by Bodie Thoene
He watched her cross the lobby. She swung the violin case with a lighthearted air as she stopped at the desk. “Messages for Elisa Murphy?” she asked. The clerk checked her box and slipped an envelope across the counter.
Shaking his head, Georg read the news as he walked slowly back to his chair in the lobby. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the woman glance at him as she boarded the elevator.
***
It had been months since Shimon had eaten so well. Throughout the day, visiting Yiddish mamas presented him with various meals and chastising tirades if he did not eat every last morsel.
“So what’s wrong? You don’t like the way we cook? You turn your nose up at good Jewish cooking? You don’t want to get well or what? So eat, already! Oy! Dr. Freund, tell him he should eat it all so the ladies down in the kitchen will not think he does not like our cooking, nu?”
Morsel by morsel, strength returned to Shimon until one day Dr. Freund pronounced, “If he has not died by now, he is going to live. A miracle!”
“Not such a miracle. Just good Jewish cooks!” argued a hefty matron as she ladled broth down Shimon’s throat. “A good Yiddish mama can make chicken soup out of pickled herring. True, Shimon Feldstein? Of course true! So eat! Eat!”
The rabbi of Nuremberg came to see the miracle of the almost-dead man they had pulled from the vent shaft like a grouper from the sea. It was a good sign that this fellow lived, he pronounced. Then he raised his hand to proclaim the promise of Psalm 91: “Er hut mir tzu fridden gemacht . . . He has satisfied me with long life.”
Hope coursed through the veins of Shimon and new hope bubbled up among the passengers of the Darien as they drew nearer to New York, America.
Torah school students made pilgrimages to see that the man who should be dead was very much alive. The five daughters of Klaus and Maria Holbein came once a day to sing him a song or tell him about the very largest fish they had helped the rabbi haul over the rail. He learned their names: Trudy, Katrina, Louise, Gretchen, and Ada-Marie.
The burns and open wounds on Shimon’s back began to heal, and each day he took a few more steps along the narrow corridor and back again while Aaron and the clean-up brigade cheered him on.
Bit by bit he recited the story of how he had come to be here: The arrest in Vienna on the first day of Nazi invasion. On to the labor camp. Then to Germany and Dachau, where the strongest were chosen to work in the steel mills of Hamburg. Searing heat that killed lesser men. Hours of brutal work to produce the armored steel plate for the battleship Bismarck. The explosion. The water. There his memory failed him. He could not remember climbing onboard the Darien. He could not recall hiding in the ventilation shaft. Even the night of his discovery remained a mystery to him.
Again the rabbi offered the explanation of a miracle. Perhaps an angel had carried Shimon to the ship! Such things were not unheard of, after all. Perhaps the hand of the Almighty, blessed be His name forever, had reached down and lifted Shimon from the explosion and then helped him into the water and onto the ship. Oy! Such a miracle that he survived. And then, of course, the Almighty would deem it necessary to block the event from the mind of Shimon!
There was no other logical solution to the question. It was settled. An angel had done the deed. Even those who were not religious could not help but marvel over the fact that Shimon was here and that he was not only alive but also talking and smiling and eating and laughing and now walking.
Often Shimon spoke of his wife, Leah, whom he had not seen since that first morning of the Anschluss. She was his angel, he often said. He asked the rabbi to offer a prayer for her since he had no way of knowing what had become of her.
In the next breath Shimon would speak of Zion: “We had visas, you see. Certainly they are expired by now, but we had them. Even our dishes were shipped to Palestine. No doubt they are still wrapped in newspapers from the Austria of Chancellor Schuschnigg. Ah, me. How we hoped that all that news was true! We discussed it as we packed the dishes. We hoped that Schuschnigg would make a strong Austria. That Hitler would never be so brazen to cross the frontier of our little country. Maybe someday Leah and I will be in Jerusalem and unpack out things together. Then we will read those pages again and marvel at how our hopes were so completely smashed, even though a set of china remained unbroken.”
