Munich Signature

by Bodie Thoene

  “This week. During the party rally.”

  “Well, then—” Tedrick puffed his pipe in thought as he swiveled back and forth in his chair. “We’ll just have to sit it out for a few days. That will give you a little time with John Murphy.” He smiled at her astonished reaction. “Then he will be off to Evian, and you will return to Paris. The conference in Evian will keep your Mr. Murphy occupied long enough for us to complete our business.”

  Elisa put a hand to her bobbed, dyed hair. “Murphy?” she asked weakly. “Soon?” He would hate her hair. She hated it. And he would ask her a thousand questions. He would know somehow that from the beginning nothing had been right. The thought frightened her.

  Tedrick read her thoughts. “Of course you will not be able to let him in on our . . . arrangement.”

  “He’ll know. It is one thing for me to pretend when he is thousands of miles away, but . . . how?”

  “I doubt that he will think much about anything after he sees you. You will have to change your hair color back for the time being.”

  She frowned at his patronizing smile. “I want the passports in the hands of my family in Prague. I want them there now!” She looked down at the telegrams and then lifted her eyes in the stony demand that Tedrick keep his promise. “If Beck resigns, they will need them immediately.”

  “My dear girl—” Tedrick tapped the bowl of his pipe—“we can’t have you running off to Prague on a family visit before this matter is concluded. You still have a great deal of performing to do. Recorded concerts to run on the BBC.”

  “If you won’t trust me with them, then at least let me give them to Murphy. He can take them to Prague, give them to my parents and my brothers. Surely you see what an invasion would mean to them—”

  “Of course we understand.” Tedrick reconsidered. Giving Murphy fresh British passports to carry to Prague would delay him even longer, leaving Elisa just that much more time to work. “Yes,” he said after a moment longer. “I think that will work. Providing you do not slip and somehow let him know what it is you are involved in. If he should catch wind of it, I’m afraid the entire arrangement would be canceled, Elisa.”

  She lifted her chin angrily. This man was adept at manipulation and blackmail—perfect for his job. She detested him. “Then I want one more thing from you.”

  “Adding to the contract?”

  “Haven’t you?” she shot back. Her eyes narrowed. “I want three days with him alone. I mean alone! No tails. No microphones. No men in the shadows.”

  Tedrick smiled slightly. Elisa was not only learning the ropes of the espionage game, she was learning the language as well. Then his smile faded as he considered her demands.

  “How can we do that? The Gestapo might well follow him . . . straight to you. And you know what that means.” He drew back; he had come too near the revelation of Shelby’s gruesome demise. “I mean—”

  “No! I mean it! You arrange it. You’re the expert in such matters, aren’t you?”

  He exhaled loudly in disapproval. “Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No.” Now it was Elisa’s turn to smile. “I was married to Murphy in Vienna.”

  “I told you that was invalid.”

  “I want it made valid. Legal. However that is done. You seem to be a wizard of such matters. You have undone my marriage, thinking that it would give you more control over me. Now I am telling you, Colonel, I quite enjoy being Mrs. John Murphy.”

  A muscle in Tedrick’s cheek twitched. He had hoped the woman would perhaps fall into something with von Kleistmann. He had been misinformed about the reason Elisa had married Murphy. “Of course, we will do as you wish.”

  “Three days. I want to spend them with my husband, Mr. Tedrick.”

  Tedrick nodded curtly. Her insistence irritated him. He cleared his throat and returned the conversation to his own realm of power. “Quite. Well, regardless of what General Beck does, Chamberlain has sent Lord Runciman to study the riots in the Sudetenland. He will serve as a mediator between President Beneš and the Czech Nazis Henlein and Frank. Perhaps a peaceful solution will be found and all this worry about your family will have been needless, eh?” He flashed an insincere smile. “Hitler’s reaction to the British mediator is something we are quite interested in—something you should discuss with Thomas von Kleistmann when you are next in Paris.”

  He flipped open one more file on his desk. The folder was nearly empty, but he produced a letter from it with a French postmark. It, too, had been opened.

  “Leah!” Elisa gasped at the glimpse of the handwriting.

