by Bodie Thoene
In the instant of his martyrdom, twenty pounds of explosive would erupt three hundred feet above the floor of the church. Maybe the other charges would go off from the concussion, or perhaps just the sudden loss of support on one side of the tower would make it collapse anyway.
Regardless of how great the destruction, debris would shower down inside the cathedral. People would be killed; terror would reign. Allan felt a kind of exaltation at the prospect.
As he circled the gallery, he reflected that with the pistol in his hand he could have run directly at Churchill and fired. Allan was shocked at the thought. He was no common murderer, no assassin! Where was the drama, where was the glory in shooting a man with a pistol?
***
The Stone Gallery opened in front of Murphy’s last step with an expanse of gleaming white railing set against a brilliant blue sky. Which way to turn now? Still another hundred feet to the Golden Gallery, where something waited.
Murphy vaulted up on a block of stone just as the man he was chasing reached another flight of marble steps leading back inside the dome. A small hand holding a large revolver swung upward, waved in Murphy’s direction. A shot boomed, and the bullet smashed into the stone balustrade with a crack of flying masonry as Murphy threw himself to the side.
Cautiously peering over the marble block, Murphy saw that the man had gone inside, into the space between the outer dome and the brick cone that supported it.
Clanging footsteps rang overhead, telling Murphy that his quarry was still racing up. The stairs here were made of iron and rattled with every jarring step. A clockwise spiral of metal curved up another twenty feet.
When Murphy looked up, he could see the retreating form of the other man two spirals above him. Allan chose that moment to look down and spotted Murphy crossing a walkway. The gun boomed in the narrow, walled space and the echoes reverberated throughout the dome.
The bullet flashed against the iron frame of the stairs, showering sparks from the ricochet. Another shot followed, making Murphy lunge to get directly beneath Allan, hoping to spoil his aim.
The terrorist returned to fleeing upward. At the last curve of the staircase below the Golden Gallery, he caught his toe on a protruding iron bolt. Allan fell, sprawling across the platform. The pistol was jarred from his hand by the impact.
The revolver spun across the grill and teetered on the edge. Allan jumped for it. The swollen and clumsy fingers he had torn on the transmitter case brushed it, knocking it off the stairs.
With an angry cry, Allan watched it tumble to the next level down and bounce on the steps. When the pistol hit, it loosed another shot, this time directly into the bricks of the interior cone. A flattened lead slug zigzagged between the walls before dropping, spent, into the darkness below.
Both men, gasping for breath, stared stupidly at the revolver lying on the platform between them. Their eyes met, locked, challenged. They sprang for the steps. Allan hopped down awkwardly, the ankle that was twisted in his fall buckling beneath his weight. Murphy pounded upward, his legs on fire and his breath ragged in his chest.
Allan reached the landing first and bent to retrieve the pistol. Murphy, from behind, crashed into him, smashing him against the rail. They grappled for the gun. Murphy’s greater strength twisted the revolver in Allan’s grasp.
Allan’s fingers, slipping from the grip, sought and found the trigger. He tried to squeeze off a shot into Murphy’s face. Murphy’s hands locked around the barrel and pushed it aside just as another round exploded. Powder flashed, burning Murphy’s eyes. He threw up his hands.
Allan had the gun; he leveled it at Murphy’s head. Murphy’s eyes, streaming tears, watched the trigger finger tighten, the hammer start back. Then Farrell stopped.
Only one shot left! Allan needed it to detonate the explosives! He shoved hard against the dazed Murphy, trying to throw him over the railing. Murphy clutched desperately at the iron bar, hanging on. Allan hit him on the side of the head with the pistol, a weak, ineffectual blow.
Others had reached the spiral stairs and were coming up. Allan spun away from Murphy and clambered back toward the Golden Gallery. Outside at last, he hoisted himself up to the rail, preparing to jump down into the light well. At the moment of springing he was hit from behind. Murphy had grabbed for his ankles.
