Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  “Well?” Jacob asked impatiently. “What do we call you, Alfie? Now that you have given your name away.”

  “I like Elisha a lot. He was a very nice man. He watched his friend Elijah ride to heaven in a chariot with fiery horses. That is a good story too.” He frowned. “And then Elisha did even better things than Elijah.”

  “Ha!” the captain exclaimed, as if the choice pleased him very much. Then he added, “And as Elijah and Elisha were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them. And Elijah went up in a whirlwind. Elisha saw this and cried out, My father! My father! The chariots and horsemen of Israel!”

  Jacob seemed surprised at the way this English captain could quote Scripture as easily as Pastor Ibsen. But Alfie . . . or Elisha . . . was not at all surprised. “I like this,” Alfie cried, thinking of his little tin soldiers on fiery horses that could fly through the air. “I like this a lot!”

  Jacob looked doubtful. “An unusual name. This will take some getting used to.” He seemed mildly unhappy, as if maybe this was not such a good idea after all.

  “A perfectly good name,” said the captain.

  Jacob disagreed. “You couldn’t pick something simple—like Daniel? or Samuel?”

  “Samuel is taken,” said the captain. “That is my name.”

  The announcement was made calling for passenger boarding on the Warsaw Express train.

  “Elisha.” Alfie repeated it slowly. He wanted to make sure.

  “Come on, then,” said the captain, putting an arm around Alfie’s shoulder the way Alfie’s papa used to do. “I will tell you the story of how I stood on the very spot where Elijah was taken to heaven in a whirlwind! The exact place where the fiery horses rode between Elijah and Elisha!”

  “You were there? Did you get to see the horses?” This was better than anything, Alfie thought.

  “Only the hoof prints on the rocks,” the captain said as Jacob looked at him suspiciously.

  Alfie walked toward the great locomotive and imagined smoke rising up from the chariots. He decided that he loved the English captain very much. He was more happy than ever that he gave Lucy’s little son his ticket and his name.

  ***

  “A clever woman, your Fraülein Strasburg.” Hess rubbed his sightless eye as he appraised Wolf.

  “Clever, ja, Agent Hess. You learned that on the train to Danzig, did you not? But she is not my Fraülein.”

  “Somehow I have come to believe you in this matter,” Hess said in a patronizing tone, like a schoolmaster reluctant to discipline a tardy pupil. “My assistant, Gustav Ahlman”—Hess swept a hand toward the empty place where Ahlman would soon sit— “has followed you everywhere in Danzig. To the priests. And to the maternity wards.” He smiled as Wolf squirmed beneath his knowledge. “So. You made her pregnant, and she ran out on you. She made a fool of you, did she not?”

  Wolf inclined his head like a puppy who watches his master thoughtfully. “She and Peter Wallich also made a fool of you, Agent Hess.” He flicked his fingers toward Hess’s right hand, where the leather glove covered places where the fingers should have been. He stared hard at the gray film across Hess’s eye. “At least she only wounded my dignity. And that only as an insect might irritate a horse.”

  “We have one thing in common, von Fritschauer. The woman has made fools of both of us, ja? Perhaps such commonalities are the stuff great bonds are made from.” Hess smiled at the thought that there could be any bond at all between him and this haughty Prussian aristocrat. “For some time I suspected that you were part of the escape of Peter Wallich and Fraülein Strasburg. The boy described you as a great friend. A brother and ally, really.”

  Wolf snorted at the thought. “But now you know the truth.”

  “Yes. Peter Wallich is also a clever boy, is he not?”

  “I met him only once,” Wolf said slowly, remembering the night he and Lucy had gone to Otto Wattenbarger’s flat in Vienna. Lucy had argued with him about whether the Walliches were Jews or, in fact, relatives of Otto Wattenbarger. All along she must have known the truth and bought them time by convincing Wolf to delay his arrest. Clever. Yes. And as for the boy? He had spoken of wanting to be an SS officer like Wolf. He had admired the belt buckle of his uniform and the inscription engraved on every SS dagger. And all the time the Jew had been laughing up his sleeve at Wolf. Lucy had been laughing as well. The memory brought a fresh rush of anger to Wolf. He clenched his fists and stared out at the traffic rushing below the Deutscher Hof.

