by Bodie Thoene
How can I curse those whom God has not cursed?
How can I denounce
those whom the Lord has not denounced?
From the rocky peaks I see them,
from the heights I view them,
I see a people who live apart
and do not consider themselves
one of the nations.
Who can count the dust of Jacob
or number the fourth part of Israel?
Let me die the death of the righteous,
and may my end be like theirs!
The melody of those words filled her heart like music. For a moment, at least, she felt peace. There was much she would have to ask Papa about that passage. Could it be that from the heights God did not see a bundle of twigs in Israel, but a solid oak staff that would not bend beneath the weight of persecution, or break under the force of the stones that even now were hurled against this people called Israel?
God has made His walking stick out of brittle twigs, Rachel mused. But in the hand of God, even twigs can be strong.
15
The News Never Waits
“Where to, mate?” The taxi driver leaned his head far out the window and called to Samuel Orde. He seemed to be the only remaining taxi at London’s Victoria Station tonight.
Orde touched his fingers to the brim of his Panama hat and then climbed into the back of the vehicle without answering the question.
“I say,” tried the driver again, “where to?”
It had been a long time since Orde had given anyone the address of his London home. The last time he had been with Katie. They had ordered a new sofa for delivery to the house. Now the sofa was covered with a sheet, as was all the rest of the furniture. Dusty sheets and lonely rooms. Orde was not anxious to enter that place again.
“I say—” The cabbie looked concerned. “Do you parley English?”
“Yes. Sorry. It’s been some time since I’ve been here. For a moment the address—” He waved his hand as if he had forgotten. “Three Kings Yard—” Katie had loved the name of their street. “Between Claridge’s and Grosvenor Square. Do you know it?”
The taxi had already lurched into motion. “Number?”
“Twelve.” Orde looked out the window. All of London seemed asleep. There was hardly any traffic. He could see the reflection of the cab as it passed the showcase windows of the shops and hotels. Yes, London was asleep, and Orde was dreaming. He had been dreaming since the day Katie died. Between that moment and this, it seemed that no time at all had passed. He would go home to their house—to the wallpaper she had hung, the furniture she had picked out. The paintings. The carpets. The china and crystal wineglasses they had gotten on their wedding day. And surely Katie would be there, too, waiting for him to wake up. “Fresh strawberries and cream for breakfast, Sam. You’ve overslept. The sofa is coming today.” And then she would lean over to kiss him awake. She would tell him to shave and shower quickly because . . . because . . .
Orde shook his head. He tapped on the glass partition separating him from the driver. It had been a long time since he had seen the city, Orde explained, and perhaps it would be better to have a look at it while there was no traffic.
The cabbie shrugged in good-natured acquiescence. What did it matter to him if this passenger wanted to rack up unnecessary miles on the meter as long as he could pay for it? It did not occur to him to ask why a man who had been away so long would not be eager to arrive home. The real reason for Orde’s sudden urge for this late-night tour of the city was nothing Orde could have articulated even if someone had asked him.
Hyde Park. Marble Arch. Selfridge’s Department Store, where Katie had loved to shop. Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus. Once around Trafalgar Square and then back toward Buckingham Palace.
Everywhere Orde looked, sandbags were piled like lumpy pillows against the dark hulks of buildings. On the base of every monument, posted signs proclaimed Britain’s preparedness for whatever might come. These ominous reminders of the daily headlines finally drew Orde out of the melancholy memories of Katie and set him down squarely in the present. When Katie had died, Spain had not yet erupted. Germany had no army to speak of. Austria was still Austria, and there was the solid little democracy of Czechoslovakia in the heart of Europe.
There had been no sandbags in London when Katie left . . . .
Again Orde tapped on the window partition. “What is the date?” he asked the cabbie? “The year, I mean?”
With a quick, concerned glance in the rearview mirror, the cabbie answered, “1939.”
Orde nodded. “Right. You may drive me home now, if you please. No. 12. Three Kings Yard.”
***
London seemed quite awake now. The din of traffic along Fleet Street was deafening. Fumes of omnibuses and taxis threatened to choke the two horses pulling hansom cabs to St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Sam Orde double-checked his reflection in the window of a shop next to the London office of Trump European News. He frowned and smoothed the lapels of his ill-fitting tweed jacket. The shoulders were cut too narrow. It had been a year since he last wore it, and he had forgotten about the shoulders needing to be altered. The material of his suit was definitely out of season for such a warm month. But he had nothing else suitable to wear . . . with the possible exception of his Royal Army uniform. And, of course, as of midnight last night, Orde was a private citizen again.
Ah, well, perhaps Mr. Murphy would not notice the cut of Orde’s clothes. And if he did, maybe it would not matter.
Orde drew a deep breath of exhaust-filled air. He pulled himself erect and walked—not marched—to the entrance of TENS. Hand on the door, he peered through the glass at the commotion within. Everyone seemed to be up and milling about. The young woman at the switchboard stood leaning against the counter and laughing. Orde could distinctly hear the shouts and laughter of men and women. Some sort of party—at eight-thirty in the morning? Orde wondered if he should have called Mr. Murphy. Of course, Orde had no telephone at the house. It had been disconnected for years. And if he was really going to accept this position as a member of the TENS staff, there was no reason to have it connected again, was there?
