Munich Signature

by Bodie Thoene

  ***

  At first the face of the boatman in her dream looked like Darcy. He grinned toothlessly at her as he steered the little boat over the black water of the Thames River. Elisa heard the voices of a thousand children singing from somewhere in the fog: Take the keys and lock her up, lock her up, lock her up! Could they see through the darkness of the night? Were they on the banks of the river, watching as the boatman carried her away? Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady!

  She could hear the sound of oars dipping into the water. From somewhere the long deep blast of a ship’s horn called the last warning for passengers still not onboard. Elisa tried to cry out the name of Murphy but her lips would not move. She was too cold to speak. Her words froze on the air and were drowned out by the childish voices. Take the keys and lock her up!

  The boatman grinned down at her. On both eyes now were black patches, and yet he was not blind. No. He seemed to see her as the grinning skull of Haydn saw her at the Musikverein. He spoke. Evil words that issued like smoke from his mouth. The flesh on his face dropped away, revealing white bone. All the heads that grinned down from that tower. Can you see them”

  Elisa looked up from where she lay bound in the bottom of the boat. The White Tower was lined with the heads of innocents. Children. Each had a swastika etched into its pale forehead. Sightless eyes gaped at the river and the boatman and Elisa. Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady!

  The boatman spoke again, and still more flesh dropped away until he was only a skeleton within his clothing. “It is no different now. You will see. You will see. They who sacrificed the children to save the bridge . . . you will see . . . wall them up! Yes . . . we will wall up the children as an offering to the gods of war!”

  Elisa formed the word No! She wanted to shout it, but it became a feeble whimper in her throat.

  Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady!

  The stone arches of the bridge loomed above her. Moss formed at the base of the piers where the water rushed past. Now the voices came from the bridge itself. Elisa heard the jangle of keys as the boatman unclenched his jaws in a ghostly laugh and stood. He beckoned with his hand, pointing toward the stones of the bridge pier. A door appeared and opened to reveal a room. Suddenly she understood that she was to be sacrificed to some terrible ancient evil. She was to be walled up and forgotten for the sake of placating the darkness. The voices of the children turned to an insistent chant: Lock her up, lock her up, lock her up!

  She tried to speak but could not. She tried to call upon the name of Christ for help. Lock her up, lock her up! the voices shrieked.

  The boatman lifted her with his bony finger, and with a sweep of his hand moved her through the air toward the waiting cell. Lock her up! The chanting began to break into a thousand laughing voices now as Elisa fought to find her voice; to say the name of Jesus only once would tear down the walls, stop the mocking voices. But her lips could not move. Darkness pressed around her with a swirling weight that sucked her breath from her lungs. She fought, but the insistence of the voices was too strong, too loud.

  “It is necessary to sacrifice the innocent,” the boatman explained quietly. “Otherwise it might disturb things. You will see. You cannot save them. You cannot save yourself. And no one else cares.” His skull began to disappear as the wall of her cell rose higher, brick by mortared brick. At last only his jaw was visible. His grinning jaw.

  ***

  The jangle of keys and the slamming of the door were real.

  The chill of the room penetrated Elisa’s rough army-issue blanket. She curled tighter into a ball as she tried to warm herself. So cold . . .

  She opened her eyes as the soft light of morning filtered through the high transom window. The steady bellow of a foghorn sounded at even intervals. Elisa counted eight beats as it echoed hollowly across the still water of the harbor. Metal buoys clanged as they rocked in the wake of some small fishing vessel returning home after a night in the Channel. There were no brass bands on the quay now. No ecstatic crowds or confetti. The Queen Mary was gone, and every minute took Murphy farther away from her.

  Elisa was frightened. She lay shivering with a terror she had not known even in the prison cell of the Vienna Gestapo. There had been so little to live for then that maybe it had not mattered what became of her. Now there was John Murphy. “Murphy?” Tears stung her eyes as she twisted the wedding band on her finger. Had those beautiful moments together in the little room in Prague been a dream? Was she waking up to some terrible reality—had she never left that cell in Vienna? Was Leah still trapped in the apartment with two little boys? Every fear she had known over the last months of terror was now heaped together into one jumble in her mind. So cold.

