Against the Wind

by Bodie Thoene

  “We can’t have you performin’ in rags.” Mariah covered my eyes with her hands.

  “What? What are you two up to?” I laughed.

  “Steady, now!” Mariah removed her hands to reveal a half-dozen dresses on display.

  “What’s this?”

  Raquel explained, “We brought them for you to borrow. Whatever you want, eh?”

  “Whatever fits,” Mariah agreed proudly. “And not very out of fashion. Hardly out of date at all. Not like the dreary rag you’re wearin’ now.”

  Three dresses each made up the entire apparel of Mariah and Raquel. My friends also offered an extra pair of shoes to me as well. They had literally laid everything they owned at my feet.

  The rehearsal went on without me as I tried on every item and received an honest critique of my improved appearance. I chose one modest navy blue day dress with a white collar from Mariah and one bright red dress, suitable to wear to the cinema, from Raquel. The shoes did not fit, so I remained shod in stolid black pumps that had been out of style for ten years.

  That evening I wore Raquel’s red dress to meet Murphy at Simpson’s.

  He took one look at me and said, “You look like a million bucks, you know that? Let’s celebrate.”

  We ordered Simpson’s famous roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, costing the handsome sum of two dollars a plate. Then Murphy hailed a cab, and we rode through the blackout and the storm to our temporary quarters in the dreariest boardinghouse in London.

  Even in the darkness I could see that the place was scorched from the near miss of a German bomb. Windows were boarded up. Our room was on the second floor, reached by climbing leaning stairs that groaned with every footstep.

  Murphy threw open the door. A single lightbulb hung from a wire above the bed. “It ain’t the Savoy, but it’s got four walls and we can sleep together.”

  Rain sluiced from the eaves. A dark water stain spread across the ceiling plaster, and drips clanged musically into a tin pot on the floor.

  “I’m glad for the storm, Murphy.” I turned and raised my face to his. “The planes won’t come tonight, will they?”

  His eyes devoured me hungrily. “It seems like…it’s been awhile, Elisa.”

  For the first time in weeks, we made love without fear of interruption.

  Mindful of the other boarders behind paper-thin walls, I was grateful for the drumming torrent of rain.

  We had lost everything. Again and again I found myself wearing borrowed clothes and wondering where I would be sleeping. Yet a sense of contentment settled over me as I drowsed in Murphy’s arms. That night I did not dream of funerals or farewells to dear friends. I saw no visions of the marching ranks of Hitler Youth or of German U-boats pursuing my loved ones. I did not hear Jewish children crying out for me to save them.

  The pelting of raindrops sang a sweet lullaby. My little ones were with their grandparents now…safe…safe…safe on the far side of the world!

  I awakened before dawn when the rain stopped suddenly. I traced Murphy’s features as he slept beside me, then awakened him with a kiss. I knew, through every loss, I was home as long as we were together.

  Beneath the flaking plaster of the dismal little room, we made love again sweetly, as if there was no war. As if the Dorniers were not, even then, starting their engines and lining up for takeoff on the runways of conquered France.

  Hear, O LORD, when I cry with my voice: have mercy also upon me, and answer me.

  PSALM 27:7 KJV

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  DECEMBER 28, 1936

  My only prayer when I step off the train and hurry home to the flat I share with cellist Leah Feldstein is that there will be some word that Papa is safe.

  Leah meets me at the door and tells me the American John Murphy has come looking for me. I think perhaps he has news of Papa. Leah tells me Mr. Murphy is staying at the Sacher Hotel. I go there alone to see him.

  In the taxi I convince myself Mr. Murphy has somehow arranged for Papa’s freedom, that my father will be at the hotel waiting for me.

  I am crushed when Mr. Murphy tells me I am wrong. I try to stay composed, but I know I am a mess. Tears run down my cheeks and my heart pounds.

  Then things get even worse. Mr. Murphy prepares himself to deliver unsettling news. He has seen my father.

  My brave Papa has stolen a plane and flown out of Templehof Airport in a terrible wintry storm. Mr. Murphy says he helped with the escape.