Taking another deep breath, Orde wondered if the Warsaw position had been filled. He opened the door. A buzzer rang, announcing his entrance, but no one even looked his way. The air inside was more rank than the exhaust fumes outside. Cigar smoke! Every man in the place was puffing away on enormous Cuban stogies. The women among them did not seem to mind. At least not much.
Someone shouted to the receptionist. “Hey, Marjorie! Open the door! Prop open the blasted door! We’re all going to asphyxiate in here!”
Laughing, the receptionist brushed past Orde, who stood in the lobby. She did not notice him, did not speak to him as she propped the entry door open. Her face seemed perpetually frozen in a gleeful smile. Once the door was open, the noise of Fleet Street combined with the din of the group. The receptionist charged back past Orde as if he were a pillar rooted in the floor.
The swinging half door to her little cubicle slammed shut. She once again leaned against the counter to observe the celebration in the crowded newsroom beyond.
“I hope it doesn’t look like you, Murph!” shouted a man who sat on a cluttered desk.
“Nope, looks just like Elisa!” remarked a few whose pockets seemed to be jammed with the offending cigars. “Beautiful.”
“Ah come on, Murphy! I got three kids myself. Never saw one fresh out of the oven that didn’t look like it needed to bake awhile longer!” There was a great roar of approval at this truth.
“Nah” said the cigar man again. “I’m telling you . . . really now . . .” His hands rose up in innocence. “Beautiful. All the rest of them in the nursery look squashed in the face, but not our girl! Just like her mother!”
Wolf whistles rang out in reply.
“Watchit! Watchit!” warned the cigar man. “I’m a father now. A little respect from you mugs, if you don’t m
ind!”
Orde knew that he had walked into something wonderful. The rumpled-looking fellow thumped everyone on the back as he laughed, handed out cigars, and shouted back in joyful banter about his baby. His wife. Indeed, Orde had crashed a celebration—one that made his heart more than a little envious. That might have been me. He did not interrupt until someone spotted him hanging back.
“Hey, Murphy! There’s another one without a cee-gar!”
Three fellows charged through the swinging gate, and then Orde noticed that among the crowd was a policeman, a taxi driver, a chauffeur, and a man wearing a chef’s hat.
“Come on! Come on!” They grabbed Orde by his tweed suit and propelled him into the newsroom until he stood face-to-face with the new father.
With a cigar clutched between his teeth, the father pulled another cigar from his jacket pocket. “Congratulate me, pardner. I am the proud father of a seven-pound, eight-ounce baby girl. Mother is doing swell.” He handed Orde the cigar. “In honor of Katherine Anna Murphy!” He flicked the match with his thumb, sparking the flame to life and touching it to the top of the stogie.
So this is the boss, Orde thought, accepting the ritual offering. Not bad tobacco. Orde sized up the chap who might well be his employer. He liked him immediately. “Congratulations,” he saluted lightly. “And may I ask if the father of Katherine Anna—”
“Katie! Katie, we decided. She’s too little for all that Katherine. We just named her after my mother and Elisa’s mother, but she looks like a Katie to me.”
A slight twinge shot through Orde. A well-loved name: Katie. “Very well, then. Katie’s father wouldn’t happen to be John Murphy?”
“The same.” Murphy raised his hands like a soccer player who had just made a goal. Great cheering rose up from the impromptu guests and regulars in attendance. “I’m not asking anyone’s name,” Murphy said through his cigar, “because I won’t remember it.”
“All the same, I am Samuel Orde.” Orde presented the crumpled telegram to Murphy. “I believe you wished me to see you about a position?”
***
Like smoke after a Fourth of July fireworks display, a blue cigar haze still hung over the newsroom of London TENS. Heads were bowed over Olivetti keyboards. Crumpled paper overflowed metal trash cans beside each desk. The news could not wait just because John Murphy had become a father last night. And with the one exception of a baby girl named Katie, none of the news was good this morning.
Murphy’s face still held a lopsided grin. For him the good news was too good to be tarnished by the latest horror story from Nazi-occupied Prague. Even as he explained to Sam Orde the gravity of the situation in Warsaw, the half smile did not vanish. The distant clatter of typewriters penetrated the glass-enclosed office like the faraway popping of rifle fire.
Murphy passed the latest wire dispatch across the desk. One thousand Czech citizens had been arrested and thrown into prison in retaliation for the killing of a Nazi policeman last night. German troops were reported on the move across Czech territory toward the border of Poland.
“I am convinced Warsaw is the next target,” Murphy said. “And that you are the right man to have in place when it finally breaks.” He paused, still smiling. “What I can’t figure is which way Russia is going to jump in this.” The grin finally wavered and faded. “There are a number of men in Parliament who have been trying to form an alliance with Stalin. Warsaw won’t have any of it, of course.”
“Certainly not. Warsaw dare not make an alliance with Russia for fear that an invasion by Germany would be an invitation for Russia to flood across Poland to fight the Germans. And maybe Staling might take a liking to Warsaw and never leave.”