  Beside the steel door was her violin case. Beneath it was a stack of newspapers. They had not been there last night when the fat man had shut and locked the door. This is not Vienna. I am still in Southampton. In England. And a prisoner! Elisa sat up and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. She could see her breath. Her teeth chattered with cold and fear. She tried to reconstruct those last moments on the quay before she had been kidnapped. The capture had been carefully planned, arranged so that Murphy could not intervene for days. How many days, she wondered? How long until he knew something had happened to her?

  She walked stiffly toward the violin case and the newspapers. Just behind the stack of papers was a brown paper bag. She looked cautiously inside. It contained a pair of men’s wool trousers and a dark blue cable-knit sweater. She slipped the sweater on over her blouse and then donned the baggy trousers, letting her skirt fall to the cement floor.

  Draping the blanket around her shoulders, she looked into the bag again. There was a new toothbrush, tooth powder, and a hairbrush at the bottom. Somehow the sight of such basic requirements cheered her a bit. If these men meant to kill her, why would they give her a toothbrush? And why had they returned her violin?

  She snapped open the case and frowned down at the precious instrument. It seemed untouched. She moved her fingers across the strings to prove that she was not still dreaming. Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady!

  Elisa shook her head violently, trying to rid her mind of the awful refrain. Dear God, she prayed silently, help me. Only You can help me now.

  ***

  Murphy was awakened by a soft tapping on his arm. He opened one eye to find Charles was already dressed in the new woolen knickers Elisa had purchased for the trip. His tweed jacket was buttoned and his hair combed with a somewhat crooked part. A soft gray silk scarf covered his collar, but Murphy figured that the kid had probably even tied his own tie.

  Charles put his hand on his stomach. He was hungry. It was time for breakfast.

  Murphy blinked at him in surprise. “You’re as quiet as an Indian in a John Wayne movie.” Murphy sighed and ran a hand over his sandpaper cheek. The dull ache of missing Elisa had not eased. He looked at the bed and then at the gray light that filtered through the porthole. Fog. He wondered if it would slow down the giant superliner as she raced toward New York. Murphy hoped not. Four days onboard the most luxurious ship in the Cunard Line would be pure torture without Elisa. Today he would wire her in London. Maybe she could catch a plane and be in New York ahead of them.

  Charles tapped on Murphy’s arm again, breaking his reverie. Again he patted his stomach. It was time for breakfast, and Murphy needed to shave. The boy’s eyes flashed impatiently. They had eaten in the stateroom last night, and Charles wanted to go out now. Murphy was delaying the adventure.

  “Five minutes to shower and shave.” Murphy brightened at the thought that Elisa might find a way to make it to New York ahead of the Queen. It was possible.

  He showered quickly in the tiny bathroom; then he opened the door to let the steam escape, and Charles slipped in to watch him shave. Murphy lathered his own face and then, removing the scarf from Charles, he covered the child’s jaw, carefully spreading shaving cream across the boy’s upper lip. Lifting Char
les up to the mirror, the boy giggled with delight at the sight of his image next to Murphy’s.

  “Just you and me, huh, kid? A couple of bachelors.”

  “Uh-huh!” Charles giggled again as Murphy gave him his comb and showed him how to pretend to shave.

  They shaved together, with Charles perched on the sink to imitate every stroke Murphy made. Elisa would want the boy to have a good time, Murphy reasoned past his own misery. She would expect Murphy to show him a little fun in spite of the fact she had missed the boat herself. Charles hesitated as Murphy shaved his upper lip. He seemed disappointed that the sudsy mustache had to come off. He had looked grown-up and very much like Louis with the mustache hiding his deformity.

  Charles climbed down from the sink, away from the mirror, before he removed the soap. It was nice to have looked like other little boys even for a few minutes. It was nice to pretend.

  Murphy was nearly dressed when the valet knocked and Charles opened the door to a slim, middle-aged man clad in an immaculate white uniform. Gray hair and dignified posture gave the man the air of a ship’s officer or a Wall Street banker. He glanced at the bed, surprised that it was made. “You needn’t make the bed, sir. Fresh linens every day.”