  “I have no doubt that you will be given opportunity to deal appropriately with these clever people.” Hess consulted his watch impatiently. Why was Gustav Ahlman not back? They had a plane to catch to London, after all. They had been on the Danzig wharf to see the Ibsen children off, and they would be there to greet them when they stepped off the ship tomorrow in England.

  “She was not at the ship as I supposed,” Wolf remarked darkly. “By now she could be anywhere.”

  Hess raised a finger to correct him. “But if the infant in the arms of Lori Ibsen was in fact the child of Fraülein Strasburg, well . . . there is no bond as strong as motherhood. Unless it is the bond of two fools who do not wish the rest of the world to know what fools they are.” He shrugged. “Why did you not simply kill her?”

  “I wanted to clear my name, wanted her to confess that I had nothing to do with her plots in Vienna,” Wolf blurted out. It was plain that he wished he had killed her. It would have been much simpler.

  “I have already sent a wire to that effect to Berlin. In it I have stated that you carried out your duties here in an exemplary way.” He grinned again at the surprise on Wolf’s face. “So you see, I am not such a bad fellow. We must keep in touch, you and I. If the child is hers, some word will come from her sooner or later. And I know where to find the Ibsen family. As a matter of fact, I read the intelligence report from London on Monday, giving me the name of the man who was with the two boys at the docks.”

  Wolf leaned forward. “You have his name? But how?”

  “He is Samuel Orde, a former army officer—now a journalist scheduled to begin work in Warsaw. This is of little importance to me, since I am going to England. Probably it makes no difference to your case, either.” Hess spread his gloved hand as if to show he was giving Wolf everything. “I tell you this only to let you know that there is nothing that happens in London that does not find its way back to me. And if Fraülein Strasburg should attempt to make contact with the Ibsens in England, I will forward that on to you.”

  Gustav Ahlman appeared, interrupting Wolf’s speech of cold gratitude, in which he spoke of the comradeship of the Aryan soul.

  It is just as well. Hess thought. Such speeches bored him terribly.

  Ahlman stood breathless in the center of the hotel room. “It is just as you predicted!” He directed his exuberant admiration to Hess alone. “The man and two boys got on the Warsaw Express train.”

  “Did anyone else approach them?” Hess queried.

  “No one. But I was close enough to hear. The man placed a trunk call to London. He closed the door of the booth as I neared and shut out his conversation from me.” Ahlman pulled a rumpled letter from his pocket. “I went back to her apartment, as you instructed. I broke open her letter box, and —” He passed the envelope to Hess with a broad smile. He had saved the best for last.

  The envelope was addressed in a childish handwriting to Fraülein Lucy Strasburg. There was no return address on the outside, but the postmark was from the main post office in Warsaw.

  Hess tore it open carefully, his three missing fingers causing some awkwardness. Wolf stared at him impatiently, then leaned forward with interest as Hess removed a single sheet of notebook paper.

  Hess squinted at it for a moment in the dim light, then passed it to Wolf. “My vision is poor for reading. You will read it out loud.”

  A muscle in Wolf’s cheek twitched as he read the words:
r />   My dear Friend,

  I have managed to arrive in Warsaw. That is the only thing that has gone as I expected. A clumsy oaf on the train spilled coffee on me, soaking my clothes and rendering the address of my destination undecipherable. I have managed to find my way to the Muranow Square Community Soup Kitchen for meals. I may use that address as a temporary mailbox, they tell me. I still have not found my dear mother or Marlene. I pray that you have not discarded the Warsaw address that I wrote out for you if you should decide to come and join me here. How fortunate it is that I left a copy there in Danzig with you. Perhaps I am not altogether lost. Only delayed.

  Please send the address to me quickly. Or, if you have finally come to your senses and wish to have a safe haven for your baby, come join me here soon.

  I think of you fondly and hope all is well with your baby.

  A friend always,

  Peter Wallich

  Wolf scanned the note again as Hess clapped his hands together in deep satisfaction. He rose. “You have done well for us, Gustav.” Then he bowed slightly to Wolf. “Peter Wallich. Delivered into our hands.”

