by Bodie Thoene
Rachel crossed her arms and glared hard at the flowers. Mama did not look up from the heart-stopping news that stared up at her. “He ties up his gifts with a poisonous snake,” Rachel said. “I would rather not think of any of it, since there is nothing to be done now. And Papa is sick anyway. How could we leave unless Papa is well?
Etta raised her eyes slowly from the headlines. “Your father . . .” She frowned and focused on the flowers, as if looking at something beautiful would help her say what was ugly and terrible. “You father will not be leaving Warsaw, Rachel.”
“Then none of us are leaving,” Rachel replied with an uncharacteristic defiance. Her brilliant blue eyes flashed anger.
“Your father and I . . . are doing . . . everything we can to find a way out for you and your brothers.”
“Mother!”
Etta held up a warning finger. “If what happened in Prague comes to Warsaw, then you are going!”
“Where?”
“Jerusalem. Grandfather Lebowitz.”
“Not without you!”
“You have a responsibility, Rachel. You are the oldest! If your father and I cannot . . . will not . . . leave the congregation here in Warsaw, then you must take your brothers and . . .”
Rachel was furious at the priest for bringing the paper into their lives. It was better not to know what the Saturday people were doing! Better not to think about it! She turned away, hearing her mother’s faraway voice, but lettering none of the meaning penetrate her mind. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the bouquet of flowers. She inhaled the sweet fragrance as Etta talked and talked.
These flowers are only flowers. They grew in a garden and came wrapped in plain paper. There is no news. Warsaw is still Warsaw, a flower garden of Poles and Jews who grow side by side. No Nazis. No Danzig. No Hitler. No news today at all.
Such mental games were like rearranging the flowers in the vase. Tug a little on the stems of the red blossoms, and they show up better than the yellow ones. In the same way Rachel decided which news she would consider important. Papa is home. Very important. The boys are home. We are all under the roof of this house together. If one is taken, all will be taken.
No matter what Mama said, she would not abandon her and Papa!
***
Each evening Karl scratched the passing day on his brick calendar. The marks were no longer simply a method of keeping track of lost freedom. Now Karl was counting the cycle until the eggs in the sparrows’ nest would hatch. When he prayed for his own children, he prayed for the coming of the sparrow chicks as well.
As he placed the shared morsels of his bread on the window ledge, he whispered this reminder to himself: “What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight. What you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the rooftops.”
Karl paused and smiled up toward the concealed nest. “You must remember to tell them that,” he said to Lady Sparrow. “Remember to tell them that Jesus cares for them. Will you tell them that?”
He stepped down from the bucket as the male sparrow fluttered past his ear and up to retrieve the bread crumbs. “When I am gone, little friends, you must preach this sermon to whoever comes into his place after me.” He raised his hand. “Don’t be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. Will you tell them that, little sparrow? You see, Jesus spoke those words to fellows who had every right to be afraid. And right after that He mentioned you. Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.”
Karl stood in the center of the cell and closed his eyes. For a minute he stood beneath the spreading elm trees that surrounded New Church. Above his head the birds hatched their young. He was not afraid of what men could do to him. God cared even for the sparrows, did He not? And these sparrows raised their young in the branches of this tree of brick and bars. Karl looked forward to the moment when he would face his accusers for the last time. He was unafraid of what they would do to him. He was confident that the sparrows would preach his sermon after he was gone.
***
The inside of the Indian restaurant was a cool relief after the wave of heat that beat down on London. The atmosphere was heavy with spices, the decor straight from Bombay, India.
Sam Orde had not forgotten the promise he had made to old Rabbi Lebowitz in Jerusalem. And so Orde hand-carried the passport photographs and rejected immigration applications of the Lubetkin family to his lunch with Harry Norman at Veeraswamy’s India Restaurant, not far from Piccadilly.
