by Bodie Thoene
Lucy could not walk, not unless she rested here awhile. But how long could she rest before Wolf made his way across the route of her escape and found her here?
Unbuttoning her dress, she reasoned that she could not go until the baby was nursed and at peace again. For the time being she decided that maybe God had taken an interest in this child, and so perhaps it would have to be God who kept Wolf at bay and helped her find her strength again. She closed her eyes as the baby nursed. She did not mean to fall asleep at such a time. It simply happened.
***
“Fourth floor.” Ahlman raised his eyes to the steep staircase leading up to Lucy Strasburg’s room.
“Go up. Wait there,” Hess instructed.”I’ll get the key from the concierge.”
“What about Major von Fritschauer?”
“We will deal with him later.” Hess knocked hard on the door of the concierge as Ahlman took the stairs two at a time.
The old concierge recognized Hess immediately. “Ah, but it was you who were looking for some wayward children yesterday. Why did you not show me the picture of the lady also then? She is right upstairs. She has been there for several months. A decent tenant, her and the boy both.” He turned down the radio and then began to paw through a drawer containing dozens of loose keys. “I gave the duplicate to the other gentleman last night.” The old man showed off the small swastika pin that he wore openly on the collar of his frayed shirt. “You see where my loyalties lie.” He smiled, revealing toothless gums beneath his drooping mustache. “Anything I can do to help, I told him. He paid me well also.”
The boy. Certainly the tenant who lived with Lucy Strasburg was Peter Wallich. And so the entire nest would be cleaned out at once.
“If I had known she was a criminal,” the old man babbled, “well, of course I would have notified the police. Soon enough we will have the criminals removed from Danzig, eh?” The man’s accent was that of a Prussian. His sentiment was that of nearly every German who lived within the shadow of Poland. “A small key, it is. It was just the attic, you see, and so the key is different and—” At last the concierge held up a small, black iron key. “This is it. But I have no more for myself, and so you will have to pay me.”
Hess slapped down a handful of loose change and snatched the key from the old man.
“Good luck.” The concierge chuckled. “Bring back the key when you are finished. Heil Hitler, eh, brother?”
***
Wolf had showered and changed. He felt pleased with himself as he rounded the corner of Heilige Geist Strasse. He looked up at the ornate baroque facades of the ancient buildings that housed thousands in this city. He congratulated himself. He had found the proverbial needle in a haystack.
This morning on the telephone to Berlin, he had noticed that the voice of Gestapo Chief Himmler had also sounded pleased at the news of Lucy’s capture. Now, perhaps, the disapproval that Lucy had brought upon his head would finally disappear. He had sensed the suspicion of her superiors after the Wallich case went sour. Bringing Lucy back to Berlin to undergo interrogation would certainly dispel the last doubt anyone might have about Wolf’s loyalty.
As for the child, a handsome baby boy, Wolf had already called his wife, asking her to meet him in Danzig tonight to pick up what he told her was the “motherless infant of an SS officer.” No doubt she would see the resemblance the baby had to Wolf, but the woman was smart enough not to ask him too many questions. In these days women knew their place. If they presumed to step out of line, divorce was accomplished by a phone call to the Reich Ministry of Information. Only a phone call.
Wolf could not see the window to Lucy’s room, but he imagined the tiny garret was already hot and steamy from the humidity after the rainstorm. He had no desire to stay up there with her; instead, he would move her to his own hotel, where he could watch her in some comfort until she recovered enough to travel back to the Reich.
There was no automobile traffic on Heilger Geist because the street was too narrow. Even if she got away, she would have to walk three blocks in order for them to get a taxi. Judging from the condition she was in when he left her an hour before, it would probably take her most of the day to regain the strength for such a walk. His abuse had weakened her, but Wolf had no regrets. She had asked for it, and he had given her just what she deserved.
Wolf was humming as he swung into the lobby of the dilapidated hotel. Such cheerfulness was unusual for him. It lasted only until he reached the top of the stairs and saw that the door of Lucy’s room was slightly open.
