by Bodie Thoene
The house was three stories high, with open terraces, built in a U shape around a cobbled courtyard. Young children gaped and twittered down at them from between the slats of the banisters. Laundry was strung out on lines like colorful flags above their heads. Blue shirts. White shirts. Red dresses. Calico dresses. Clean, white underthings. Knickers. Bloomers. Long and short socks of all sizes tiptoed in the air above the courtyard.
Even in the faint light, Jerome could see that the walls were clean white and like new. No doubt the building was very old beneath the façade, but it did not show its age. The two sisters had fixed it up beautifully! Jerome remembered that some French king had demanded all the wood-framed buildings be plastered over after a great and terrible fire had swept through the city some centuries before. No. 5 Rue de la Huchette would have been around in those days. But tonight the building seemed quite bright and cheerful even in its ancient coat of plaster of paris. It was not anything like what Jerome had pictured an orphanage would be. The courtyard smelled like whitewash and spring flowers. And also it smelled like cooking food, of course. A pleasant combination.
“We are not too late for supper?” Marie blinked up at Madame Rose.
Madame Rose laughed a big, boisterous, American laugh and called to her sister, “Do not put the leftovers away, Betsy dear! We have two more for dinner!”
23
Watchful Eyes
A record cold gripped Berlin this New Year’s Eve. A coal shortage compounded the wartime gloominess of the holiday.
To add to the edgy mood of Berliners, Himmler had revoked permission for the bars to remain open all night for the celebration. The Gestapo chief had further warned against excessive drinking and requested that German citizens greet the new year with sober thought and consideration of the Führer’s upcoming speech. In spite of that, the Kurfurstendamm was crowded with drunks who were drowning their troubles beneath the watchful eyes of thousands of Himmler’s police.
Above the packed pavement of the Ku’damm, in ludicrous contrast, loudspeakers broadcasted the grim New Year’s celebration of the Nazi Party as it unfolded in the great Sportpalast. It was a very sober affair.
The floodlights ringing the stadium produced streaks of brilliant white light that alternated with bands of deep black shadow. The view of the assembled crowd as seen from the high platform was like a thickly timbered forest. Thousands of brown-uniformed human trees were brightly lit, and thousands more were in darkness.
Ten men to a row across one streak of illumination . . . ten tens to an eagle standard . . . ten hundreds filling a strand of radiance to the far side of the stadium . . . a hundred bands of light and dark.
The crowd was mostly still. There was some jostling in place as necks were craned to see what privileged celebrities gathered on the stage. Any comments made were spoken in hasty, reverent whispers. The highest podium was empty, unoccupied except for a row of microphones that guarded a vacant lectern.
At an unseen cue, a barrage of drums crashed into cadence. The tempo was deliberate and measured, but the volume was so overpowering that the air itself seemed likely to split apart. A hundred thousand men found that they were breathing in time with the drums, their heartbeats mimicking the rhythm.
When the throbbing of the drums so reverberated through the bodies of the crowd that they no longer heard the sound but rather felt it, a legion of trumpets burst into a fanfare. An encircling ring of spotlight beams jumped upward into the sky from the rim of the stadium to tower over the scene like pillars of ice.
Between the sky and the assembly, a cloud of red-and-black banners unfurled, fluttering in time with the trumpet blasts. The expectation of the gathering had reached a fever pitch—exactly the right moment for the object of their worship to appear.
As if controlled by a single switch, all light and sound vanished. The arena was plunged into absolute blackness and total stillness with such suddenness that thousands believed they had been struck both deaf and blind in that instant.
And then . . . a single spotlight reached out from the back of the stadium, stabbing the highest podium. As if by magic, the lectern was now occupied by the stern, brooding figure of Adolf Hitler.
Hitler extended his arm and swept a salute across the crowd. ”Sieg Heil!” burst from a hundred thousand throats, repeating and reechoing till equal in volume to the now-silent trumpets and drums.
