The Gypsy Moon

by Gilbert, Morris

  Goebbels stood silently chewing on his lower lip, then nodded. “Very well. I wish to see him.”

  “I will take you to his quarters.” Fleightmann led the way out of his office and took the elevator up to the third floor. Nervously, he led the way down the wide corridor, passing several startled workers who stared at Goebbels in astonishment. He opened a door and said, “This is where the professor works.”

  Goebbels stepped inside and saw nothing more than a large room flanked by windows along one side. A telescope stood pointed at the heavens, and bookcases lined the walls, packed with books of all sizes and shapes. In the center of the room, a man sat bent over a cheap notebook at a small desk. He was staring at the figures on the page, apparently lost to his surroundings. A phonograph was playing the music of Chopin, which displeased Goebbels. He would rather have found the man listening to a good, sound German composer like Beethoven!

  He directed Dr. Fleightmann to leave them alone, and the obese man whirled and left at once, closing the door softly. Goebbels was curious. Burke was a mystery to him, as he was to the entire staff who served Hitler. The word in the scientific community was that Burke was one of the five great minds in the world and was mentioned in the same breath as men like Newton and Albert Einstein, a good German who had turned traitorous and was now in the United States.

  Goebbels moved closer to the desk, but Burke didn’t move. He was staring at his notebook, a yellow pencil held loosely in his left hand. Equations covered most of the page, but Goebbels could make nothing of them. He was not a mathematician and frowned slightly, for this was a situation that was out of his control. He suspected, along with others, that Dalton Burke was not a strong Nazi supporter, but the führer was convinced he was of great value to the Third Reich.

  “Herr Burke . . .”

  Burke jumped and looked up to find the uniformed Nazi in front of him. He flushed as he quickly rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Herr Goebbels,” he said in Dutch. “I did—”

  “Speak in German please, Professor.”

  “I’m sorry. Old habits.” Dalton ducked his head. “I was working. I didn’t hear you come in. My apologies.”

  “No apologies are necessary.” Goebbels smiled fulsomely and set out to make himself amiable. “I should have come to visit you long before this. The führer has spoken highly of your work. He appreciates what you are doing for the Fatherland.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. That is good to know.”

  “He would have come himself, but an emergency has arisen. Instead, he has asked me to invite you to a supper in his private quarters next week.”

  “A pleasure, Herr Goebbels.”

  “I will have his secretary call your secretary to arrange the details.” Thinking that was enough charm spent on an obscure Dutch physicist, Goebbels said, “How goes the work, Dr. Burke? Are you making progress?”

  “That is difficult to say, I’m afraid.”

  “How so?”

  “Matters like this are so different from any other work,” he explained. “It’s not like making an engine, for example. There all of the basics have already been discovered. It only requires the time necessary to create the parts and assemble them. It is a job that is fenced in, you understand.”

  “But the work you do is different, is it not?”

  “Exactly!” Dalton nodded vigorously. “It’s almost like creating a symphony or painting a picture. The artist does not know what he will do until he does it. And so I sit here and I think.” Burke smiled and shook his head slightly. “I know it looks like I’m wasting time. Somewhere out there the secret lies, and it can only be discovered by men like me who are not very practical, I’m afraid, but who must spend their lives sitting at a desk and staring at a sheet of paper. And even when I’m home in the bath, my mind continues to work the complexities of what we are trying to create.”

  “But you will find it?”

  “I cannot say. I can only tell you, Herr Goebbels, I hope so.”

  Goebbels felt the hopelessness of urging the man on. He knew something about the creative process and was convinced that the Dutchman was telling the truth. “Well, Professor, keep at it. Work hard. We must press on to victory. Germany must have her place in the sun.”

  “Of course, Herr Goebbels.” Burke closed the notebook on the desk. “While you’re here, there is a matter I would like to consult with you about.”

  “Why, certainly. Anything we can do. By the way, are you being treated well? Do you like the home we’ve provided for you? Do you lack anything?”

  “No, indeed! You’ve been most kind. My wife and I find the house most comfortable.” A house had been provided only a few blocks away from the university. It was ornately furnished, and a car and driver had also been provided for any shopping that Liza needed to do. They were permitted to go to any events they found interesting, such as the opera. Dalton Burke did not know it, but he was a prisoner in a large and well-furnished prison.

  “It’s about this,” he said. He picked up a newspaper from the corner of the desk and handed it to Goebbels.

  “Why, this isn’t a German newspaper!” He had given strict orders that men such as Burke should receive only German papers.

  “No, I fell on it quite by accident. Someone left it on a bench in the park. But the story bothers me.”

  Goebbels ran his eyes over the front-page story. It concerned the concentration camps to which Jews were being taken throughout Germany. It spoke of the deaths and the torture that those who were carried into such places encountered. “This is all propaganda. British lies,” he said with a shrug. “A few Jews have been apprehended, but they were given fair trials and proven to be traitors. They were sent to prison, of course, but you cannot believe these lies.”

  Goebbels ended his visit abruptly. As if by accident, he tucked the newspaper under his arm before shaking Burke’s hand. “Your idea of a super weapon is exciting to Hitler.”

