by Bodie Thoene
“For my daughter,” the man said again. “She is in Geneva now. A fine cellist. She has not been quite the same since word of her mother.”
“I can understand why.” Leah lapsed from French into the soft tone of Vienna. “You have heard me play in Vienna?”
“And Salzburg. You and—Elisa Linder was her name? The violinist. I remember seeing the two of you giggling on stage. Fast friends.” He smiled at the pleasant memory. The flash of gold. “Is she still in Vienna?”
“In London,” Leah answered readily. “Playing for the BBC. I heard her just last night.”
At this the man frowned slightly, then replied, “Well, this is good news—both of you safe. I suppose you still see each other.”
Suddenly there was a cold stirring inside Leah. Too many questions. The smile. A touching story, but . . .
“Would you like to hear a little more? I have an engagement shortly. I would like to chat about old times—they were good times, too—but I must be on my way.”
“I can’t think of keeping you.” Krepps backed up a step as if horrified that he had detained such a great musician with small talk. “Perhaps I might be allowed to come back and listen again. If I could hear something a bit slower, perhaps.”
“Oh! Yes, yes, yes, monsieur!” Bernard promised. “She will be happy to play for you! Yes, mademoiselle?”
Leah nodded, not at all certain that she liked the use of the Tecchler cello, after all.
***
There were a dozen stops where Elisa could have gotten off the Metro. But she found herself still riding the subway as if she had someplace to go. A goal. A destination where she would squeeze past the other passengers and step out into the light.
Then the conductor cried out, “Opera, next stop! All out for Opera!” She blinked and edged past the others, waited until the doors slid back, and stepped off the train.
The doors slammed behind her after the warning bell sounded; the train roared off through the tunnel. Elisa stood in the dim light of the underground station and stared dully at the light that streamed down from the steps. She could hear the sounds of traffic on the boulevard des Capucines above her. Could Leah also hear the same horns? Did Leah take this very train home from rehearsal each day?
Someone bumped her. “Pardon, mademoiselle; are you unwell?” She looked up into the concerned face of a blue-uniformed gendarme.
“No. I . . . might have gotten off at the wrong . . . ”
“Metro Opera.” He lifted his hand toward the sign.
She tried to smile. “Merci.” She moved mechanically toward the stairs. Toward Leah. The din of traffic became louder, and the great facade of the famous building was framed in the opening.
Elisa looked at her watch. Rehearsal would just be over. She could find Leah, she could wait at the stage door and surprise her. They would have tea together, and Elisa would confide in her. There was nothing she couldn’t tell Leah!
Elisa ran up the last few steps and then, as the full light fell on her, she felt suddenly as if a hand had seized her and shaken her. A warning flashed in her mind. Why had Tedrick forbidden her to see Leah? What did he know that he had not told her?
Through the open doors of L’Opera, Elisa could see the grand staircase. A janitor was sweeping the steps. Leah was inside. Just through those doors and down the aisle to the stage where they had once performed together. All the orchestra from Vienna. All of them like a family—she and Leah and Shimon and Rudy. The memory brought her no joy now. She shuddered as if the building were a tomb filled with ghosts.
Turning at the sound of the bell that warned of an approaching train, she ran back down the steps and deposited her coins to take the train back to the Left Bank.
***
“Murphy?” Elisa’s voice sounded so near. It was wonderful. Just what he had needed after a round with the hardcases and the cynics!
“Elisa! I’ve been to Prague already, seen your mother!”
“Oh, darling, what good news! I have needed to hear good news all day! This meeting between Hitler and Chamberlain seems so . . . scary. How are you? Is everything all right in Prague? Did you give Mother a hug for me?” A dam had burst inside her. She sounded so lonely for him, almost desperate—maybe as desperate as he felt to see her right now.
He laughed. “One thing at a time. Anna sent a hug back. She is single-handedly feeding half the refugees in Prague—of whom there are a legion.”