At last the Führer motioned for silence, and the ecstatic adoration died away. Then he began to speak. Angry denunciations of the democracies flowed from the Führer in an unchecked stream. The hundred thousand Nazi Party members hearing him speak in person were ready to march against Western Europe at that very moment if Hitler so ordered.
“We are about to enter the most decisive year in German history. In 1940, the Jewish capitalistic world wants to destroy us. I have repeatedly asked France and England for peace. But Jewish reactionary warmongers and their puppets, like Winston Churchill, are unwilling to cancel their plans to destroy Germany.”
Hitler stopped speaking and regarded the audience sternly, with folded arms. Like a father who is about to make an unpleasant demand of a child for its own good. “Sacrifices will be required—sacrifice of ease, sacrifice of comfort, sacrifice of personal choice for the greater good of the Reich—yes, even sacrifice of blood. But we will go on from victory to victory—unflinching and unstoppable—to secure the rightful place of the German people!”
Thunderous applause greeted these words, as if the speech were concluded. But Hitler had something to add. He waited patiently for the outpouring of patriotic spirit to subside before speaking again.
Now he addressed them in a more measured tone, the voice of a father who dotes on his children. He called upon their loyalty to him personally, not to their patriotism or their devotion to the Reich, but to himself as the living embodiment of the spirit of Germany.
“You see me before you tonight, uniformed as your Führer. Not in the simple garb of Citizen Hitler, not in the trappings of state, such as Chancellor Hitler would wear, but as your supreme commander . . . to lead you ever forward, until final victory is achieved! I pledge this to you: You shall not see me in any other form than this until our goal is reached—Germany everywhere triumphant and all its foes crushed!”
The Sieg Heils reverberated. The tide of emotion burst out of the stadium and echoed in the street over the loudspeakers. The revelers barely raised their heads to acknowledge the racket. Like people who lived near a train track, they had learned to ignore the predictable clamor and were even comfortable with it.
Unaware of the lethargy of the general populace toward his oration, Hitler acknowledged the accolades with humbly bowed head, as if in deep reflection. Then he turned and made his way down from the high platform.
And yet a closer look revealed that not every arm in the Sportpalast was raised in praise of the Führer. Among the rank of dignitaries gathered at the foot of the stage were the uniformed generals and officers of the Wehrmacht. They exchanged looks with one another. Their expressions spoke volumes without uttering a word. They had warned Hitler not to press his luck. Poland was one thing. France was quite another. Russia had attacked Finland with Hitler’s blessings and now was taking a beating from the cold and the Finnish army. German resources could be stretched only so far. Why not quit while they were ahead?
This was the hope of the German High Command as the bells tolled the coming of 1940.
Horst von Bockman stood as the Nazi Party dignitaries marched out. He marked the thinly veiled expressions of disgust as Himmler and Heydrich and Goebbels passed the officers of the High Command. Admiral Canaris, chief of Military Intelligence, was well-known for his disapproval of Gestapo and SS tactics. A man small of stature but of great heart, Canaris raised his hand for an instant as if in heil, then wiped his nose instead.
Located four rows behind the distinguished group of generals, Horst kept his gaze locked on them. Men of true valor, these few represented all of the Fathe
rland to Horst: von Bock, von Brauchitsch, Canaris. For these brave men, Horst would walk through the fire of hell itself. Each of them was under suspicion by the Gestapo. Each was monitored and scrutinized by the inner circle of Hitler’s black-shirted elite. And yet they attended the speech tonight. They prepared their troops for battle. They listened silently to the rantings of the madman. They stood at attention when he and his minions passed. And if the order came to “sacrifice,” they would do as commanded. But their faces spoke volumes about their contempt for the tyrant who now controlled Germany. Were they holding on, hoping for a chance to take the nation back?
This remote possibility seemed real to Horst tonight as he observed their subdued behavior. They filed out as a group, leaving junior officers like Horst to brave the massive crowd inching for the exits. Horst craned his neck, searching for the tribe of foreign press who always sat in a reserved section near the front.