  Dalton shook his head. “I’m glad the führer is interested in my work, but I’ll feel better when I have something solid to show him.”

  “Certainly.” Goebbels smiled, exposing his teeth, but his eyes did not smile. “But the very idea of being able to destroy an entire city with one bomb is something to think about. Of course,” he said quickly, “we would never use such a weapon. But just the possession of it would give Germany a victory.” He smoothed the fabric of his uniform. “Well, I must go, Professor. I will leave you to your work. I will see you at the party at the führer’s.”

  “Yes, Herr Goebbels.”

  Goebbels left and found Fleightmann waiting for him outside. He stalked over and shook the newspaper under his face. “You idiot! You let him get an English newspaper in his hand!” He raged, shouting and screaming, until Fleightmann was a mass of quivering flesh. Goebbels warned him not to let something like this happen again, then turned and stalked down the hall with his aides struggling to keep up.

  Later that day, when Goebbels reported to his chief, Hitler asked, “Will he develop the super weapon?”

  “I’m no scientist,” Goebbels said, “but those who know about these things tell me he’s capable of it.”

  “Good, and when we get it, Churchill and Roosevelt and those other capitalistic gangsters will be bombed into dust!”

  Goebbels’s eyes shone, and he said, “Yes, sir, into dust!”

  ****

  “You look tired, my dear. Here, let me take your coat.” Liza Burke took Dalton’s coat and hung it on the rack in the foyer and then put her arms around him and kissed him. “You look absolutely exhausted. You’re working too hard.”

  “I suppose so. I am tired.”

  She took his arm and led him toward the kitchen. She fussed over him, sitting him down and putting a slice of his favorite cake—chocolate—in front of him, along with a cup brimming with black coffee. It was a ceremony they repeated each day when he came home from work.

  He took a bite of the cake. “Very good, as always. No one makes c
ake like you, my dear.”

  “You do remember that we have tickets to the opera tonight?”

  Dalton stuffed his mouth full of cake and talked around it. “It will have to be a German opera,” he said moodily. He was getting heavier as the years went by, and strain had begun to etch lines in a face that had once been round and smooth.

  “I’m afraid so, but you do need to get out. It will be good to relax. You spend too many hours concentrating on your work.”

  “Oh, by the way, where is the letter from Gabrielle you told me about over the phone this afternoon?”

  She took the letter out of the pocket of her apron and sat down across from him, watching his face as he read.

  “Her letters aren’t very informative,” he said when he had finished. “She speaks only of her work and a little about our old friends and neighbors.”

  “Why do they censor her letters?” Liza pointed to the parts of the letter that had been blotted out by heavy black ink. “Someone feels that what she says would be dangerous to the war, I suppose.”

  “What foolishness! What could Gabby know that would influence the war? I would love to see her, Liza. I miss her so much.”

  “Can’t we go home for a visit, Dalton? I’m so lonesome for the sight of our home or for a tulip or a windmill—and especially for Gabby.”

  “I have asked, but they say my work is too important to leave right now. And if I finish sooner, Goebbels has promised a great reward from the führer.”

  She watched as he finished off the cake and washed it down with a long swallow of coffee. “What exactly are you working on, dear? Of course I wouldn’t understand it, but . . .”

  “It is a matter of atomic physics. There’s a secret to be discovered that would give the world unlimited power. Can you imagine what would happen in undeveloped countries if they had an unlimited and inexpensive source of power for houses? It would give them a whole new economy.”

  “I’m not at all sure that would be good. It seems every time an industrialized nation goes into an undeveloped country, that country is ruined.”

  “Progress, my dear. Progress. It would keep them from starving.”

  Liza was puzzled, for she knew Adolf Hitler was not interested in developing poor countries. He was interested in conquering the world. She didn’t voice her confusion but asked, “Are you content, Dalton? With your life here, I mean?”

  He swirled the coffee in his cup while he appeared to contemplate the question. “I long for the old days, Liza. Everything then was so simple.”

  “Let’s not go out tonight. Let’s stay home. We’ll listen to Carmen on the gramophone. But first I’ll cook you a good Dutch dinner. What would you like most? Anything you can name.”

  “Really? Let’s have erwtensoep and rolpens.”

  ****

  The dinner was excellent, for Liza was a fine cook. After she put the dishes in the sink, they relaxed in the living room while they listened to Carmen. When the last strain sounded, Liza took the needle off the record and said, “Are you ready for bed?”

  “One more piece of chocolate cake.”

  “You’re going to be as fat as Saint Nicholas if you keep eating so much.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be such a good cook.”

  They had their late-night snack and went to bed.

  He was tired, but Dalton was too troubled to sleep for some time. He could not get the visit of Joseph Goebbels out of his mind, and the letter from Gabby had saddened him. It reminded him of his home, and more and more of late, he had been longing for the peace of Holland. He knew it would be different now that the country was occupied by an enemy power, but still he missed their old house and the walks along the canals. And he missed his mother more than he ever intimated to Liza. He wondered how she was doing and missed the godly wisdom she often shared with him.

