of this, and no officer ever once questioned their right to be there! Afterward, there was ice cream for everyone and a short ride on the London tube.
It was here all along, just across the English Channel. Right here, a few hours from the German Chancellery and the offices of the Gestapo!
There were reminders of Germany all around London, of course—from the sandbags against the sides of the museum to the civil defense posters on the monument to Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square. But it felt quite different here!
In Germany, the beggars and poor people had been rounded up and shipped off to camps. Today everyone noticed the blind beggar at the entrance to the tube. He stood with his cup in his hand and a sign around his neck, I AM BLIND. In Germany it would have been an offense to place money in his cup. And so it was an amazing thing to see Doc Grogan press a bill into the beggar’s hand and wish him good luck. The group of ducklings watched the blind man tap his way down the sidewalk, right under the nose of a policeman! And the blind man was not arrested! This was an interesting as Ginger, the mummy Moses killed! Indeed, England seemed to be the promised land to every child that after
noon.
“Maybe next week,” Charles said to Doc, “we will go show them the zoo.”
***
From his vantage point in the reporter’s gallery, Murphy peered over the heads of the members of Parliament and suppressed a yawn. Prime Minister Chamberlain had been droning on at great length, defending his government’s inability to put together a defense agreement with Soviet Russia.
Murphy wondered how Chamberlain could speak so much about not doing something. The thrust of the speech seemed to be that complete inactivity was preferable to false starts. The Russians, Chamberlain suggested, wanted a broader mutual defense agreement than Great Britain should entertain.
His attention wandering away from the bland speech, Murphy’s gaze traveled the seventy-five foot length of the hand and up to the clock on the south wall. Around the clock face were grouped nineteen coats of arms—an odd number, to be sure.
Murphy had once asked Winston Churchill what the decorations meant. Churchill had added, with a loud clearing of his throat, that he hoped the brave men who had paid the highest sacrifice for their country’s stand against German aggression would not be “revolving in their sepulchers” as their banners overheard the present government’s shilly-shallying.
Thinking about Churchill’s comments made Murphy scan the chamber for him. The statesman was drumming his fingers on the bench beside him as he waited for Chamberlain to finish.
When the prime minister at last concluded his prepared remarks, Murphy expected Churchill to jump to the attack. Instead Churchill deferred to his old mentor and colleague, David Lloyd George.
Lloyd George began by saying that Chamberlain’s foot-dragging did not come from reasonable caution but from a continued reluctance to antagonize Germany by being friendly toward Russia. The older statesman drew both chuckles and hisses when he hinted that Chamberlain’s policy owed more to snobbery than to practical considerations.
So far, it was pretty mild criticism in Murphy’s opinion, but Chamberlain’s critics were just warming up. Lloyd George added that Russia had been willing to sign an agreement for months and was only waiting for a signal that Great Britain was ready to be serious. Anthony Eden firmly pointed out that any alliance intended to prevent aggression that did not include Russia would not be strong enough to prevent a war. Others continued attacking the lack of progress.
Finally Churchill rose to speak. In measured phrases he intoned, “Should war come to Europe, the success of a western front cannot be guaranteed without an eastern front, in which Russia must take part. No eastern front means no western front, and perhaps—” he paused ominously— “no west.”
Hisses and cries of “Shame, shame” erupted from the benches of Chamberlain’s supporters. When the hubbub died down, a voice behind Chamberlain demanded, “How can we trust Moscow?”
Churchill’s reply was delivered over the top of his reading glasses, with the air of a master correcting an erring pupil. “In Moscow, the question is, ‘How can we trust Chamberlain?’”
9
The Gifted Ones
Elisa sat beside Helen Ibsen in the cramped office of Harold Weyland, case officer in charge of the immigration of Lori and Jamie Ibsen.
Weyland was a bulky, bespectacled man with gray strands of hair combed over the top of his bald head. He wore a blue bow tie and a brown suit that appeared to have belonged to someone of a much smaller size. His white shirt strained at each buttonhole as if one more bite of the half-eaten sandwich on his desk would explode a volley of buttons around the cluttered cubicle. His eyes blinked like a telegraph as he studied the sheaf of information regarding the case. Except for the distant clack of typewriters penetrating the frosted glass of the office door, his wheezing breath was the one sound in the room.
Elisa sat very straight, as though she were in concert. Baby Murphy was doing his usual tap dance along the bottom of her rib cage. She folded her hands on what remained of her lap and silently wished the interview was over.
At last Weyland scanned Lori’s letter from Danzig. He raised his eyes, looked at Elisa’s stomach suspiciously and frowned, as though he feared she would have the baby right here in his office.
“Mrs. Murphy . . .”
The silence was at last broken! “Yes?”
“You are married to an American.” The tone was clipped, impatient.
“That’s right. Bureau chief of London TENS. American news—”
He held up a hand to cut her off. “And this is your aunt?” He nodded toward Helen. “And these are your cousins?” He waved the letter and let it float to the top of the stack.