“Mother?” Elisa seemed astonished. “And Papa?”
“He is still in the Sudeten. With your brothers.”
This news was met with silence. Then, “Murphy, they will be all right. There won’t be a war. I know it.”
“Yeah,” he replied doubtfully. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
“Is everyone in Evian still fat and rich and satisfied?” she asked.
“All of the above. Except for me. Tomorrow is the big debate. Everyone is so calm about this—too calm. Not one word of the Darien. I guess there are not enough of them to worry about in the light of all the rest of this mess.”
“Oh, Murphy, talk to people. Tell them about it like you told me. They will listen. They will open up a small crack for the Darien to float through. And then soon everything will be right in Germany again—you will see. They will be able to go home again, and then we can go home too and be done with all of this.”
Murphy listened, bemused by her burst of optimism. She had not seen Prague. She had not understood the seriousness of Chamberlain’s visit to Hitler, after all. He sighed. He wished he could be so happily naive again.
The minutes of hurried conversation passed like one breath, and when Murphy hung up the receiver, he felt even more lonely than he had before. He was lonely for more than Elisa . . . he missed his own sense of innocence and hope. There was much he had lost over the years, and somehow he wanted to find it again here in Evian.
***
“Ha-van-a Cu-ba.” Maria pronounced their destination very clearly for the girls. Very precisely and properly.
“But, Mama,” Katrina protested. “First Mite Tucker says we should say, ’Av-an-er Cu-Ber.’ That’s the way he says it.”
Maria raised one eyebrow as she wondered what Bubbe would say about the Englishman’s mutilation of the English language. “Well, First Mate Tucker says a lot of things I would not want you to repeat. You must not drop the sound of the H. Havana, Cuba. That is where we will be tomorrow.”
Trudy sighed and sank down on the blanket beneath the tarp. Her pale skin was pink from the reflection of the sun on the water. Her lips were chapped and smeared with a greasy mixture Dr. Freund had found in the American supplies. Nearly everyone had become tender from the sun in the last week, and now the entire ship smelled of the pungent balm.
“Will we be able to get off the ship in Ha-van-a, Mama? Or will we still have to stay onboard? I would very much like to run on real ground again. Roll in the grass, even though it is not ladylike.” Trudy shaded her eyes and looked across the endless blue.
Maria held little Israel close; he sighed with contentment and smiled so that a drip of milk spilled from the corner of his mouth. Just a little piece of ground to rest on, Lord.
“I don’t know if that will be possible right away, Trudy,” Maria answered honestly. “But Captain Burton says that there are men trying very hard to help us now. Tonight we will hear the news from Evian where there are very wise and good men from all the nations working for a solution.”
Gretchen made a face. She was tired of hearing about wise and good men. She wanted to walk on real ground again. “I hope they let us off in ’avaner.”
“Havana,” Trudy corrected.
“Whatever.” Gretchen shrugged. “Tucker says we will all swagger like sailors when we get off the ship.”
“I don’t want to swagger,” Louise said softly, laying her head in Maria’s lap.
“I liked being a landlubber better,” agreed Katrina. Then she frowned. “But I do like everybody bein
g together. Will they take us all different places when they let us in?”
“Maybe they won’t let us in because we’re Jews,” said Gretchen.
“We’re only very little Jews,” Katrina said indignantly. “And little Israel is hardly a Jew at all!”
Maria turned her head away, grieved that her children had to grow up with such things on their minds. But here it was. And it was truth. Even very little Jews were not welcome in this world.
***
Perhaps only Adolf Hitler had guessed just how unwelcome even little Jews were to the world. Perhaps that is why he scoffed so openly when he heard of President Roosevelt’s refugee conference.
“We cannot take seriously President Roosevelt’s appeal to the nations as long as the United States maintains racial quotas for immigrants and as long as the quota for Jews remains unfilled. We see that the Americans like to pity the Jews as long as this pity can be used for agitation against Germany, but they are not prepared to accept a few hundred Jews into their country, let alone a few thousand! Thus, this conference will only serve to justify Germany’s policy against Jewry!”