  After tossing and turning for some time, he finally drifted into a fitful sleep. It was one of those nights in which he was more wakeful than usual.

  He came out of sleep when a voice sounded close by. He opened his eyes with alarm, and fright ran through him as he saw a shadowy figure standing beside his bed. “What do you want?” he cried out and felt Liza shift and murmur faintly. “Do not harm my wife!” he pleaded. “Take anything you want, but do not harm my wife!”

  “I don’t mean to harm either of you.”

  Dalton struggled to sit up in the bed and put his arm around Liza, who had done the same. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”

  A flashlight suddenly threw a cone of light onto the face of a man who stood beside the bed. He was a frightening figure, but his voice was calm. “I’m sorry to frighten you, but I’m an English agent. I’ve come to bring you a letter from Gabrielle Winslow.”

  The words brought instant comfort, for at least this man was not a burglar. Dalton cast the cover back and threw the switch on the light beside his bed. The tall man dressed in black was pulling something from his pocket. Dalton could not focus clearly for a moment, and he put on his robe and slippers while Liza did the same. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

  “It’s sort of a specialty of mine.”

  Liza fastened her robe. “What do you want?” she asked. Her face was pale, and her voice was unsteady. She clearly did not trust the stranger. He showed no sign of having a weapon, but she knew he must have one. “What did you say about Gabrielle?”

  Dai Bando took no pleasure in frightening two older people, but he had not been able to come up with a better plan to talk with them. He had been dropped into Germany and made a connection with his contact. The groundwork had been done, and he had found it amazingly simple to get into the house the Germans had provided for the Burkes. There was one guard, but he went off duty at midnight. Dai kept his voice calm as he said, “I’ve spent the last month in Oudekerk aan de Amstel, and I’ve gotten to know your niece very well.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Dailon Bando.”

  A wave of reassurance came over both Liza and Dalton, for Gabby had mentioned this name more than once in her letters. She had simply said that he worked at the hospital there, but at least there was some familiarity.

  “And you have a letter from her?” Dalton asked.

  “Yes. Here it is.”

  Dalton took the letter and found his glasses on his bedside table. “Let’s read it together, Liza.”

  She moved around the bed and kept her eyes fixed on the letter as he unfolded it.

  “After you read the letter I’ll tell you more about myself,” Bando said quietly. He watched their faces as they read silently, clearly horrified by what they read. Gabby had shown Dai the letter and insisted that he read it. It told of the fate of the Goldmans, who had been sent to a concentration camp.

  Dalton’s hand began to tremble, and he sat down on the bed, hands over his face, and began to weep. Liza sat down beside him and put her arm around him, but she was weeping also. Dai silently waited while the two shared their grief.

  Finally, Dalton looked up with tears streaming down his face. “This can’t be true! The Goldmans are like our own family.” He embraced his wife tightly. “Is it true, sir? Were they sent to a concentration camp?”

  “I’m afraid it is true.”

  “What will happen to them?” Dalton whispered. “We are told that the camps are not bad, but I have difficulty believing that.”

  “I’m sorry to confirm your fears, but they are slaughter-houses. Men, women, and children are being killed and buried in mass graves. We have hard evidence of this.”

  Dalton’s body shook as he sobbed. He realized at that moment that he had deliberately refused to face the facts. He remembered how Liza had tried to speak to him of the terrible things that were happening under Nazi rule, but he would not listen.

  Liza looked up. Her arm was around her husband as she studied the face of the man who waited quietly. She knew nothing about him, but there was strength in his countenance and even compassion. “We knew
some of this, Mr. Bando. Not so much about the camps, but about the slaughter of civilians by the German army.”

  She turned to her husband and wiped tears from his cheeks with her fingers. “We should never have come to Germany, Dalton,” she said quietly. “These are not our people.”

  “Can we continue this conversation elsewhere?” Dai asked. “You might be more comfortable if you were dressed.”

  “Give us a few minutes, and then I’ll come down and make some coffee,” Liza said. “Why don’t you wait for us in the kitchen?”

  Twenty minutes later the three of them were sipping coffee in the kitchen while Dai told the couple about what was happening in the Netherlands. He painted a picture in bald terms of Germany’s actions. “Your people are risking their lives every hour—and Gabby is one of them. I don’t think she would mind if you knew she’s working for the underground.”

  The two gasped. “Do you mean . . .” Dalton started.

  “Yes. She and a small group of friends are helping Jews get out of the country.”

  “If she is captured, will she be shot?” Dalton whispered.

  “Yes, she will,” Dai said bluntly.

  Dalton stiffened. “I will not stay in this place! Liza, we must return to Holland.”

  “Thank God!” Liza said. Her voice shook with emotion, and tears ran down her face. “But they will never let you go.”

  “Take us back with you, Mr. Bando,” Dalton implored.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Dai said regretfully. “It’s a minor miracle that I got in here, and it will be another one if I get back.”

  “But we can’t stay here,” Dalton insisted.

  “No, my whole mission is to get you away.” Bando leaned forward, his eyes bright, and he spoke quickly. “You must deceive the Germans. Go to work tomorrow. Pretend that nothing has happened.”