  No one knows where Papa is now…or even if he survived the flight.

  He must be alive! He must! I won’t believe anything else.

  Mr. Murphy says my father wants me out of Vienna—out of Austria altogether. I don’t believe him. I don’t believe Papa ever said that!

  We have a terrible argument. I say I will not leave unless there is no more Austria.

  Mister American-Knows-Everything Murphy says Hitler is coming to the Ringstrasse. Get all the Jews out of Austria, he says.

  I thank him for his concern. He stops me from leaving by asking about our holiday concerts. I tell him all the tickets are sold. Try again next year.

  If there is a next year, he says.

  I return home and tell Leah everything that has happened. She is not surprised. I think she agrees with Mr. Murphy that Hitler will enter Austria and do to the democracy here what he has done in Germany. Leah and her fiancé, Shimon, are trying to get visas to Eretz-Israel. It is the only place left for a Jew, she says.

  6

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  SUMMER 1940

  The women’s dressing room at the BBC studio was littered with copies of Picturegoer magazine. We aspiring performers studied the hairdos of rich and famous Hollywood stars. We imitated the fashions and mannerisms of our American idols in preparation for our performances in hospital wards.

  After a full morning of broadcasts, Mariah, Raquel, and I were set to entertain at the Children’s Hospital. We had an hour for lunch. I carried my violin case into a teashop, where I met Mariah and Raquel at a table in the crowded room. I noticed red-haired Mariah being carefully scrutinized by a trio of women.

  A copy of Picturegoer Film Weekly was open in the onlookers’ hands.

  The women twittered among themselves.

  “I know it’s her!”

  “Oh, can’t be!”

  “Herself? Here on Oxford Street?”

  “Just looks like her.”

  I glanced at the magazine cover, and the lovely face of twenty-year-old Maureen O’Hara smiled at the world. I had noted on occasion that our Mariah really did bear an uncanny resemblance to the Irish beauty. I said softly, “Mariah, they think you’re Maureen O’Hara.”

  One of the fans exclaimed to the rest of her group, “No! It IS her!”

  “But she’s Irish. What would Maureen O’Hara be doing in London during the Blitz?”

  “Maybe making a fillum?”

  “But who are those other two with her?”

  Raquel leaned close to Mariah. “If you’re Maureen O’Hara, who am I?”

  The movie fans approached us timidly, shoving one another forward, nudging the boldest among them to speak first. “Pardon, Miss…Miss O’Hara, is it? May we have your autograph?”

  Mariah beamed up at them, playing her scene to the hilt. She took out her pen and graciously signed the copy of Film Weekly. “Lovely to meet you.”

  “Oh, thank you!” one of the fans gushed. “I loved you in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  “Thank you, Miss O’Hara!” A small, excited crowd of shoppers began to gather. The trio showed the freshly inked autograph to others.

  “Maureen O’Hara!”

  “Look! It’s HER!”

  “See! I told you it was herself!”

  “And who are those women with her, then? They can’t be just nobody. That one there.” A young teen pointed at Raquel. “It’s Carmen Miranda.”

  Raquel gave a quick grin, a wink, and a tiny wave as if she was embarrassed to be found out-and-about w
ithout her tuttifrutti hat.

  “But who’s the other one? The blond with the violin?”

  I whispered to Mariah, “Quick, who am I?”

  Someone in the crowd piped, “Did you hear that voice? that accent? It’s Hedy Lamarr! I’d recognize her voice anywhere, I would! She’s from Vienna. That accent. Oy! Hedy Lamarr, it is!”

  Someone argued, “Hedy Lamarr ain’t a blond.”

  Another exclaimed, “You never heard of hair dye? In Hollywood they dye their hair to avoid being sussed out.”

  Mariah winked at me. “Sure, Elisa, you’re Hedy Lamarr. Go for it.”

  Suddenly a long line formed out the door of the teashop as word swept through Oxford Street that Maureen O’Hara, Carmen Miranda, and Hedy Lamarr were using their ration coupons to have a scone and a cuppa tea right there in the neighborhood.

  The questions began:

  “Oh, Miss Lamarr! I saw you in Algiers!”