  “She is safe in Paris—” Tedrick began to explain the contents of the letter as Elisa snatched it from him.

  “In Paris! She made it out!”

  “Yes. She apparently heard your BBC broadcast and wishes to have some contact with you. She is . . . will be performing with L’Opera and is curious about her cello.”

  This dry report was lost to Elisa as she scanned the emotion-laden page.

  And so, my dear sister, this Jesus whom I have come to love has guided us safely here. I am to have a job with L’Opera, and perhaps will be able to move into a little flat with Louis. I know how your schedule is; mine will be tight for a while also. But please write me and let me know when I can hope to see your face again. I think often of our last night in Vienna and pray that those fears of our last good-bye will now be forgotten! Of course, I have no word from Shimon, but I pray hourly that he may live and come to find our Messiah as I have and that we may raise our children to serve our loving God! Can I ever doubt His miracles again? I was safe long before we crossed the border. Marta Wattenbarger told me and showed me all I needed to come to this great peace in my heart! I long to see you soon! There are so many things I want to tell you, my dear Elisa—

  Tedrick coughed loudly, interrupting this gentle flow. “You cannot see her, of course,” he barked.

  Elisa looked up. Her smile slipped away. “How can I not see her? She is in Paris. I will be in Paris—”

  “You must not see her. You may be followed—or at least the Gestapo may be on the lookout for you.”

  “But Shelby is playing me . . . quite well, you said.”

  Tedrick’s scowl deepened. “Until this matter is finished, until we have obtained our information from von Kleistmann, you cannot run the risk of seeing her. You could jeopardize everything.”

  Elisa looked down at the final lines.

  Pray with me for Shimon. For all the others still in the shadow of the darkness. If you hear any news of him, call me at L’Opera. Until I see you again, dear sister, here is my heart in gratitude.

  Love, Leah

  P.S. How is Charles and how is Vitorio? Write soon.

  It was obvious that something in the letter disturbed Tedrick. His expression was a sour contrast to the emotion in Elisa’s eyes. “Not surprising. A Jewess converting to the Christian religion. They are doing it by the thousands in Vienna, I hear. Not that it will do them any good. Hitler is hanging priests right along with rabbis.” He said this in an arrogant tone.

  How could she answer this man’s resentment against Leah, a Jew, claiming Christ as her Savior? She decided that she would not give him the satisfaction of an argument. Like Hitler and the Nazis, Tedrick somehow equated Christianity with race, not with the Jewish Messiah. “I will not see her until my duty is finished.” Elisa folded the precious letter. It was something sacred, and she feared a man like Tedrick would somehow profane it if they talked further. And so she had given her word, but with the hope she would be free soon to walk into L’Opera and embrace her friend.

  ***

  Murphy had wired ahead to London with the date and time of his arrival in Southampton. Traveling on the Queen Mary had been Trump’s idea—a chance for Murphy to relax a little and at the same time tap into public sentiment concerning the Darien controversy and the immigration issue.

  Theoretically, Trump may have been right. But Murphy neither rested nor mix
ed with the other passengers. He had spent his days and nights onboard the liner alternately obsessed with thoughts about the refugees onboard the Darien and thoughts about Elisa. Two days from England, the vision of Elisa had managed to drive away even his ability to make coherent conversation. The ache of longing for her returned with almost overwhelming intensity, until, at last, Murphy understood the words in the Song of Songs: “I am sick with love.”

  He was the bridegroom returning for his bride. At night he dreamed of the softness of her skin and the sweetness of her smile. Throughout the day he lounged in a deck chair on the sun deck and placed a newspaper over his face as if he were sleeping. He was, in fact, wide awake and dreaming of her. He should have hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on his broken nose. Passengers wishing to make small talk soon found they were talking to themselves, anyway. Murphy was capable of such profound utterances as “Huh? Oh, yes. Is that so?” Even the phrase “Is that so?” was a fraction too long.

  At least in New York he had been unbelievably preoccupied with the crisis of the Darien. He knew now that his work had been a merciful distraction. If he had been forced to endure the pain of separation he was feeling right now, he might have languished away. For the moment he had let go of the immense frustration surrounding the refugees and had found himself faced with another. Why didn’t the ship go faster? Had the Queen Mary slowed her crossing time simply because she already held the trans-Atlantic speed record?