  “I fell asleep in the chair,” Murphy explained as he tied his tie and fastened his suspenders.

  Already the valet had gathered up Murphy’s wrinkled suit. “A good pressing and I’ll have it back to you this afternoon, sir.” Then he paused and added, “And would you like your dinner jacket pressed for this evening?”

  Murphy nodded. “Quite a roster of passengers onboard, I hear.”

  The valet recited names that were most familiar. “Quite. Everyone wants to be onboard the Queen when she breaks the speed record of the Normandie. Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes and his new wife. The film star Eddie Cantor. And, of course, Henry Ford.” The voice hardened at the mention of Henry Ford.

  “Coming home after his visit with Hitler,” Murphy remarked dryly. He was having trouble with his tie. He wished Elisa were there to help him. The valet took over the effort.

  “Quite. They say it is the highest award offered by Nazi Germany. Did you see the photographs, sir? Award of the Grand Cross of the German Eagle.” He tugged on Murphy’s tie. “There you are, sir.” He stepped back and studied the result.

  “And you say Eddie Cantor is on the same boat with Ford?” Murphy frowned. “Should be interesting.”

  Now the valet smiled. “Quite.”

  “Dynamite.”

  “With short fuses, sir. One would not want to miss a meal. They have been seated at opposite tables, facing each other.”

  Such information made Murphy hurry his pace to the massive dining room. It was common knowledge that Henry Ford was among the men who had stirred the anti-Semitic feelings in the United States. He had published the pamphlet “Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” which Hitler himself claimed was a plan of the Jews to take over the world. Ford was also closely allied with Father Coughlin, the vitriolic Catholic priest in Detroit who raged against the Jews and against Roosevelt’s New Deal, calling it the Jew Deal. On the payroll of Ford Motor company was the head of the American Nazi party, Fritz Kuhn, whose rallies were becoming more violently outspoken against the Jews in America and those who might wish to immigrate there. To Kuhn, Hitler was a hero. Maybe he was to Ford, also.

  Eddie Cantor, on the other hand, was not only Jewish, but definitely vocal in his hope that American immigration quotas would be changed. Both Father Coughlin and Henry Ford had verbally attacked Cantor. Yes indeed, Murphy thought as they entered the enormous dining room, this will be an interesting voyage with those fellas onboard!

  Murphy had seen the photographs of Hitler and Henry Ford together. The sight had sickened and angered him, just as Charles Lindbergh’s visit with der Führer had done. What caused so many great Americans to make a pilgrimage into the presence of such an evil man? Was it their admiration of his political power? Their mutual hatred of Jews and the claim that Jews were Communists? It was an interesting question, considering that Russia had also leveled its guns to the foreheads of the Russian Jewish population. It was a question Murphy hoped to ask these gentlemen of the American far right who pulled the wires until all immigration of the persecuted masses in Germany was stalled. Such questions awakened the reporter in Murphy as he and Charles entered the palatial splendor of the Queen Mary’s dining room.

  The aromas of bacon and sausage and eggs benedict filled their senses. Waiters scurried across the rich, red floral carpet. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the room. The ceiling, twenty feet high, had leaded-glass skylights. An enormous buffet table was topped by an ice sculpture of dolphins leaping from a sea of delicacies. At one end, a portly chef carved roast beef; on the other, a huge ham was being served. Waiters scurried about the room pouring champagne for some and coffee for others. All the while, a string quartet played the lyric melodies of Mozart from a corner stage.

  Charles gripped Murphy’s hand as the maitre d’ led them to their table. Murphy’s eyes scanned the crowded room for some glimpse of Eddie Cantor or Henry Ford. White tablecloths. Red cloth napkins. Sterling silver tableware and china dishes edged with gold. Murphy wondered if Cantor and Ford would air their differences in a public explosion, or simply simmer like the food in the buffet steamers.

  “You are seated here, sir.” The head waiter bowed. Murphy barely heard him. He was still scanning the crowd.

  “I hear Eddie Cantor is here,” Murphy said quietly. “He’s one of my favorite movie stars.”