  Wolf folded the note carefully. It was so easy! “Perhaps Providence has had pity on two fools, Agent Hess.”

  “There can be no doubt. Eventually Lucy will find her way to Peter Wallich. Or he to her.” He gestured toward the still-grinning Gustav Ahlman. “I will need Gustav in London. My legs are not strong enough to run after children. However, there are several agents already in Warsaw who have been looking into various matters concerning fugitives who have fled the Reich. I will send a wire. Reichsführer Himmler has put an entire force at my disposal in this matter.” He raised his hand like a priest reciting a blessing. “Peter Wallich has blazed our trail to Lucy, has he not? And every scrap of information that I receive in London will be immediately relayed to you.” He indicated that Ahlman should make a note. “Your address?”

  “Europejski Hotel. Warsaw.”

  “A fine establishment.” Hess approved of the choice. “And I, in London, take more modest lodgings. In the Bloomsbury District, 107 Gower Street. Mills University Hotel.”

  Providence may have had pity on two fools, thought Hess as he watched Wolfgang von Fritschauer leave, but I am no fool.

  He telephoned Berlin immediately and expressed his suspicion about Wolf. He was sending Gustav Ahlman to Warsaw to keep an eye on every movement of the Prussian officer. “He has allowed Lucy Strasburg to escape,” Hess told Reichsführer Himmler with certainty. “And he thinks he is free simply to walk away. It is best if we let him do a little work on our behalf before we bring him in.”

  At that, Hess was ordered to stop in Berlin for a few hours before he continued on to London. A memorandum regarding this case had fired the imagination of the Führer. There were a few details to discuss in regard to timing the demonstration for the greatest effect against the arrogance of England.

  ***

  Adolf Hitler had spent the day touring Germany’s West Wall, the massive concrete structure that was the Reich’s answer to the French Maginot Line. He praised the engineers and decorated several for conspicuous contributions to the Thousand-Year Reich. The Führer called the engineers “soldiers who fight with their intellects, but are no less brave because of that.”

  Hitler was in a jovial mood when he retired to his quarters for the night. The Siegfried Line was an impressive array of fortresses. Much propaganda mileage would be gained by focusing the attention of the democracies on the extreme defensive measures Germany was being forced to take. Goebbels’ broadcasts would see to it that the British pacifist movement had plenty of ammunition (Hitler chuckled to himself at the play on words) with which to accuse the British government of pushing for a showdown against poor, abused Germany.

  Hitler, Joseph Goebbels, and Gestapo Chief Himmler were meeting to review the slant in the program Goebbels was preparing. “Not only can we show the world to what great lengths we will go defensively,” observed Goebbels, “but it will be well received by our own citizens to be reminded how well protected they are, and how invulnerable Germany’s border is.”

  Hitler held up his hand in a familiar gesture that meant Silence, I’ve thought of something. Goebbels raised his eyebrows expectantly, and in a moment Hitler spoke.

  “Invulnerable. Yes, that’s it. Goebbels, you have reminded me of a dream I had last night.”

  The propaganda chief knew that Hitler put great stock in dreams and omens. “Something to do with the West Wall, mein Führer?”

  “No,” corrected Hitler, “about England. The British are so smugly superior because they feel secure on their tiny island. This quality allows them to meddle so confidently in the affairs of others. In my dream, I saw that smugness shattered as their invulnerability went up in flames! Stone monuments crashed down on the heads of the sanctimonious Britishers. Yes, I’m sure that’s it!”

  “But it cannot be an attack linked to us,” protested Goebbels as he saw where this conversation was leading. “That would undo all our efforts to keep the appeasers in power.”

  “Not us directly,” agreed Hitler, placing his hand on a concrete pillar as if testing its strength. “Himmler—” he beckoned to the bookish head of security— “isn’t it true that the IRA bombing campaign is going well?”

  “Quite well, mein Führer. The Irish have successfully detonated over a hundred devices and disrupted transportation and communication.”

  “You see, Goebbels,” said Hitler, “it need not be us who remind the British of the need to put their own house in order.”