  “Miss Lamarr! What do you think of that Frenchman, Charles Boyer?”

  “Ain’t he just dreamy?”

  “Did you really go with him to the cazzbah?”

  “What is a cazzbah, anyway?”

  Scraps of paper and film adverts from the newspapers materialized, and we began to sign autographs.

  BEST WISHES…Hedy Lamarr

  More questions tumbled out.

  “If you’re Carmen Miranda, where’s your fruit-bowl hat?”

  Raquel pounced on the answer with an exaggerated Latin accent, “You know how many ration coupons it weel take to buy even one banana to wear in my hair in Lohn-deen?”

  A roar of laughter and applause replied.

  An elderly woman shouted, “Whatcha doin’ in London?”

  I answered truthfully in my legitimate Viennese accent, “Performing on the BBC, and irritating Herr Hitler.” As proof, I produced our BBC performance schedule with broadcast time slots circled. “Incognito, of course.”

  From the back of the crowd I heard a familiar voice shout, “Play your violin for us, Hedy!”

  I spotted Murphy’s fedora waving above the mob. We were caught.

  I heard an incredulous Cockney voice cry, “’Eddy Lamarr plays fiddle?”

  Murphy replied, “She’s from Vienna, isn’t she? Haven’t you ever heard of the ‘Viennese Waltz’?”

  Another confirmed it. “Of course all of ’em plays the fiddle. From wee tykes. I read about it in Picturegoer. Stands to reason ’Eddy Lamarr plays the fiddle.”

  In an instant everyone began to clamor for a performance. Maureen O’Hara must sing. Carmen Miranda must dance. And Hedy Lamarr must uncork her fiddle and let everyone hear her play in public for the first time ever.

  We performed the same show we had planned for our visit to the Children’s Hospital ward and, as Murphy said, “We wowed ’em!”

  I do not know how many shoppers saw us perform that afternoon—somewhere in the hundreds. We had to move outside the teashop for the sake of our impromptu audience. The applause was deafening, and the crowds spilled out onto Oxford Street, stopping traffic. A London bobby rerouted cars and buses.

  After thirty minutes, Murphy pushed through the mob, introduced himself as our manager, and said he had come to escort us to the Children’s Hospital for our scheduled engagement. As we stepped into the taxi, the good cheer among the Oxford Street shoppers was palpable. They compared autographs and scurried home to tell their neighbors about the chance encounter with Maureen, Carmen, and Hedy.

  The cabdriver also got autographs of the famous Hollywood film stars and declined to accept a tip because he was so honored to drive such esteemed ladies of the stage and screen.

  Someone snapped a photo of the three of us and, though fuzzy and a bit indistinct, the faces of Maureen, Carmen, and Hedy made the entertainment page of the Times. The caption read: “Delicious even without the tutti-frutti hat!”

  I do believe we humble BBC performers did a lot that day to promote the UK careers of those three beautiful film stars. The children whom we visited in the hospital did not care what our true names might be. They just enjoyed the show.

  The Times also reported that several children born in London that week were christened with our adopted names. These unsuspecting newborns included a boy burdened with “Hedley” and one set of triplets.

  Teach me Your way, O LORD, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies. Give me not up to the will of my adversaries…. I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living!

  PSALM 27:11–13 ESV

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  CORONATION OF KING GEORGE VI

  MAY 18, 1937

  England is the land of the living. Churchill says the English are still free and unafraid of the Nazis. He challenges the government to stand up to Herr Hitler.

  I travel from Vienna with Leah and the Viennese Chamber Orchestra to perform at the garden party at Buckingham Palace for the coronation of King George VI. Last December in Berlin, Lori and Loralei and I were swept up with the romance when King Edward gave up his throne to marry a commoner. I find I am no longer so impressed by the love story as the world becomes more violent and uncertain. Now my heart is moved by the duty and courage of George, the brother next in line to wear the English crown his brother scorned.