Harry was a former Eton classmate of Orde’s. They had entered the military on the same day and had served together in India. Harry had lost his right arm and his army career in a motorcycle accident and now was well-entrenched in government affairs at Whitehall.
The empty sleeve of his pin-striped suit was tucked under and sewn up. “Like the clipped wing of a pet duck,” he told Orde with a grin. “And as for you, old chap—” Harry tugged on a loose thread hanging from Orde’s tweed jacket—“you are as slovenly as ever.” Harry’s brown eyes were bright with amusement as he appraised his old friend. “Now don’t tell me you’ve rung me up just to come down to Veersawamy’s and reminisce. I know you better than that, Orde. I could tell from your voice you want a favor.” He sipped gingerly on his gin and tonic. “A government position, right? Well, if you’re going to work for the government, you’ll have to do something about your clothes.”
Behind their table the discordant twanging of a sitar played a perfect background to the babble of Harry Norman. Orde savored the familiar atmosphere of the place. Dark tapestry and the scent of curry brought back a myriad of memories. Orde considered his old chum’s receding hairline and spreading paunch. One thing he had forgotten until now was how much Harry talked. Years ago it had been one of the things Orde enjoyed about him. It had been restful to sit back, enjoy his meal, and let Harry Norman carry on all the conversation. Today, however, the endless chatter was far from restful. First came a monologue about the troubles in India. Then, of course, the current topic of the IRA bombing bubbled up like a broken sewer line. Then on to trouble in the Middle East. Never mind that Orde had been there; Harry Norman had his own immutable opinion. Toward the end of an hour, he rounded a conversational bend and pounced on the subject of the refugees who were attempting to flood the free world in their drive to escape Hitler.
The envelope containing the papers of the Lubetkin family seemed useless baggage now as Harry railed against the admission of ten thousand refugee children into the United Kingdom.
Orde eyed Harry’s empty plate. Not one kernel of rice remained, although Orde’s plate was still half full. When had Harry taken the time to swallow?
Harry gulped his gin and tonic and checked his watch. “Five minutes,” he announced,” and I’ll have to get back to the office. Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Orde pushed his plate back, and with a sense of futility, pulled the Lubetkin family papers out onto the table.
“Friends of mine.” Orde placed each photograph in a line.
“Friends,” Harry said flatly. “Jews. I heard you had gotten awfully chummy with the Jews. That’s why you’re back here Orde, old chap. Too chummy.”
Orde pressed on. “The woman”—he pointed to Etta—“was born in Jerusalem. Moved to Warsaw with her husband and would like reentry into the Mandate.”
“With the rest of her family? Sorry. Not a chance. The quotas, you know.”
“I was hoping you could pull some strings.”
Harry wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin across his empty plate. “No strings left to pull. The White Paper has clipped them all, I’m afraid.” He frowned. “Where are these people now?”
“Warsaw.”
“Warsaw? How do you know them? Warsaw? A bit far from your last assignment.”
“Etta’s father is a rabbi in Jerusalem. He asked me to see what I could do here in London. I told him I would.”
Harry smiled grimly. “He asked you? Good grief, Orde! That’s like asking a leper to carry sheets into the hospital, isn’t it? Does the rabbi know you’re not the most popular fellow in government circles these days? Just having lunch with you is a bit risky, you know. I mean . . . but obviously there is nothing you can do to help anyone these days. Not even yourself.”
A drop of tonic water spilled on the corner of Etta Lubetkin’s application. Orde blotted it carefully lest the ink run. He shrugged and slipped the precious papers back into the envelope. He had forgotten what an unpleasant person Harry Norman could be. The curry formed a seething lump in his stomach. He regretted having brought up the matter with Harry. It was a mistake. Harry would carry the story back with him to the government offices and retell it with such a vengeance that everyone in London would know that Samuel Orde was prowling about, trying to get around the immigration quotas!