Quietly the doctor discussed Shimon’s case with Captain Burton. The captain feared that no country would ever accept Shimon for immigration. He had no identification. No proof he was not a man imprisoned in Germany for murder or embezzlement. How could he prove such a thing? As for Shimon’s wife, Captain Burton knew of no way at all to reach her with word that her husband was alive. One word sent through the official censors of the Reich, and most certainly the Nazis would demand that Shimon Feldstein be extradited to Germany and charged with sabotage in the explosion of the steel mill.
Such deductive reasoning made sense. The man was an escaped prisoner. Might that fact not also imperil the rest of the passengers? Such a thought made the good Dr. Freund shudder. Talk of miracles and angels could provide no solution. Perhaps it would simply be best if Shimon was listed as a crew member. Indeed, when he was well enough, he could work on the Darien to pay for his passage. The rabbi had ranked the presence of Shimon as a signal of blessing from God. The captain saw him only as a danger. He was sorry he had not convinced the British coast patrol to take him off their hands.
25
Human Interest
The offer of one hundred dollars by old man Trump to the first vessel or airplane sighting the Darien had given a holiday-like anticipation to the arrival of the coffin ship.
It was Tuesday morning when the captain of a small commercial fishing boat arrived in Trump’s Times Square offices with the information that the Darien was a mere two days from New York and right on course. The captain’s name was duly taken with the promise that if he was correct, he would be paid the one hundred dollars. When the talkative man went on to describe in detail the wretched boat, Murphy was certain that the freighter had indeed been sighted.
Trump had lunch catered for Murphy and the rest of his New York staff. He toasted the sighting with champagne. He toasted the boost of his nationwide newspaper circulation with yet another bottle of champagne. While Hearst Publications and Craine Publications and that old Colonel McCormick in Chicago had twiddled their ink-stained thumbs in the matter of refugees, Trump had managed to awaken America.
He thumped John Murphy on the back and right then and there gave him a raise of fifty dollars a week and the position of head of European operations. “Those ol’ blankity-blanks don’t know a good newspaperman when they see one, my boy!” he exclaimed. “Human interest—that’s what sells newspapers! Get people involved in something that makes them feel good!”
Tons of food had already been collected and assembled at the New York docks. People were indeed doing something. The granite towers of the bureaucracy had even begun to crack, it seemed. The State Department was already issuing the order that no refugees would be allowed to disembark from the Darien; private sources, however, were reporting that the ship would probably be allowed to anchor in New York Harbor until the matter was settled through proper channels.
Trump hired a biplane and sent his staff photographer out to search the gray waters and photograph the ship. He would run the photo on the front page of his newspaper with the estimated time of arrival. Hundreds, if not thousands, would no doubt turn out for the event. And old man Trump would host the party. A real American party it would be, too. Trump personally called Eddie Cantor and a dozen other celebrities who had climbed onto the bandwagon the past few days. “Bands and speeches and fireworks,” the old man promised.
That afternoon Murphy left the offices of Trump Publications feeling almost intoxicated with the joy of it. In Germany there had been such a sense of despair and helplessness in the face of Nazi inhumanity. But here, something was indeed happening. There was more to it than selling newspapers. Trump’s heart h
ad begun to thaw over the story of Charles Kronenberger, and the warmth was spreading fast.
A glimmer of sunlight had managed to penetrate the canyon of skyscrapers that lined each side of Broadway. Murphy threw his head back and laughed at the sky. A raise and a promotion! He wished he could call Elisa and tell her what was happening here. Instead he found a pay phone and called the Plaza Hotel where Bubbe stayed with Charles.
“Catch a cab to the Woolworth building! Bring Charles and we’ll celebrate with a movie tonight, Bubbe! That’s right! They’ve spotted the Darien! You heard right! Oy vey, huh? And yippee! I’ll meet you at the top of the Woolworth. We can see all the way to England from there!”
***
Murphy stepped out of the phone booth and laughed at himself as he made his way through the throngs of pedestrians toward Woolworth’s sixty stories of Gothic granite and steel.