Alexander Hess and another man stood in the middle of the wreckage of the room. Hess’s face was purple with rage as he turned his gun on Wolf. ‘Where is she?” Hess demanded. “You see! You will not get away with your treachery, Lieutenant von Fritschauer! You will tell us where she is, or you will take her place at the interrogations!”
***
It was hot in the attic. Stifling and miserable.
Lucy heard her name drift through the window. Distant shouting. The voice of Wolf. A second voice that she had heard before . . . somewhere.
Get up, she told herself. A matter of seconds and they will be here!
Mercifully, the baby slept again. She returned him to the wicker hamper and closed the lid. Staggering to her feet, she swayed in the center of the dark room as she searched the gloom for the way out.
Behind crates and old trunks, Lucy could just make out the outline of a door. She clambered over stacks of old books, sending them clattering to the floor. She prayed the door would be unlocked. Her fingers grasped the hot metal of the knob and . . . turned. The door squealed open. A narrow ladder led down to a landing. Every muscle in Lucy’s body shook as she climbed down unsteadily. The air cooled as she descended. She was on the top floor of yet another warren of deteriorating apartments. Voices of tenants penetrated paper-thin walls. The rank odor of cooking grease and fried fish filled the air. Lucy grasped the loose banister and walked down the stairs. She tried to carry herself as though nothing were wrong, as if she belonged in the stinking place.
The doors of flats were all open for ventilation. No one seemed to look up as she walked down the long musty corridors and descended from one floor to the next. She could feel the presence of Wolf just behind her. The image of his face reminded her of the huge deer hounds she had seen as a child, their long legs gobbling up the field as the dogs pursued a doe and her fawn. Slowed by the progress of the baby, the doe had been dragged down and torn to pieces as the fawn screamed like a wounded eagle in the high, piercing voice of terror. And then it too had been killed.
Lucy clutched the basket tighter to her as she reached the foyer. The concierge of this building was playing solitaire at a table in the lobby. The woman did not look up as Lucy swept past and rushed toward the light that streamed through the glass in the door.
Once again she froze. Voices behind her. But were there watchers in the street?
“Looking for someone?” asked the concierge in a lazy voice.
“My friend is late,” Lucy muttered, and then she pushed out into the crowd of pedestrians wandering from shop to beer cellar up the sloping street.
Lucy wildly scanned the faces in the crowd. She resisted the urge to run. Like the doe in her memory, she did not want to be dragged down onto the cobblestones and watch her baby tumble out at the feet of men who would tear his soul to shreds!
She leaned briefly against a streetlamp as a fresh wave of dizziness threatened to knock her to her knees. And then, when the world slowed its lazy spin, she fixed her eyes on the bright scarf of a broad-backed woman and matched her pace.
Three blocks, and there were trams. Three blocks, and she could blend in with the bustle of thousands who traveled to Langer Market. For three blocks, Lucy lowered her head and looked neither to the right nor the left as she tramped behind the stranger whose width protected her from an oncoming view.
Not for me, her heart whispered. For the child . . .
Lucy could not le
t herself think what she must do after these three long blocks. She had come this far. There must be some place to run.
***
Lori was still in bed. She was very sad, Jacob explained, and probably would not come out until it was time to go. But there were important matters to attend to, so Jacob was up early.
Werner-kitten did not like the taste of beer. He would not drink it. Three of them together could not get more than a thimbleful of the stuff down his throat.
“Not enough to do any good,” Jacob said, glaring at the indignant kitten who licked its chest and shook its head as if to spit out the vile tasting brew.
Jacob went downstairs to the casino and ordered a glass of famous Goldwasser schnapps. Made in Danzig, the liqueur had tiny flecks of gold in it. But its potency, not its precious metal, had made it known throughout the world. Jacob looked plenty old enough to consume the schnapps if he wanted to, but the bartender looked twice at him because it was breakfast time. Only the most hardened drinkers could stand Goldwasser this early in the morning.
Claws out, ears back, Werner started his yowl in a low voice and ended it with a high shriek as Jacob and Alfie held him. Jamie opened his mouth, and Mark dribbled the potent schnapps down his throat.