  Why didn’t I fly? Murphy thought to himself as he gazed over the side at the glistening white hull of this moving island. I could have stayed longer with Charles, and found Elisa sooner.

  Then he remembered the rust-streaked hull of the Darien—the men and women and children who now sailed with no hope, no destination at all. The memory made him ashamed of his own impatience. What must the father of little Ada-Marie be feeling? Murphy wondered. The man was bound and gagged and impotent to protect his family against the forces of governments and the hatred of mankind.

  Murphy inhaled the fresh salt air and slowly exhaled again. “I am a selfish man, Klaus,” he whispered. “I do not know you, and yet I want to know you. I want to write the happy ending of your story. Forgive me, Klaus. Forgive me, God. My own unhappiness is so small next to this.”

  Letting his eyes trace the lacy wake of the superliner, Murphy closed his eyes and prayed again, “Here I am. Use me.”

  ***

  The wind-weathered lifeboat onboard the Darien made an improbable crypt. But there, beneath a tarp, the tiny casket was reverently placed.

  The days of mourning passed. Life went on. Two babies were born as the freighter limped southward shadowed by the Coast Guard cutter along the coastline. There was some reason to smile again. Life renewed itself, even here.

  Children squealed and played tag beneath the shadow of the lifeboat, the small reminder of man’s frailty and mortality. On occasion the philosophers among the passengers would quietly speculate on the symbolism of a lifeboat sheltering death. Some commented that such a paradox was unnatural and must certainly contain some prophecy of their own fate. When this sort of talk was whispered, the more sensible from among the passengers would wave a hand in the air as if brushing off a fly.

  Maria grieved nobly for her lost child. Her head high and her shoulders squared, she resumed her role among the cooks. She caressed the faces of her other four daughters with more tenderness, but the only time the ache in her heart became evident was when she would turn around to look for her little one. “Ada-Marie? Where are you?” Then she would catch herself mid-thought. Her head would jerk back as if she had been slapped in the face. A moment of anguish, of memory; a fleeting glance at the lifeboat, and then she would return to the task in front of her.

  Klaus seemed more visibly stricken by the death of Ada-Marie. There was no place for him to find privacy, so when the tears welled up in his eyes he made his way to the bow where the spray washed his face and gave him an excuse for the salty dampness of his cheeks. Gaunt already, Klaus appeared to stoop even more. His shoulders bowed and he seemed to have no strength left to look up. The rabbi could not offer him hope. Maria could no longer make him smile. A part of the soul of Klaus Holbein now lay still and cold in the lifeboat. He could not focus on now; he could only look backward in bitterness and forward to a dark and uncertain future. His grief for the lost one had stolen whatever joy he might have shared with his other children. His eyes could not focus on their hopeful faces.

  And so Maria decided to live for her family, because life must continue! With this brave heart she placed her hand on the arm of Klaus one warm night beneath the starry skies.

  “Klaus. It is time. Klaus, make your heart look at me.”

  Slowly the eyes of Klaus turned toward her. He did not speak. There was no question in his look. There was only dull obedience in his gaze. “What is it?” he asked wearily.

  “It is time,” Maria said again. “Awaken your heart, my dear husband, and help me to the infirmary. It is time for our baby.”

  ***

  Tears of joy now erased the lines of grief from the face of Klaus Holbein. A lusty, angry, indignant cry erupted from the mouth of the child.

  “You have a son!” Dr. Freund exclaimed, holding the bleating baby up for Klaus and Maria to marvel at. “Healthy and perfect!”

  “A boy.” Maria lay back exhausted but content.

  “Ten toes and ten fingers.” Klaus laughed. “And look! What is that? Well, I’ve never seen anything quite like that on one of our babies before!”

  “Something to carry on the Holbein family name in the future,” quipped Dr. Freund. “Such a handsome little fellow. The first boy baby we have had onboard ship. Two girls ahead of him. He will have his choice of pretty girls when he grows up!”