  Among the international press corps at the coronation festivities I see John Murphy again, but only briefly. He tells me he has been in Spain and seen with his own eyes the strafing of women and children by German fighter planes. He takes my hands in his and searches my face tenderly. I feel a stirring for this ruggedly handsome American. He asks about Papa, and when I tell him there is no news about my father, he says I would be smart to stay in London and never go back to Vienna.

  Leah and I also perform Bach with the string quartet on the BBC, and the broadcast director asks if I might like to return to London and join their orchestra. I answer that so many musicians are leaving the continent that I may be one of the few left in Vienna. I had seen him speak to John Murphy and suspect Murphy has put him up to inviting me.

  Leah takes me to a private meeting of Christian Zionists and the Jewish Agency as they discuss how best to get Jewish children out of the path of danger. And not Jews only, but gypsies, who are the new target.

  Eben Golah, dear friend of my father, is among those at the meeting, and remembers me from Christmas at our home in Berlin. He tells me he continues to make inquiries about my father. He says he prays for all my family as they stand firm against the Reich, but he also says I must consider moving to London. Leah speaks to him about Shimon and herself and their hope to get visas to British Palestine. Eben promises he will do what he can. He asks me to consider escorting Jewish refugee children out of harm’s way. I tell him I will do what I can.

  The great surprise for me is meeting Mama for tea at the Savoy. She has come all the way from Prague for the coronation festivities and to hear me play. She says that she feels strongly she will come to England soon unless there is word about Papa. I am saddened by this. I ask, can we not stand our ground against the Nazis?

  Mama says they are stealing the ground inch by inch from under all that is holy, and that we must not be fools and remain where there is danger.

  That night I tell Leah I feel I have been running away my whole life. I will return to Vienna and play out the season while we pray the Nazis will honor Austrian sovereignty.

  7

  LONDON BLITZ

  SUMMER 1940

  I had come to believe the words of Psalm 91: “A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.”3

  In the midst of danger, my heart was at peace in the belief that every step I took was ordered by the Lord. When I rose in the morning and lay down at night, I asked God to keep me and my loved ones within the palm of His hand.

  Lori Kalner, her heart broken, wrote me often from Wales, where she recuperated with the help of my mother’s loving care.

  Day and night,
the Luftwaffe reduced whole city blocks of London to rubble by their relentless pounding. As the numbers of dead and wounded grew, so did the numbers of us who were left homeless.

  I made the Evensong service at Westminster Abbey a part of my daily worship. It was at the Abbey, during one such air raid, when I first was officially introduced to seven-year-old Connor and the choirboys I came to know as “The Four Apostles.” I could not have imagined that afternoon how intertwined our lives would become through tragedy.

  The warning siren blared as Murphy and I left the service at the thousand-year-old church and began to walk back toward our boardinghouse.

  Murphy pointed skyward where the first rank of Luftwaffe fighters preceded the bombers. High above the greenswards of London, in a sort of imitation of medieval jousts, outnumbered RAF Spitfire pilots engaged in combat against swarms of German planes.

  Murphy and I paused to watch the life-and-death drama played out among mountainous clouds. A Spitfire dove out of the high reaches directly toward a German Messerschmitt. They seemed destined for a head-on collision.

  I shut my eyes. When I opened them again the ME-109 was limping away eastward, trailing a plume of white vapor.

  “Coolant,” Murphy said knowledgeably. “Got him! Bet he’ll have to bail out over the Channel. Go on, boys, give it to them!” My husband shook himself as if suddenly recollecting that we were in danger. “We’ve only got moments before the Dorniers arrive,” he remarked. “There’s a shelter in the Abbey crypt.” Murphy took my arm, and we hurried back into the ancient house of worship.

  SHELTER THIS WAY. The fresh yellow paint was stenciled on the venerable stone blocks of the ancient church. It seemed altogether right to me that we would take refuge in this place. The Abbey had been a spiritual refuge since a monastery had been established there in the seventh century.

  A Thames fisherman had a vision of St. Peter on the north bank of the river. This was the spot where the Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster was established. Over the centuries it had been expanded and remodeled. Kings and queens, poets and playwrights were buried there. It was a magnificent edifice in which the sound of angelic voices rose to the vaulted ceilings.