“I’m sorry, Werner,” Alfie said as tears of pity coursed down his broad face. He understood about terrible medicine that hung in his throat and made him want to throw up. But sometimes even kittens had to take medicine. “Don’t hate me, Werner,” Alfie pleaded as the kitten struggled to free himself.
“Hold his mouth open, will you?” shouted Mark as needle-sharp teeth tried to close around his finger.
“You see,” Alfie explained to the kitten, “you have to be asleep and quiet in your box or they won’t let you go to England. If you yowl, they will hear you and throw you off the boat.” A terrible thought. Alfie thought of how his own papa had drowned in the water. It made him thought of how his own papa had drowned in the water. It made him hold Werner a little tighter, but not too tight because the little bones were very small. Alfie did not want to crush Werner, only make him drunk. “Don’t hurt him,” Alfie said to Jacob. Jacob did not answer. He had a faraway sort of pain in his eyes. Alfie supposed that Jacob was wishing there were a secret box big enough to hold him too.
“How much do I have to get down him?” Mark’s face was flushed red from the effort, and he had the easiest job of anyone. Who would think that one little kitten could fight so hard?
“How much have you gotten down him?” Jacob leaned over and peered into the shot glass.
“Almost all,” Mark said with relief.
“Well, three of those will lay a man under the table,” Jacob replied with satisfaction. “Werner should be out for a while, I’d say.”
But Werner was not out yet. He bit Jamie, who screeched. Then he turned to bite Alfie, who jumped back in hurt surprise. Werner had never behaved in such an angry way before. Jacob got claws down the arm as he turned loose too late to get back.
Then Werner began a wild dash around the room. He dashed across the back of the sofa, sending pillows flying. He swerved up the wall and back down again. He screamed up the curtains, turned, and jumped down to explode across the floor and into the bathroom. All the while he made a low sound like an electric motor whirring.
The boys looked at one another and held their wounds as the sound of Werner’s claws across the marble bathroom counter told them he was not finished yet.
That instant a streak of black and white fur flashed across the floor and through their legs and up the wall beside the fireplace. Werner seemed to hang there in midair for an instant and then, claws still out, he slid down to the hearth.
Slowly Werner turned around three times. He sat down and cocked his head quizzically to one side as he studied the traitors whom he had considered friends. His wide cat eyes blinked lazily. He licked his paw and tried to clean his whiskers but instead, he fell down, curled up, and went to sleep.
A mighty cheer rose up from Alfie, Mark, and Jamie. Jacob did not cheer. Nothing could make him smile this morning, it seemed. Alfie felt very sorry for Jacob. Alfie knew what it was like to be left behind. He knew what it was like when friends went away and he had to stay.
Alfie wanted to hug Jacob, but he did not. That would not have made Jacob feel better. So Alfie said, “I wish you would be with us when Werner wakes up.”
Jacob looked at the thin red-claw marks. “Why? You scared to take him out of the box?” Jacob almost smiled. Alfie knew that Jacob did not understand what Alfie meant at all.
“He’s going to be one mad cat,” Jamie agreed. “We’ll open it up and run for cover.”
Mark added. “Too bad we can’t turn him loose on a Nazi.” He meowed and hissed to make his point.
Jacob still was not amused. “We’ve got an hour. Get your bags ready.” And then Jacob left to go back and be with Lori again.
***
Rabbi Aaron Lubetkin was sitting in a chair by the window. Peter noticed how much stronger the great rabbi appeared today—not so much the frail old man with one foot in the grave. There was some color on his cheeks. His beard filled out the hollowness of his face, and the hair on his head, though streaked with gray, was quite thick and healthy-looking.
Rabbi Lubetkin was dressed in a loose-fitting cotton caftan, belted at the waist over trousers that were much too big for his thin legs. Peter caught a glimpse of his own skinny reflection in the mirror. So why was he so concerned about the rabbi? Even after months in prison and a near-death joust with rheumatic fever, the rabbi looked healthier than Peter.