He spotted them and fought his way against the current toward them. There were dozens wearing press badges issued by the Ministry of Propaganda, stamped with the approval of the Nazi Reich.
This thought halted Horst in his tracks for a second as he moved toward a cluster whose American accents penetrated the rumble of retreating voices. What if Bill Cooper, the American AP journalist, was a man who favored the Nazi policies? There were such political aberrations among the foreign press, Horst knew. Many actually approved of Hitler’s conduct of racial oppression and conquest. As if in confirmation of his fear, Horst noticed the Englishman William Joyce, who broadcast German propaganda to England under the name Lord Haw-Haw. He was laughing and engaged in animated conversation with a young man wearing the badge of a Belgian journalist.
Horst pressed on. “I am looking for an American,” he ventured to a thin, stoop-shouldered man with a balding head and thick glasses. “Bill Cooper.”
The man squinted with amusement at Horst’s uniform and pointed to where a short, round man in a dark suit chatted with an American photographer at the foot of the podium.
The aisles were clearing. The noise had quieted down.
Horst approached Bill Cooper, who resembled the round monk on a Munich beer stein. The men fell silent when Horst appeared, as though his uniform had taken the humor out of their private joke.
“Herr Cooper?” Horst ventured.
Cooper turned, unsmiling, to face him. There was curiosity in his eyes, but this was tempered by caution. “Ja. Ich bin Cooper.”
Cooper’s German was quite good, but Horst felt uncomfortable using his native tongue here. “Mr. Cooper,” Horst began again, “we should speak English.”
“Sure.” Cooper shrugged, then shook hands in farewell to the photographer.
“Mr. Cooper.” Horst lowered his voice and looked away. “I was trying to reach Josephine Marlow.”
There was a flash of recognition on Cooper’s face. “You’re the guy who telephoned.” He said this too loudly and then, catching the look of fear on Horst’s face, also lowered his voice. “Sorry. How can I help?”
“I have something for Fräulein Marlow. She was in Warsaw.”
“Right. Barely got out, thanks to the efficiency of your army.” There was an edge of bitterness in the comment. This was a good sign.
Horst continued, “I have recently been in Warsaw. I have a message for her. From the priest at the Cathedral of St. John.”
“From her priest?” Cooper seemed pleased. “She talked about him. I thought he would be dead by now.”
Horst leveled his gaze on Cooper. “Not yet. But it cannot be long. Please, Mr. Cooper, can you take a message to Fräulein Marlow? I must trust you in this. . . .”
Cooper looked over his shoulder instinctively, as if he felt the probing eyes of the Gestapo on his back. “I’ll see her in Paris next month.”
“A month?”
“That’s the best I can offer. You know the rules. I’ll see her face-to-face, and that’s the only way to carry a message out of Germany these days.”
Horst nodded in agreement. What choice did he have? Katrina could manage for a while longer. There was no hope but this.
And so, in the shadow of the Führer’s podium, Horst told what he had seen at the Cathedral of St. John—the doomed children and the one child who might be saved. Cooper listened intently as the stadium fell silent and the last of the crowd dissipated into the streets. Walking slowly out of the arena, Horst explained to Cooper about Josephine Marlow and the plan of the little priest in Warsaw.
Madame Rose was a kind person. She noticed things. Like the fact that Marie squinted at everything and lost her shoes and socks regularly and could not read letters on the blackboard.
It was arranged for Marie to be examined by an oculist and get a free pair of glasses. Now she could see everything! Blades of grass and minutiae of every description became objects of wonder! She seemed almost intelligent at times. This surprised Jerome very much.
The gift of Marie’s miraculous vision was paid for by the American rich man named Dupont who stayed at the Ritz Hotel. Mr. Dupont had met Madame Rose by accident when he was lost and looking for St. Chapelle. She had cheerfully guided him to the holy chapel of St. Louis and personally conducted him through the jewel-like building. “We have a child in our orphanage who simply cannot see anything but the colors of these exquisite stained-glass windows,” she had told Mr. Dupont. “And we do not have the funds to get her glasses.”