Allan leaped away, kicking back hard—too hard. He missed the opening; he had overshot the light well. He hung suspended from its lip, clumsily supported his weight with his one free hand and two fingers of the hand still grasping the gun.
Murphy, staggering, appeared above the rail. “Give it up. It’s over.” Above him, he heard a muffled cry.
Allan gritted his teeth and tried to drag himself up and over the rim of the light well. If he could reach the edge and drop inside . . . But his strength failed. His feet could find no hold on the slick lead surface. He could hang there, but he could climb no higher.
Murphy watched, horrified, as Allan tried to aim the pistol over the rim and fire into the satchel. But his injured hand could not steady the revolver.
Allan Farrell had one chance left; if he hung from his elbows, he could use both hands to aim. One shot! One chance!
“Don’t!” Murphy shouted.
The blast recoiled the gun backward, jerked Allan’s elbows loose, and sent him sliding down the dome. His face scraped against the curve of the dome he had sought to destroy. Slower at first, then faster, as the angle of the slope increased.
His body parted company with the dome and hurtled into space. He had an instant of thought, a momentary gleam of comprehension, just before his body struck the rail of the Stone Gallery. He knew he had failed; his last shot had missed.
***
The German Luftwaffe had smashed dozens of vessels, large and small, tied to the docks along the Vistula River.
The small fishing boat of Herr Frankenmuth was moored beneath a wooden roof beside a garbage scow. Hardly a worthy target for a crack Nazi pilot.
In this unlikely place, Lucy found the fish merchant working desperately on the petulant engine of his boat. Wrenches and screwdrivers were spread everywhere. The old man was covered with grease from head to foot. His son looked very worn out from the ordeal, although it was plain to see that perhaps the broken engine had saved them from disaster. The waters were littered with half-submerged boats that had attempted to flee the gunsights of the German planes.
Herr Frankenmuth barely looked up when a fighter buzzed overhead. This engine was his enemy now!
He wiped his rough hands on a rag that seemed less soiled than his clothes, then he looked up at the sound of approaching feet and chattering voices.
“Hans,” he called to his son, “it is Werner the kitten!”
The son poked his head up from the belly of the boat.
Alfie was smiling and waving. He held Werner high over his head in greeting. “Hello, Herr Frankenmuth! Me and Werner have brought some friends.”
“Huh?” said the son and the old man in unison. Near and far, the booming of guns accompanied the reunion. Father and son exchanged amazed looks. Should they be surprised?
“No fish today.” Herr Frankenmuth stepped out onto the dock and into the center of a circle of sweating, grimy boys. “We have not been able to fish.” He waved a hand into the air as a plane passed low over the shed. Its shadow flickered through the cracks between the slats of the roof. “And so far the Luftwaffe has not got our little fish in the barrel either.”
Except for Herr Frankenmuth, the docks were empty. A fire was raging at the far end of the wharf.
Orde stepped forward, wiped sweat from his brow, and extended his hand. “Can I help?’
“Engine trouble,” said Herr Frankenmuth. “We cannot find what is wrong. Tried all day.” He nodded at Lucy. There was no time or inclination to talk. He turned to his son, who sat beside the starter. “All right, Hans, give it a try.”
The younger man flipped the starter switch. There was a long pause. Nothing. He flipped it
once again, and the motor sputtered and then rumbled to life. The old man’s eyes widened. He looked at Alfie and then at Lucy. He reached up and scratched the ears of the kitten. “Well, well. I should have known you were on the way.” Then, to Alfie, “Where are we going?”
“The Promised Land,” Alfie answered.
“Ah, I should have known.”
Behind them came the hollow clopping of a horse’s hooves against the pavement, then a rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk, as the horse came onto the wood of the dock.
It was Peter Wallich, looking very pained and tired but very relieved to see his companions.
The blue smoke of the motor rose up in the little shed. It was getting dark.