A copy of the book Galilut Erez Yisroel, by Halevi, was turned facedown on the table next to the water pitcher and a pair of reading glasses. The book was a good sign, Peter thought. Michael Wallich had loaned it to his son just days before the Nazis had arrested him in Vienna. Peter had read the book by flashlight under the covers after that. The book inspired men to long for a home in Israel. Yes, Peter thought, it was good to see that the rabbi was reading it. Such a book would make him listen to what Peter had to say.
The rabbi recited a blessing on Peter as he entered. Peter thanked him, even though he did not believe in such things. It was a matter of being polite, socially correct in a world that, to Peter, seemed centuries out of step with reality.
“I see you are reading the work of Gershon Halevi.” Peter started there, with something they had in common.
“You know this book?” Rabbi Lubetkin seemed surprised.
“My father gave it to me before his death,” Peter volunteered. “A fantastic book. But very deep.” He paused. “Of course, when we fled Vienna it was something precious that I left behind. It would not do for me to carry such a book out under the noses of the Gestapo on the railway.”
Rabbi Lubetkin passed the book to Peter. “I have read it through. Here. Take my copy. It is yours, Peter.”
To this kindness, Peter responded bitterly, as though he could not see the depth of the rabbi’s eyes. “You might as well keep it here. The Nazis will be in Warsaw soon enough, and then I will only have to run from them and leave the book behind to be burned once again.”
The rabbi’s kind smile did not waver, but the depth of those chocolate-brown eyes reflected pity. He replaced the book on the table and folded his hands placidly on his lap. So much for Halevi’s book. “So,” said the rabbi, “Rachel tells us that you had an idea about how to find the address where your mother and sister might be staying here in Warsaw.”
“I have heard nothing back from my friend in Danzig. I hope she will write me, but—” He shrugged a who-knows shrug.
“And none of the leads I gave you helped?”
“Half of them left Warsaw during the time you were in prison. The other half had no information.”
“I am sorry,” Rabbi Lubetkin said. It was clear by his expression that he truly was sorry for a lot of unspoken things in Peter’s life. “I hope you find your way.”
“That is why I am here, R
ebbe Lubetkin.” Peter scooted forward until he sat on the very edge of his chair. His eyes lingered on the spine of the Halevi book. “I have decided that I will find my way. No matter what else happens, I am going to Palestine!”
“Mazel tov, Peter!” Aaron Lubetkin seemed not only pleased but surprised. “You have gotten your papers then? Some miracle?” Everyone in the entire district knew that Rabbi Lubetkin was trying to procure papers for his children to go to Rabbi Lebowitz in Jerusalem. Every door had been closed to them. Curiosity sparked in the rabbi’s face.
“I have come to offer you some help,” Peter said with confidence—almost arrogance. “Because you helped me, I return the favor. Yes?”
The rabbi studied his folded hands. Useless hands, helpless to remove his own children from the danger of Warsaw. “What is your plan, Peter?”
“You know that the British captain, Samuel Orde, is coming here soon. He will be teaching the young people of Hashomer Hatsoir.”
This was the Zionist youth movement where boys and girls worked together being trained as potential emigrants to Palestine. There was no mention of God in such training. It was a political movement to Aaron Lubetkin’s way of thinking. There was much about it that he and others among the Orthodox disapproved of.
“I am happy for you,” the rabbi said. “You will spend time on the Hachsharah.” He spoke of the farm outside Warsaw that was used for summer training. “Maybe they will feed you and you will put on a little muscle, nu?”
“I am not going to the Hachsharah,” Peter corrected. “There will be no time for such things. When the captain comes here, there is a rumor—or maybe it is the truth—but anyway, it is something I have heard whispered by someone who should know.”
“And what is this whispered word?”
“The captain is not coming only to work on a newspaper! We all wondered how a man of such renown could resign his commission. Now it is said that he never resigned! He has come here to handpick a few who will return with him to Palestine! Like Gideon, he will choose only a few.” Peter inhaled deeply and stared straight ahead. “I will be among them.”