  The head waiter smiled as he glimpsed the five-dollar tip Murphy slipped into his hand. In such a vast room, guests often needed help spotting the movie stars and celebrities who often traveled on the Queen.

  “Mr. Cantor is just there, sir,” the head waiter nodded. “Table four. At the front near the string players.”

  Murphy spotted him easily now, dark-eyed and smoldering in his velvet chair. Apparently Mr. Cantor had not only seen Henry Ford in the flesh, he had also seen the photos of Ford and Hitler. From there it was easy to spot Ford. His table was just opposite Cantor’s and filled with admiring yes-men and adoring women. Ford seemed to be enjoying himself. Ford had pretended not to see Cantor and was quite loudly making sure Cantor knew that the Ford magnate had no intention of seeing him, either.

  The head waiter turned to go. Murphy stopped him with a question. “I understand Secretary of Interior Ickes is also onboard?”

  “An interesting mix, eh, sir? Mr. Ickes is on his honeymoon, however, and will most likely come late to breakfast.”

  “Right.” Murphy could certainly understand that. If Elisa had been here he would have skipped breakfast, too.

  17

  Fog

  Aboard the Darien, First Mate Tucker was the eyes and ears of Captain Burton. Tucker, whose wind-weathered skin took on the appearance of tanned leather, was also the mouth of the captain. Orders from Captain Burton were, for the most part, relayed through this spindly, rubber-faced little man.

  First Mate Tucker was from England—from Southampton, to be precise. He pronounced the name of his hometown with a thick cockney accent that sounded to Maria like, “Sow’ampton.” He called himself “Firs’ Mite.”

  “Ah tol’ the cap’n we ought naught put in at London. Now, at Sow’ampton they’d ‘ave let us tike on s’plies!”

  Maria, who in turn served as translator for the passengers, had to ask First Mate Tucker to restate each sentence several times before she caught the meaning. Even then she was unsure of his meaning except for those words borrowed from Yiddish.

  “Nuthin’ but shlemozzl . . . ”

  This meant confusion.

  “Stumer an’ gazzump, ah tell y’!”

  Nothing but a complete loss and confusion, he was saying. Maria translated the first mate’s anguish and embarrassment at having the Darien turn away from the port of London. She told the group clustered around her that the first mate believed they mig
ht have been allowed to dock in Southampton.

  “Nae dou’ ’bout it! They’s all doolally in London!”

  Maria considered this a moment longer. “The first mate says that there is no doubt about it. The officials in London are—”

  Doolally? What is doolally?

  Tucker had rolled his eyes and twirled his finger when he said the word. Such a sign could only mean . . . crazy? Confident in her interpretation, Maria reported that the London port authorities were meshugge! Everyone nodded in agreement.

  This morning the wizened little man stood behind the table in the ship’s tiny galley as the cook ladled out portions of porridge.

  “We got no ’am n’ h’eggs.”

  “No ham and eggs,” Maria translated for those within earshot. Every Jew was grateful there was no ham.

  “Ain’t no bu’er.”

  “No butter.”

  “Ain’t even got no ra’en toma’oes, neither.”

  “Not even rotten tomatoes, thank God.”

  “But y’ can ’ave all the porridge y’ can eats!”

  “Lots of porridge to eat, however.”

  Lots of porridge was not what the children wanted. Trudy rolled her eyes and put a hand to her squeamish stomach. She thought of all those in the hold below who had not even bothered to get out of their hammocks for the breakfast call. She looked up at the gaunt face of her father. He looked wind-blown and cold after his night on the top deck.

  “Why me an’ me bruvver John was raised on such porridge, an’ y’ can see it ain’t done me no ’arm.” First Mate Tucker thumped his chest enthusiastically and grinned at a small, miserable little boy. “Auf wiff y’, now, laddie!”

  “Off with you,” Maria mumbled in English, repeating the butchered phrase. Maria was next in line. She extended her tin plate to receive the ladle of sticky goo. “Thank you.” She mustered a trace of enthusiasm, although her stomach rebelled at the gob on her plate.