  The baby was gently cleaned, his thick black hair washed. Dr. Freund wrapped him in a soft flannel blanket, one of those presented to the ship in New York; then he offered the baby to Maria.

  “No,” she said quietly, watching the new life that surged through Klaus. “Let his father hold him first.”

  Had there ever been a father’s heart so tender? Klaus reached out awkwardly for the diminutive bundle. He cradled the baby in his long arms and let the tears fall on the blanket. “Oh,” he said, and then again, “Oooooh! He is so . . . ooooh, Maria, look at him!”

  “What will we call him, Klaus?” she asked gratefully.

  Klaus turned slowly around in a circle as he placed his cheek against the soft head. “His hands . . . he has hands like hammers, so big on such a little boy.” Klaus laughed. A son, the laughter seemed to say. The makings of a man who can wrestle an angel. Like Israel. “Yes, I think this one is an Israel!”

  “Israel,” Maria repeated. “A strong name.”

  “Mazel tov, little Israel.” Dr. Freund shook the flailing fist of the baby. “Long life and happiness to you!”

  ***

  In reply to the 36-point banner headline “NO ROOM AT THE INN,” the Darien broadcast this joyous message:

  For unto us a child is born; unto us a son is given; and his name shall be called . . . ISRAEL! A healthy son is born to Klaus and Maria Holbein tonight just off Norfolk, Virginia, in American waters. We onboard the Darien face each day with hope for the future of our little ones! We pray that mercy will be found for us among the council of Evian. Destination: Havana. Supplies of canned milk and fresh fruits and vegetables are desperately needed . . . Darien.

  No sooner had the birth announcement been wired to Trump than the Coast Guard cutter turned and made course directly toward the Darien.

  In the distance Shimon and Aaron spotted the huge tower of a naval battleship heading out to sea from Norfolk. The little cutter seemed to be moving much faster than the battleship, and certainly faster than the Darien.

  Sailors in white uniforms waved and shouted greetings as the cutter crossed the wake just behind the Darien. A cheer rose up from the passengers. So these fellows were human, after all.

  Th
e cutter slowed, and half a dozen American sailors held up a crudely painted sign: WELCOME, BABY ISRAEL!

  Tucker translated the meaning as the cutter turned and sped away toward Norfolk. Eyes grew moist at even this small show of kindness. How different than Germany, and yet the infant was not truly welcome anywhere. Cutter 177 had not yet vanished from sight before another Coast Guard cutter was spotted coming out of the channel behind the battleship.

  Moments later, it resumed the duty of shadow for the Darien, taking a position flanking the Darien between ship and shoreline.

  “I cannot even swim,” Aaron said unhappily. “And I would not jump for fear they would let me drown.”

  32

  A Toast to Israel

  Thousands upon thousands of Nazi Party members had swarmed to the great field of Nuremberg for the rally. Now where the Great Synagogue had once stood, troops of SS marched with awesome precision. Hour after hour, battalions of young men drilled before the spectators on the platform.

  When at last the hazy dusk faded away, 130 searchlights were switched on. These lights, borrowed from a grudging Göring, were placed around the field at forty-foot intervals. Sharply defined beams rose straight up to a height of twenty thousand feet where they merged into a glowing, heavenly canopy. It seemed as though the field was a vast auditorium surrounded by mighty pillars of crystal and ice. Clouds moved like spirits through the wreath of light as a hundred thousand voices joined in songs of praise to the Aryan god who had united them in this fierce pride, and an even fiercer hatred.

  “Adolf Hitler is our savior, our hero!

  He is the noblest being in all the world.

  For Hitler we live!

  For Hitler we die!

  Our Hitler is our lord

  Who rules the brave new world!”

  Thomas sat among a group of twenty other Abwehr officers along the wall of Nuremberg Castle. The ancient walls of the old city seemed to glow like canvas backdrops in an opera. Soon, Thomas thought, the buildings of Nuremberg will be leveled like the old synagogue. If the war Hitler desired actually began, there would be ample open space for such hysterical demonstrations. But many from these multitudes would find the words of their evil hymn had come true: “For Hitler we die.”