Taller buildings had been erected since Murphy had left America for Europe years before. Like a giant hypodermic needle, the Chrysler Building towered over City Hall a thousand feet above the pavement. The Empire State Building had recently been completed, adding another two hundred feet to the record. Murphy had not yet made his pilgrimage to the tops of either of those towers. He decided he would see them first with Elisa.
This afternoon, however, he felt too good to stay on the ground. Like a seasoned bull, he was following an old and familiar trail back to his beginnings as a rookie reporter in New York—back to sack lunches on the Woolworth Building when he had looked out over the world with a sense of innocence and hope. He had long ago lost that innocence. In Germany, in Spain, he had seen what men were capable of. He had stared into the eyes of the Nazi Medusa and felt his heart grow hard and hopeless. He had stopped believing that he could make a difference. For a time he had stood over the broken bodies of Spanish children killed by German bombs, he had seen Jewish blood on the sidewalks of Berlin, and he had shaken his fist at the dark and silent heavens and yelled inwardly, Where are You, God? Why have You allowed this to happen?
The answer had come back as a whisper, but the message was as clear as it had been the night the farm boy from Pennsylvania knew that he must become a writer.
Where are you, John Murphy? Have I not given you a voice and hands to hold a candle? What I tell you in darkness, speak in the light! What I whisper in your ear, preach on the rooftops! Fear not them which kill the body but are not able to kill the soul! Only fear him who is able to destroy both body and soul in hell!
Today John Murphy entered the polished marble-and-granite foyer of the Woolworth Building. The shiny copper doors opened like a strongbox, and an elevator carried him up to the top of the world. Murphy stepped into the wind and stood at the railing to gaze at the sun-silver Atlantic. He was so high up that he thought he should be able to see Europe—or at least spot the little coffin ship struggling through the waters.
From this high vantage point he replied to God’s whisper, “Here I am, Lord. Use me.”
He had indeed lost his youthful innocence since he had last stood here. But once again hope sang in his heart.
***
Ada-Marie lay with her head at one end of the hammock and her little feet snug against Maria’s feet. Maria gently rocked their hammocks as she sang a lullaby to the steady rhythm of the Darien’s engine.
“Mama? How long until New York?” Gretchen asked from across the narrow aisle. She reached out her hand and Maria held it.
A child at her feet, a tiny hand in hers, and a baby in her womb—Maria sighed with the contentment of being surrounded by her little ones. All safe. All snug in their hammocks. She was overwhelmed with a sense of well-being.
“Two days,” she answered. “The captain says if the engine stays well, we will enter the harbor in two days.”
Ada-Maria stretched and yawned and rubbed her eyes. “How many more sleeps?”
Maria laughed, loving the way her youngest daughter counted the passing of time. “Only two more sleeps, Ada-Maria, and we will see Bubbe.”
“Will she have surprises for us?” asked Katrina through a yawn.
“Bubbe always has surprises,” Trudy answered.
The baby moved within Maria, making her smile. Another little girl? she wondered. Or a son for Klaus to hoist on his shoulder and take to the park? A son would be nice. Klaus would like to sail toy boats on a pond or play catch or . . . all the things fathers do with sons.
Young voices buzzing around her and the baby kicking within, Maria drifted into a contented sleep. Only two more sleeps, and then New York!
***
Bubbe Rosenfelt shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun on the Atlantic. She, too, seemed to be searching the horizon for a glimpse of the Darien. Murphy held Charles up to peer over the edge of the chasm at the shiny line of the East River. A row of metallic bridges spanned the water, looking like miniature railway models. Beyond the bridges the city of Brooklyn sprawled. Bubbe pointed out distant landmarks that defined her old neighborhood.
All around them the highest buildings seemed like staircases that climbed upward to nothing. Water tanks capped the roofs, and here and there feathers of smoke rose up like plumes on helmets. Murphy pointed out the tops of the Ritz Tower and the Paramount where they would later go to see Snow White. Charles felt dizzy as Murphy held him to lean toward the steel-colored North River and the smokestacks of the New Jersey bank. Everywhere the waterfront was fringed with docks as busy as the traffic in Times Square, but there was one pier waiting for its most prized cargo—the seven hundred and seventy-six lucky Jews onboard the Darien.