Murphy listened to the latest radio tirade of Hitler in the lobby of the Hotel Royale, along with Johnson, Timmons, Amanda, and a dozen other familiar faces from the European Press Corps.
“THUS SPAKE DER FÜHRER!” Timmons shouted irreverently in the posh setting.
“And the conscience of the world stirreth not,” Johnson concluded, stirring his whiskey and soda with his finger.
Amanda, looking a bit more hardened over the months, sighed and gazed thoughtfully up at the gilded ceiling. “Well, here’s one for the record, fellows.” She smiled slyly. “I just heard that our glorious British representative asked the American representative to exclude both Golda Meir and Chaim Weitzmann from the meeting.”
Murphy leaned forward. This news was more than just the usual cynical wisecrack. “And?”
“They agreed. No one from the Jewish Agency of Palestine will be admitted or allowed to speak.”
Philkins stretched laconically and drawled in his southern accent, “That’s no surprise, Amanda, honey. Weitzmann would be calling for more Jews to come into Palestine. Like on Murphy’s pet freighter . . . the Darien? Why, nobody’s gonna let those folks in, especially not in Palestine, where the Arabs are rioting and blowing things up. You remember Cedric Taylor? He got himself posted over there in Jerusalem and broke the story when the blanket-heads crucified those British soldiers! How’d you like that for an assignment?”
“You’re a jerk, Philkins,” Timmons mumbled into his glass.
“Personally, I like this assignment just fine,” Philkins continued. “Nice hotels. Friendly natives. I plan on enjoying this story to the limit of my Hearst Publishing expense account!”
Amanda smiled sympathetically at Murphy, who seemed more troubled than the others by this latest development. “How did you get yourself involved with that ship, Johnny?” She exhaled with mock exasperation.
“It was a story. I fell into it.” He smoldered at the apathy of this exclusive little corner of the press.
Amanda smiled sadly as the sarcastic banter continued over their conversation. “Are you really expecting anything to get done here?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” he replied angrily.
She raised a hand in surrender. “Just asking, Johnny. No need to jump down my throat. But—” she hesitated, then tried again—“haven’t you noticed that this is exactly like every other conference we’ve ever covered at Geneva? Same players. A few different faces. Johnny, this is not going to be the great solution to all our problems, I’m afraid.”
“You’re all so cynical.”
“No. I’m a realist, Johnny, and so are you—usually.”
“What are we supposed to do, then? Sit back and let Hitler do what he wants? Talk about it? Deplore it? Then do nothing?”
Amanda shrugged again, a one-shoulder shrug that seemed to imply there might be something else that could be done. “As for me, I gave my press pass to Golda Meir, and arranged for Chaim Weitzmann to get in as observer.”
“Well, good. I mean, that’s nice of you, Amanda.”
“Not at all. I just don’t believe in the big show anymore. So I’m leaving for Prague after tomorrow’s session. That’s where the next phase of the refugee story will be played out, you know.”
Murphy sat silent and glum, affected by the hopeless cynicism around him. Could Hitler be right about everything? Was his heart so dark and evil that he could see himself reflected in the chilling apathy of all the world?
Amanda touched his arm and looked over his shoulder to where a small group of delegates chatted together near the elevators. “That fellow right there—” She nodded at a small Latin man dressed like a gangster in an Italian suit. “His name is Cabrillo. He is third assistant secretary of the Cuban foreign office,” she whispered. “He has his hand out for all sorts of bribes, I’m told.”
Murphy looked at her with a strange admiration. “How do you know such things?”
“I’m a newsman, remember? And my ex-husband knows him. Both are the sleazy types.” She flashed a broad smile. “If things do not go as you hope . . .” She paused as if to say she was certain they would not go well. Instead, she narrowed her eyes knowingly as she sized up the little Cuban official. “Maybe you should talk to Cabrillo. You would be amazed how a little money might help your ship come in, Murphy.”