“Forget it. It’s not important.” Orde feigned indifference. “It’s nothing at all. This old man simply asked me to see if there was anything to be done. I knew it was hopeless, but I wanted to keep my word to him.” He checked the tab in the dim light. “Thanks, Harry. Marvelous to see you again.”
There was nothing remotely marvelous about seeing Harry Norman. It was simply one more reminder to Orde that everything he held dear in England was buried in a small plot of earth in Winchester.
***
Allan Farrell was irritated that the London Times editorial called his pipe-bomb attack “cowardly and amateurish.” He read over the words for the hundredth time even as he set up the water glass and the double row of small aspirin bottles.
He forced himself to pay attention to his business when he removed the ground glass stopper from the acid container. The burned, yellow-stained tips of four fingers showed what happened when he did not pay enough attention.
He carefully stirred the mixture with a glass swizzle stick stolen from a bar near Piccadilly Circus. When the smelly concoction was adequately swirled together, he used the glass rod to guide the oily, amber liquid into each tiny bottle.
Allan delicately screwed the lid down on each vial. It would not do to have the acid mixture splash on the metal cap and start eating its way to a premature explosion. Two walnut pipe racks with rows of indentations for briars and protruding pegs for supporting meerschaums served very well to keep his little messages of terror upright and secure.
The Irish American rubbed his hands with satisfaction and inspected the surface of the tiled counter to be certain that no drop of the acid mixture remained. Convinced that it was clean, he proceeded to the next step; he retrieved the cotton garden gloves that had been drying on his windowsill and snipped off each of the fingers with a pair of scissors.
The common household substance that gave each glove finger a crystalline coating felt gritty in his hands. Allan doubted that anyone would notice through the envelopes.
But after he carried out this self-appointed mission, he would be noticed. He would not need to give another thought to the fact that the Germans had never bothered to respond to his note. After this, they would be coming to him. “Please, Mr. Farrell,” they would say, “take charge of this operation for us. Won’t you give us your assistance?”
He counted the aspirin bottles and the slipcovers of cotton fingers. Twenty of each, a perfect match. Allan gathered up the dismembered gloves and laid them aside.
Moving to his table, he took up the box of manila envelopes and the directory of Greater London. He had considered using only fictitious addresses, but he was not sure whether the stamps were cancelled before or after being sorted. It would not do to have his pets collecting in some dead-letter office. Allan daydreamed for an instant about the vials being crushed and the acid bursting into flame on contact with the crystals.
He pondered the selection of names and addresses. It did not matter, not really, but he wanted at least the first address to have significance.
At last his eye lit on the perfect choice. In careful strokes of his fountain pen he inscribed, “O. Cromwell. 15 Sunset Lane.”
***
The housekeeper at Winston Churchill’s Chartwell estate came to the edge of the garden path with Murphy and Orde. Looking down toward the duck pond, she waved a dishtowel in the early morning sun to signal Churchill’s bodyguard that these visitors were expected and approved.
The bodyguard’s hand came off the revolver inside his jacket and acknowledged her signal. Behind the bodyguard, a portly mason in coveralls tapped a brick into place with his trowel handle and wiped his balding head with a handkerchief.
Murphy and Orde went directly up to the bricklayer. “Hullo, Winston,” Orde acknowledged. “When I was here last you were working on that wall over there.” Orde pointed toward a winding brick barricade on the other side of the pond.
“Hello, Orde, Murphy. No, you are wrong. The wall you saw me building was two before that one, on the other side of that clump of elms.”
“What is this, Winston?” Murphy teased. “The Churchill Maginot Line? Tank traps to defend Chartwell from the Hun?”
“Bah,” Churchill snorted. “This useful work is how I keep my sanity after listening to the drivel of useless and largely insane speeches. Besides,” he continued, “my soul is not at ease unless I can claim an honorable profession to offset the corruption of politics and journalism.” His voice leaned heavily on the last word. “Sit down,” he offered, indicating a completed stretch of wall.