“The Germans should be heading back soon,” Orde said. “They have had a successful first day. They’ll be here with more in the morning.”
Herr Frankenmuth frowned slightly and squinted out toward the wreckage on the river. “Do you think it is safe to travel by night?”
Alfie put the kitten on his shoulder. “Look, Werner.” He pointed to the far side of the riverbank, where wooden piers had been smashed and burned. “Do you see them, Werner?” He took the paw of the kitten and raised it up in a little kitten wave. Then he waved his big hand and called, “Hello! Yes! I see you!”
The boys beside the boat looked at one another strangely. There was no one over on the other bank. No one at all.
“Who is he talking to?” asked one under his breath.
“Who is over there, Elisha?” asked Peter as he came up to the group.
Alfie smiled. He knew that Werner saw them. After all, they had been following them all day. They had walked before and behind. They had hovered above and sheltered them with their shining wings when the German planes had swept over them. How could the other boys not see them?
“Oh,” said Alfie. “There are lots more with us than with the Nazis. We don’t have to be afraid. They are going with us to the Promised Land, see?” He waved again—a close wave, just above the heads of Samuel Orde and Lucy Strasburg.
Digging Deeper into
WARSAW REQUIEM
The year 1939 was devastating for all of Europe. Every day was uncertain. Babies were born into a world of trenches, wires, gas-mask drills, and concrete bunkers (see p. 9). Pipe bombs exploded in train stations, killing young and old. Children lost their innocence and ability to laugh. Pastors who stood for what was right, like Karl Ibsen, were imprisoned, tortured, and killed. Countless Jews died in concentration camps. Mothers waved good-bye to their children, knowing that they might never see those children again in their lifetime (see p. 13).
Yet in this great period of darkness there were “pinpoints of light” for those who looked for them. As American journalist John Murphy realized, “There were fewer of those lights, to be sure, but the harder the blackness squeezed, the more vibrant the Light became” (p. 108).
For instance, because Karl Ibsen wouldn’t compromise and accept the Nazi philosophy as so many pastors did to save their churches and their own lives, he was locked behind prison walls. Yet even there God provided for Karl—a missing brick, bread every day, two sparrows as companions, their growing nest, and their tiny gifts of flower petals and pine needles that reminded him of God’s love (see p. 183). Because Karl remained true to what he believed, his inner light shone brightly from his prison (see p. 110)!
When Samuel Orde becomes the “sacrifice” of the British government, for the first time he understands something: “The biggest battle was not fought against Muslim terrorists on the slopes of Zion but against the doubt and despair that threatened to destroy true faith in God’s love” (p. 144).
Isn’t this the very battle we still fight today? The battle against doubt and despair? Not much has changed in the age-old war against Evil and Darkness.
And that takes us to you, dear reader. Do you long for your inner light to shine brightly in the world’s darkness? Have you often felt like a “brittle twig” instead of a stout stick in times of trouble?
We prayed for you as we wrote this book—that you will come to conclude, as young Rachel does: “God has made His walking stick out of brittle twigs. . . . But in the hand of God, even twigs can be strong” (p. 187). We will continue to pray as we receive your letters and hear your soul cries. No doubt you have myriad life questions of your own. Following are some questions designed to take you deeper into the answers to these questions. You may wish to delve into them on your own or share them with a friend or a discussion group.
We hope Warsaw Requiem will encourage you in your search for answers to your daily dilemmas and life situations. But most of all, we pray that you will “discover the Truth through fiction.” For we are convinced that if you seek diligently, you will find the One who holds all the answers to the universe (1 Chronicles 28:9).
Bodie & Brock Thoene
Seek . . .
Prologue
1. Imagine this scene: You have lived under Communist rule most of your life. Suddenly you are given a chance to move to a free country. But doing so means leaving behind the only home you’ve ever known . . . and most of your family. What would you do? Why?