***
It was Charles who first noticed the three strong young men who lounged against the stone railing of the observation deck. They were not looking at the vast panorama beyond. They simply stared at Murphy. Their lips curved in disdain, as though their faces had been drawn by the same artist. Eyes were narrowed. The winds whipped at their clothes, giving the three a sense of violent movement even though they were standing still.
“Two days,” said Bubbe Rosenfelt. “I can hardly believe it. If I could stay here and watch, I would.”
“Mr. Trump has gotten word out to most of the New York fleet. He sent out a plane this afternoon. You may not be the first to know when they arrive, but I guarantee I’ll call the minute I hear anything.”
The three strong men exchanged glances. Charles had seen such looks before. In Hamburg. In Vienna. The men straightened and continued to stare at Murphy.
Charles tugged on Murphy’s jacket sleeve.
“You ready for the movie?” Murphy mussed his hair. “Which one of the Seven Dwarfs are you, anyway?” The pained look on Charles’s face made Murphy’s smile fade. He followed the child’s glance toward the three young men. They smiled back menacingly. The man in the center flexed his hands.
The voice of Bubbe Rosenfelt became high and tense as she tried to ignore the three. “Oy! We’ll be late, Charles. Here is the elevator. Come on, come, come, come—”
The copper doors slid open slowly. A couple got out and walked between Murphy and the three strongmen. Murphy nudged Bubbe and Charles onto the elevator, only to be followed by the three men.
One, stockily built with a bull-like neck, grabbed the elevator attendant by the collar. “Out!” he shouted, sending the man sprawling onto the roof.
Murphy tried to push past the other two. Iron hands grabbed his tie and shirt front and slammed him up against the wall. Bubbe was shoved screaming from the cubicle and Charles was thrown out on top of the sputtering elevator attendant.
“What do you want?” Murphy shouted as the doors silently closed out the wind and the screams and the startled faces of the couple who had come to see the sights.
A fist slammed into his mouth as the moving strongbox dropped with a moan and then lurched to a stop between the thirty-first and thirty-second floors.
“Hey, we got us a little Jew-lover here!” Like a driving piston, a fist exploded into Murphy’s stomach. He moaned and tr
ied to double over. Hands pinned him tight against the wall. The men shared him—driving a blow and then passing him on. One holding, one beating, one jeering. “You think you’re gonna bring them Jews here? Huh, Jew-lover? You think you’re gonna fill New York with freaks and fiends and commies? Huh?”
Murphy gasped for air, but there was no air. He was suffocating, choking on his own vomit as the blows moved from his gut to his face. Blood spurted from his nose onto his tormentors and onto the sterile interior of the elevator.
“You think you’re gonna be a big shot, huh? Yeah? Well, if we can do this here, there ain’t no tellin’ what we might do to your wife. Get it? She’s in London, ain’t she?”
Murphy’s eyes widened. Now he struggled to fight back, straining against the vise that held him. Elisa! How did they know?
“This ain’t even rough, pal.” Another blow to Murphy’s eye. “You ought to see what kind of guys we have in London. Savoy Hotel, ain’t it?”
Murphy cried out in unbearable anguish. They are here! They are here! They are even here!
“Word is—” a slap to the cheek—“you better wise up. Better lay off the commie propaganda. We can take care of scum like you, Mr. Writer. I hear your wife’s real pretty. A shame to mess her up.”
A knee to Murphy’s middle sent him to the floor as the elevator resumed its downward slide to the lobby.
Murphy’s tortured lungs gasped for oxygen. Blood and vomit mingled beneath his face. There was darkness . . . darkness! “Fear not those who can kill the body—”
“This is just a little reminder. A kind of down payment in case you don’t take our advice.” The elevator stopped and one more kick was delivered to his back as the doors slowly opened, and the three men stepped over him to stride, laughing, from the building.