Her assistance, in the end, cost Mr. Dupont a pretty penny, Madame Rose later told her sister. By the time the tour was finished, he had agreed to donate Marie’s eyeglasses as well as other items. New shoes were ordered for everyone, which had become very necessary since there were so many more children now at No. 5 Rue de la Huchette.
Jerome considered that if Madame Rose had not been working on the side of heaven she might have made an excellent escroc, a con man.
All the new shoes arrived in boxes brought on a delivery van. Children lined up and were allowed to try them on and choose whatever pair they liked. It was this great occasion that made Jerome believe that, if there was a God, Jerome would want God to be something like Madame Rose.
There were five boys at la Huchette who were in wheelchairs. Jerome was allowed to guide the chair of Henri whenever they went on outings. Because of this he had become good friends with Henri, who was ten years old and very bright.
On the day the shoe truck arrived, Henri was in an unhappy mood. He stayed in his room and told Jerome not to bother him because the present from Monsieur Dupont was not meant for boys who could not walk. Henri pointed to his brown leather shoes. They did not have even one scuff mark, and Henri said he had owned them for a long time.
“I used to wear out lots of shoes,” he said. “My mother was always saying she never saw a boy wear the sole off the way I did. I could run faster than any boy in Kroulouse before I got sick.”
It was difficult to know how to answer. Jerome had never imagined what it must be like to be able to run one day and then be stuck in a wicker chair with wheels.
Madame Rose came in. “Henri! We have been looking for you! Is your tire flat?”
“Not my tire.” His chin went down.
“Are you out of gas?”
“No.”
“Well, then! You are missing the party.”
“It is not for someone like me.” He pointed to the clean, unmarked leather.
She said the American word, “Fiddlesticks!” She stuck her lower lip out in a pout and grabbed the handles of the wicker chair. She made the sound of an engine revving up and tilted Henri back almost to the ground before she roared out of the building with him.
Among the boxes and boxes of wingtips and oxfords and patent leathers were seven boxes bigger than the rest. Five for the boys who were in chairs and two for the boys who walked with crutches.
“Riding boots.” The old woman raised her chin and snapped her fingers, and the gates of Rue de la Huchette swung open.
A great long-legged bay hor
se stepped in beneath the arch. On his back was a tall, handsome Frenchman dressed in the old-fashioned uniform of a cavalry officer. His chest glittered with medals. The iron shoes of the horse flashed sparks on the cobbles. The rider pulled his animal up in front of the rank of wheelchairs.
On cue the animal bowed before them, executing the courbette.
The children gasped and applauded. The officer doffed his hat. It was then that Jerome recognized the man. Jerome had seen him only last Armistice Day as he led the parade on this very horse! He was the great hero Francois Monceau, who had lost both his legs fighting the Boche in the Great War! This was an amazing thing.
The officer saluted, then rapped his knuckles loudly on his wooden legs. The little girls shrank back in horror. “Gentlemen,” Monceau said, “Madame Rose has asked that I come here today to teach you a few fundamentals of horsemanship. Rule one is that you must always wear proper footgear before riding. Ah! Yes. I see you have fine boots. Well then, you are almost ready. Rule two is that you must never be afraid. And rule three is that no matter what circumstance befalls you, you must never, never give up.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent with the hero of France riding up and down la Huchette. The children held on behind him, sometimes two or three at once. Jerome was on the very tail and did not much like it. He broke rules two and three instantly. At the end of the lane he slid off and walked home.
But there was Henri and the other Special Ones, as Madame Rose called them. They wore their new riding boots and rode just in front of the brave French cavalry officer who had much less in the way of legs than they had.
The experience cheered Henri up considerably. He began to believe rules two and three were possible even for a boy in a wicker chair with wheels. Polishing his boots every day, he made plans to own his own horse after he invented something and became rich.