2. What thoughts and emotions would you have if you were about to meet a family member you hadn’t seen for fifty years?
3. What do you dream of and long for, as David Kopecky longed to meet the only other survivors of his birth family?
Chapters 1–3
4. In the worst of circumstances, a little sparrow provided encouragement to prisoner Karl Ibsen (see p. 1). In a dark period of your life, what person or thing has reminded you that spring—the season of hope—will come again?
5. Karl, a loving father, was faced with the ultimate test: Bend his beliefs to the Nazi will or watch his children be tortured and killed (see p. 2). Would you deny what you believe to save a loved one’s life? Why or why not?
6. Mothers sent their children across the Channel to keep them physically safe from the war. Lucy Strasburg gave up her little boy so he would not be trained in Nazi doctrine. Could you say good-bye forever to a child you love to keep them physically or emotionally safe? Explain.
(If you have chosen life and hope for your child through the gift of adoption, bless you! What an enormous gift of love and sacrifice!)
Chapters 4–6
7. Captain Samuel Orde’s list of accomplishments was long. He served the British government and the Jewish settlers well. Yet he doesn’t receive even a “thank you, now please pass the orange marmalade” (p. 52). If you were in his place, how would you respond?
8. “It is a gift, Peter. It makes me feel . . . hopeful.”
He laughed and turned his back on the stars. “Hopeful? You know what this is? It’s a requiem. . . . There is no more time. No hope for us here” (p. 62).
Would friends say you are more like Lucy or Peter in your outlook on life? Why?
9. “Oh, Katie, what is left for me? I did not see you when you were with me. I did not hear the melody of your heart! A selfish, preoccupied man! And now what is left?” (p. 63)
Captain Samuel Orde didn’t know what he had in his relationship with Katie until it was too late. Do you live with any regrets because of your treatment of others in past or present relationships? What can you do today to make those relationships right (if possible)? to guard against the same thing happening in the future with other relationships?
Chapters 7–9
10. “You see? The Lord is still in the business of miracles!” (p. 80).
Think back over several key events of your life. In what way(s) have God’s miracles—even if you didn’t see them that way at the time—impacted you? given you something to hope for in the future?
11. “I do not ever want to be like him! Please! Never alone!” young Rachel’s heart cries (p. 84). Do you, like Rachel, fear being alone? If so, how have you dealt with that fear?
12. How did helping the Jews become such a political issue for so many nations, including England with Prime Minist
er Chamberlain (see pp. 103-104 for some hints)? Why do you think the Jews have been so persecuted throughout history? (By the Egyptians and the Nazis, for starters—see p. 102. Also see p. 369, about the plans of the Evil One.)
Chapters 10–12
13. “Whatever you do for the least of these, you have done for Me” (p. 122). With these words, Karl Ibsen shared the best part of the small morsel of bread he was allowed with his friends, the sparrows. Would you have done the same thing? Why or why not?
14. “What was he to do now?
Questions and self-doubt led to a wave of self-pity that threatened to drown him. He told himself that his faith in God had not wavered, only his faith that God had any use for him. This was the most devastating doubt of all” (p. 143).
Have you ever experienced such questions and self-doubt? When? Were your questions answered in any way?
May these words from Katie and Samuel Orde (p. 144) comfort you:
“Even when we do not see the answers we must pray and believe that our Lord knows all. This faith is all He asks of us.” (Katie)
“I do not understand, and yet I trust in you, Lord!” (Samuel)
15. “I do not believe in the Eternal,” Peter snapped. . . .
“It does not matter if you believe, Peter. The Eternal does not need your belief in order to exist. That is why He is Eternal. . . .”
“It is better to expect the worst,” Peter reasoned. “Then I will not be disappointed.”
Papa shook his head from side to side. “No. Then you live in disappointment all the time. Then you are a slave to bitterness. Then when good things happen you are only surprised by them. Much better to live on the other side of that mirror, nu?” (p. 156).