“I’m sorry to say that politics and journalism are both on the agenda for this visit,” apologized Murphy. “You have heard that Orde is on his way to Warsaw, and . . .”
Churchill’s deep nod indicated that he knew what the subject of their discussion was to be.
He wiped his brow again, then tucked the handkerchief away and laced his stubby fingers together. “What I share with you cannot be quoted,” he warned. “There is one man in the foreign press department of Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda. He likes newspapermen—though I can’t for the life of me imagine why—and scotch whiskey. The combination seems to loosen his tongue.”
“Are you certain he’s not a plant?” asked Orde.
“We have tested his information against other sources, and so far, we have uncovered no inaccuracies. He admits that his department has been instructed to spread the message that the West will not go to war over Danzig.”
Churchill picked up the trowel and waved it like a baton to silence the objections coming from Murphy and Orde. “We recognize the propaganda machine at work, but there is more. Recently this man was privy to the report of a conversation in which Hitler asked his generals for their predictions regarding the outcome of a general European war.”
Murphy and Orde leaned forward attentively. “The consensus is that Germany would win if Russia does not join the conflict. Should Soviet Russia fight against the Nazis, General Keitel says that he is not optimistic, and Field Marshal Brauchitsch reportedly remarked that Germany would lose.”
All three men were silent, letting the implication sink in. At last Orde spoke. “Then Danzig is not really the big question, nor is Poland even the key.”
“Precisely,” agreed Churchill. “The Führer does not want to fight a war on two fronts, but Poland is not the eastern front to him. He means Russia’s three hundred divisions. So long as the Anglo-Soviet defense agreement is stalled, Hitler will do what he likes with tiny Danzig and indefensible Poland, and have no fears about the outcome.”
Orde and Murphy exchanged looks. “Winston,” Murphy wondered, “is Orde wasting his time going to Warsaw?”
Churchill shook his head emphatically. “The British government must be poked, prodded, and propelled into moving on an agreement with Russia. That instrument alone may save the peace when nothing else will. Captain Orde must report frankly and convincingly of how incapable the Poles are of defending themselves against the Nazis, while I do my humble best to nag Prime Minister Chamberlain from this end.”
“Back before
Hitler fortified the Rhine—” Churchill pointed to the brick wall across the small lake. “Before Czechoslovakia was betrayed and dismembered—” He gestured at the pond. “Europe had many places on which to stand and proclaim peace. Russia’s assistance was not necessary. But now—” He patted the wall on which they sat. “Now I tell you frankly, we need the Russians on our side.”
***
Something was up with Lori. Alfie knew something was up because she was not looking at anyone today. Especially not Jacob. She acted like Werner-kitten had acted when Alfie had let him out of his little cage in the satchel. Werner had shaken himself and gone off to lick his paws. He would not come to Alfie even when Alfie offered him a treat of sardines. It had taken a long time before Werner would let Alfie tickle his chin again. All the while Alfie had fretted and wrung his hands and said he was very sorry for locking Werner in the cage. Werner did not forgive him until he had licked every paw twice.
Anyway, Alfie thought as he looked at Jacob looking at Lori, something like that was happening here. Lori fixed eggs. She did not sit down with everyone to eat. She fussed in the kitchen, scrubbing the burners on the stove.
“Come eat,” Jacob worried.
She did not look at him, did not answer him. When the meal was over, she cleared the table herself. Usually she made the boys do it and also wash the dishes. But not today.
Jacob was too cheerful, as he always was when something bothered him. When he was not cheerful, he seemed very worried and unhappy. He sneaked looks at Lori. Worry. Worry. Then he whistled and said something bright about the weather. Or about what a fun time they had at the beach—and wouldn’t it be nice to go back to Sopot?
Lori never said anything at all. Soon everyone was casting worried looks at her. This was going on a lot longer than Werner licking his paws and feeling put upon!
So Alfie asked her as she washed the dishes herself, “How come you are . . . uh . . . are washing those?”