Murphy seemed pleased by Orde’s reply. He had grasped the essence of all Polish foreign policy; straddle a very high fence, and hope the Russians or the Germans did not climb over it. The fear that Murphy had shared with Winston Churchill was that Stalin and Hitler might simply advance to that center line through the heart of Poland, and divide the nation between them.
“Do you think Germany will attempt an alliance with Moscow?”
“In order to divide up Poland,” Orde said flatly. Then he nodded. “Here in England the politicians say it cannot happen. And I am certain that the German people would be appalled by such a prospect. Hitler has built his support on a platform of fear about Communist Russia.” He frowned and picked at the lint on his trouser leg. “But I cannot see any other way for Hitler to make good his threat about invading Poland. From a military point of view—”
Murphy leaned forward, urging Orde to continue. This was just the sort of insight he had hoped for from this man. “Go on. And once it happens, I’ll print it.”
“Hitler will not risk invading Poland if it means he must fight the West and Soviet Russia at once. Certainly Stalin will not sit back and allow the German divisions to sweep right up to his borders.”
“And?”
“And so, Hitler must have some sort of . . . agreement . . . with Stalin. Perhaps a nonaggression pact of the sort he was with Italy. If that happens, then war is a certainty.”
“What do you see standing in the way?”
“Hardly anything at all.” Orde shrugged. “Prime Minister Chamberlain resists any alliance with the Russians. The Poles remain on their high wire, hoping that the breeze will not blow. And Hitler is looking eastward, considering how the devil may best make a pact with the bear.”
“You have been paying attention while you were in Palestine, Captain Orde,” Murphy said, genuinely impressed.
“What is happening in Palestine is very much linked to what is happening in Europe. Only a political moron would not see that.” He paused. “Just call me Orde, if you please. Or Samuel.”
“All right then. If you will call me Murphy.” He reached across the desk to shake hands with a man he considered to be the finest TENS political reporter in all of Europe. Orde had recited the same political scenario that Murphy had heard from Winston Churchill over prime rib and Yorkshire pudding last month. Churchill was seldom wrong in his foresight of coming events.
“When do I begin?” Orde asked, looking around as though a steamer ticket had already been purchased.
“I thought, if you accepted the post, that you might want a bit of time in London to relax.”
“I find after one night at home that I am more relaxed elsewhere. I will be ready to leave as soon as arrangements—”
Just then Harvey Terrill banged once on the glass door and then poked his head in the office. “Sorry, Boss. It’s a trunk call all the way from Danzig. Some little girl . . . your cousin? Elisa’s cousin? She speaks pretty good English. Says she tried to get through on the home lines and nobody answers. Collect call. I accepted.”
Murphy nodded. The smile reappeared. It had to be Lori, reporting in on the news about their visas. “Sweet kid,” Murphy said aloud and then, “Hullo?”
Today the sweet kid was anything but sweet. Anything but calm. Lori related to Murphy the sad tale of Jacob Kalner’s rejection by the embassy official. She barely noticed when Murphy told her that the reason no one was home was because Elisa had just delivered a baby. She did not ask if the baby was a boy or girl.
“If Jacob does not come to England, then you must explain to my mother that I am not going either!” Lori insisted.
“Wait a minute!”
“I mean what I am saying! He cannot be left in this place alone. Danzig is not a place where anyone should be alone. I will stay here with him until we can figure out another plan. But the boys will come ahead. Tell my mother these things.”
She rambled on, her voice betraying her emotional distress. She was not thinking clearly, not weighing the consequence of her turning down a visa. Likely there would be no more offered to her.
Murphy covered the mouthpiece as she talked. “Orde. We’ve got a situation here . . .” Lori’s voice rose to a soprano of near-hysteria, and he simply spoke over her. “I’d like to give you an assistant. Pu
t him on the payroll. He’s seventeen. Jewish. In Danzig now. I can have him meet you. Messenger boy, valet, if you like. He speaks German almost exclusively, so the language might be a problem, but—”
Orde could hear every word of Lori Ibsen’s long recitation. Within a moment he had a clear grasp of the desperate situation. “I have had seventeen-year-old recruits beside me in trenches before. Often they fight as well as men with ten years on them.” He waved a hand. “Tell the girl . . . her chap will be well managed until we can get him to England.” Orde smiled. He was still the captain of a very small troop.
***
Within thirty minutes Victoria Station would be packed with London commuters. It was still only half full when Allan Farrell passed through the main entrance.
Today he looked more like Maureen than himself, he though as he caught his own reflection in the glass of the doors. He had shaved twice, put on the clothes and shoes of a woman, and then a touch of lip rouge and powder to complete the effect. He covered his hair with a wide-brimmed hat and veil. His slim, small-boned structure lent itself well to such a disguise. He carried a large shopping basket and a handbag containing cigarettes and matches, along with a handful of change.
His destination was neither ticket kiosk nor train. He moved rapidly across the echoing terminal to the ladies’ lavatory. Without hesitation, he entered, walking quickly past a handful of women at the sinks. Two primped before the mirror, fixing their hair and makeup. Allan did not let himself think of their fate if they lingered too long in the ladies’ room.