  “Did you have a vision of a specific target?” questioned Himmler, since this operation would clearly fall into his domain.

  Hitler closed his eyes and covered them with both hands. He stood that way long enough for Himmler and Goebbels to exchange a glance; then he replied. “I see a dramatic moment when a revered British institution, a part of their cherished history, crashes to the ground. A bridge perhaps, or a famous building. And—” he held up an instructive finger— “if it should happen to fall on a political opponent of ours…if Mr. Winston Churchill, say, should have the misfortune to be killed…why, we would not shed many tears, would we, Goebbels?”

  26

  The Last Fortress of a Broken Heart

  Herr Frankenmuth had made a bed for Lucy on the canvas tarp that lay in the bow of the twenty-foot fishing boat. She gazed up at the myriad of stars passing overhead as the craft chugged against the slow current of the Vistula River. The thrumming of the small gas engine could not drown out the high whir of a million crickets that serenaded their passing from the riverbanks. A soft breeze carried the scent of new-mown hay from the broad green fields of the Polish countryside. Lucy scarcely smelled the heavy aroma of iced fish packed in crates for transport to the Polish markets.

  The river cut through the heart of Poland on its lazy journey from Warsaw to Danzig and the Baltic Sea. Its summer mists were cool against Lucy’s fevered skin. Several times Herr Frankenmuth left the helm and came forward to touch her forehead with his rough, calloused hand.

  “When we reach Warsaw,” he promised, “you must see a doctor. I have friends there.”

  Lucy thanked him quietly. She had little strength left for more than that one word. She stared up at the spray of crystalline stars and considered the miracle of her escape aboard the fishmonger’s boat.

  Twice a week Herr Frankenmuth and his son traveled the river from Danzig to Warsaw. Had Alfie remembered that tiny detail? she wondered. How had he known that at the mention of Alfie Halder and Werner, the fish seller would look at her bruised face and know somehow that she needed help?

  When the refugee ship had gone, Lucy had stumbled into the marketplace and found the stall just as Alfie said she would. She had managed to mutter Alfie’s name, and then Herr Frankenmuth had gently guided her to a cot behind the stall, where she had collapsed and slept until evening.

  He fed her supper as she told him only the barest details of what had h
appened to her—how she had met Alfie and given up the child. Then she had breathed the request: “And somehow I must get to Warsaw.”

  Now the request was being granted. It seemed as though some other hand had guided Lucy—first to Alfie Halder and from him to Herr Frankenmuth.

  It was a long journey up the Vistula to the Warsaw fish market, but the old man promised her that she would be out of reach of anyone who might harm her. As if to emphasize that assurance, he pulled a loaded shotgun out from between two crates of mackerel. The port of Danzig was crammed full of Nazi agents, he explained with a grin. And if it came to war, he would simply load and shoot into the blackshirted mob like shooting into a bait tank. Such a gun as this could drop an entire swarm of SS vermin, he claimed. He patted the stock of the ancient weapon and then patted Lucy on her arm. If a German battleship entered the harbor of Danzig, Herr Frankenmuth explained that he was well armed and ready to withdraw upriver to the fortress of Warsaw.

  “The Nazis will never be in Warsaw,” he declared. “There are a million and a half Polish soldiers and millions more just like me who will fight them if they try it.” He swept his hand along the dark shadows of the riverbank. “In the daylight you can see Polish guns guarding the Vistula. This is our highway, and I tell you, the Nazis will not pass over it.” He replaced his aging weapon in its hiding place. “You will be safe in Warsaw behind a wall of Polish gentlemen.” Then, as an afterthought, he explained, “This German name of ours comes from a great-grandfather.” He thumped his chest. “But we are Poles as sure as anything.”

  Lucy managed a smile of gratitude in reply. But she could not help wondering if all of Poland was equipped with such ancient guns. Pride and the courage to fight would mean nothing against new German tanks and modern aircraft. Lucy had heard Wolf say it a hundred times. She had listened while he laughed at the ill-equipped cavalry of Poland; while he had scoffed at the thought of Polish biplanes in combat against the new Heinkels being turned off the German assembly line.