37
A Candle of Hope
The distant lights of Miami glistened in a thin, bright line off the stern of the Darien. Tonight some onboard stared back at those lights with the sense that they would never see the shores of America again.
“That is the last of it,” said Aaron. Then he turned his eyes toward the cone of the speaker where the flat, banal tones of the radio broadcaster called the roll of Evian. And again Aaron said, “And there is the end of our hope.”
Once again the Holbein family sat at the base of the ventilation shaft. Klaus held baby Israel. Maria sat flanked by Trudy and Katrina. Gretchen and Louise lay on a blanket at Maria’s feet.
“Argentina, which has a population one-tenth that of the United States, has declared that it has opened the doors to nearly as many refugees as the United States and cannot be expected to take any more.”
“Mama,” Katrina asked, “does that mean we can’t go there?”
“Yes, darling. Shhh, now.”
“Australia, a continent of vast unpopulated areas, has likewise announced that since they have no real racial problems in their country, they do not wish to import one.”
“What is a race problem?” Trudy asked.
“Little Jews,” Katrina answered, only to be shushed again.
“Canada, Colombia, Uruguay and Venezuela have announced that their nations are interested only in the immigration of agricultural workers.”
“I picked apples once,” commented a friend of Aaron’s.
“The honorable delegate from Peru has given the example of U.S. prudence and caution as the reason his nation has such strict immigration restrictions. Peru has further stated that it is opposed to all classes of intellectuals such as doctors and lawyers, lest their social structure be disrupted.”
“Is that why they don’t want us in the United States? Too many doctors and teachers there, I wonder?”
“The British Colonial Empire, according to Sir John Shuckburgh, contains no territory suitable for the large-scale settlement of Jewish refugees.”
A racket of boos rose up from the Darien passengers. Chants of “Palestine! Palestine! Palestine!” drowned out the next few moments of the broadcast.
Then a hush came over the congregation as Shimon stood and shouted. “Be quiet! We’ve missed what he said about Cuba!”
“Cuba?”
“Cuber? Did he say something about Cuber?”
“Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, and Honduras have issued a joint statement saying that they would not accept merchants or intelle
ctuals.”
“That means everyone.”
“France, which has already absorbed two hundred thousand refugees and included three million aliens in its population, states that it has reached the limit of saturation.”
The list of nations progressed slowly and painfully for the nearly eight hundred Jews onboard the Darien. There were bright spots among the tedious roll call. The Netherlands and Denmark stated that they would, in spite of terrible overcrowding, continue to offer their countries for temporary sojourn. The United States promised that it would accept its full legal quota of Austrian and German immigrants. No more. No less.
If there is disappointment among these here on the Darien, Klaus thought as he looked up at the stars above them, how many millions of others have also waited in hope for an answer from the wise men of Evian? How many uncountable hearts tonight are despairing? How many have raised their voices to cry out, “Where shall I go? Oh, where shall I go?”
Were those numbers as many as the stars? Or as great as the sand on the shores? If they were as many as the stars, then perhaps only heaven would hold them now. And if they were as the sands, then surely the sea would draw them in and pull them forever away from the land and the light and the air. But of those millions, this family numbered only seven.
“I am only one grain of sand,” Klaus whispered to Maria as they slept side by side on the deck tonight. “And you are one bright star. And there—” He swept a hand over the children. “These orbit around you, so small, so bright. Can it be that there is no room for us?”
***
It was four in the morning. The sound of waves on the Miami breakwater was the most lively sound in the predawn darkness.
Three boats had been chartered by Trump Publishing. The largest was a seventy-foot fishing boat that carried cases of canned milk and fresh vegetables. The vessel set out ahead of the others, bound for Havana, where the cargo would be loaded onto the Darien.