“That is correct,” Elisa answered, suddenly self-conscious of the slight tinge of an accent in her voice. Weyland obviously had no patience with foreign accents. For this reason Elisa had come along to help Helen with the interview. Elisa’s English was nearly flawless; Helen spoke English with the thick, heavy sounds of one who had lived her entire life in Germany.
“Since you are an American by marriage—” Weyland cleared his throat to let her know that he knew where she really came from—“then perhaps this matter of your family . . . these children, Lori and Jamie Ibsen, would be better handled by the American Embassy.” He closed the file folder and stared with watery blue eyes.
Was this a dismissal? Helen clutched Elisa’s hand and looked at her for explanation. Elisa shook her head in disagreement. “Our entire family is . . . we are in London, you see. My mother and father came with President Beneš from Czechoslovakia, invited by your government. They are here by special arrangement, and . . . the prime minister himself . . .”
Weyland drew back and opened the file again. Why had no one told him this before? The prime minister? “Ah. Well . . .”
More silence passed as he reconsidered the documents with this new information in mind.
“My dear Mrs. Ibsen.” He faced Elisa, even though it was Aunt Helen he wanted answers from. Helen’s mastery of the English language was acceptable in most circles, but Weyland demanded an interpreter be present in case there was difficulty. “I understand about your own children. And about those other two, the Kalner boys—although Jacob Kalner is overage. Seventeen, is he not?” Weyland paused to let this fact sink in. “But now there is this other matter . . . Alfie Halder. Tell me again . . . slowly . . . who he is and where he comes from.”
Helen understood everything. Elisa did not need to translate. She and Helen exchanged resigned looks, and Helen began again. “He is a child who . . .”
The thought gave her a chill of fear. “He grew up in our congregation, you see. A sweet child . . .” How could she explain?
Weyland pursed his lips in thought. “There are so many thousands of requests these days. The cutoff age is sixteen. And for those who are younger, we have strict standards of health and intelligence that we check for. Children are being rejected, for instance, if they have decayed teeth or physical ailments, you see.”
Helen blanched. Lori and Jamie had good teeth, healthy minds and bodies. But what about Jacob and Mark Kalner? And how could she ever explain about Alfie Halder? She looked to Elisa for help.
“Both parents of Alfie Halder are deceased; he has no family. No one to care for him. My husband and I will sign an affidavit of financial support, of course.”
Weyland sniffed and peered down his nose at Elisa and Helen. “My own parents died when I was fifteen,” he declared proudly. “And as you can see, I survived on my own quite well. Educated myself, and”—he swept his hand around the tiny cubicle as if to display his achievement—“you can see. You shall have to give a good reason for bringing a fifteen-year-old boy in the place of a younger refugee child who is truly in need.”
“But Alfie is . . . special.” Helen leaned forward. How could she explain how special he was when children with cavities were rejected?
“Special.” Weyland chewed the word. “Ah. I see. Gifted, do you mean?”
“Yes. Gifted. A gift, Alfie is, to all who know him.”
&n
bsp; A new interest sparked in Weyland’s dull eyes. “On occasion we do make exceptions for young people who might benefit from our educational system.”
Elisa jumped in, grateful for even this impossible hope. “Good! Alfie Halder is special. My husband hopes to employ him.”
Weyland frowned and stuck out his lower lip. “Employ? Dear me, no. He cannot be employed. Take the place of a British subject in London?”
“As an interpreter.” Elisa gulped. “He speaks several. . . . . uh . . . unusual languages. Exceptional.” She could not look at Helen’s pale face.
“And Jacob Kalner?” Helen was flushed. It was warm in the office. Too warm. She felt light-headed. “Perhaps a student visa?”
“Kalner.” Weyland frowned and chewed his upper lip. “Seventeen. A man by all guidelines. But perhaps . . . is he also exceptional in intellect?”
Both woman spoke at once. “Yes!”
“Such visas are dependent on school records from the country of origin.”
“Those remain in the Reich. In such a case one cannot call up Berlin and simply ask for them.”
“Quite.” Weyland was softening some. “Then you must understand that retaining the visa depends on how well a student performs here. And you will guarantee financial support for him as well?” Weyland shuffled through a stack of papers for the correct forms. He eyed them doubtfully. “The final decisions are always made at the consulate of origin. Danzig. All I can do is pass along the information from this side of the Channel. Due to the circumstances of your family situation, there is hope for your daughter, even though she too is seventeen. But the others . . .”
A student-visa application was pulled from the file. Weyland appeared to be relieved to be done with this matter. It was time to move on. Time to finish his sandwich. He clapped his hands together. “Fill these out. Four copies each, as you can see. And for the other children as well. I can make no promises. There are hundreds of thousands of these applications being submitted at every British Consulate on the Continent.” He frowned and gestured toward the metal file drawers that lined every wall. “As you can see.”
