by Bodie Thoene
“And what do you want in return?”
“You need not deny that you have access to important information from the Reich. If you did not, President Beneš would be dead.”
“All right, then—”
“We need you to help us reestablish our link from this side.”
“In exchange for passports, safety for my family.”
“That seems like a fair price.”
“And for that, the payment?”
“A simple matter of crossing the Channel to Paris. Contacting von Kleistmann. Forging a vital link.”
And so it comes full circle, Elisa thought as she replayed the events of the last few weeks. She was to meet Thomas once again and now she would be bartering for visas for Theo and Anna, Dieter and Wilhelm.
“When will you let me have the passports?” she asked quietly.
“We must be certain now that Thomas von Kleistmann is not the one who arranged for Le Morthomme’s murder. If that is the case, your duty is simply to report back here to me and to introduce him to his new contact in Paris—provided he is willing to continue on with us.”
“What about Murphy?”
“He will have to console himself without you for a while, I’m afraid. We have sent him wires already. You have a touch of influenza and are unable to travel right away. We can keep the hound at bay for a few weeks if you will write him a little note. Tell him you miss him. You are anxious to see him.”
Elisa pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. She did miss him. Terribly. She was anxious to see him. “What about my own passport? Invalid, you said.”
“We might arrange something. Of course, you will want to arrange for a proper wedding. Or perhaps you will not. Few people have opportunity of making that choice twice.” He tried to be amusing, but his comment only drove Elisa to a sullen silence.
She had no choice at all. Not about anything. She had the strong feeling that her parents had been denied American visas for the sole purpose of giving Tedrick some control over her. She could understand why they had used the methods they had to separate her from Murphy. If he had gotten wind of any of it, it would have been plastered on the front page of every newspaper, and her photograph would have been sitting on the desks of Himmler and Goebbels in Berlin. She would never have been able to go to Thomas in Paris. Yes, she understood their game plan, but she could not forgive them for it.
“It seems that after checking on my qualifications—” she paused—“you have found me up to the job. Even if it is something I want no part of.”
“You were part of it months ago.” He tapped the violin case. “We cannot let such talent escape so easily.”
“I am forced to agree with you. Except that—forgive me if I seem to have run out of trust—I want passports for my family before I leave for Paris.”
“Agreed.” Now Tedrick sat back against the plush seat. He sighed as though a great weight had been taken off his mind.
22
Shark Bait
Georg Wand carried the false passport of an Austrian Jew named Krepps and a forged British visa made out to the same name. Such identification placed him above suspicion as a Gestapo agent when he entered England.
A quick phone call from Heathrow verified his accommodations at the Savoy. Within the hour he sat in the posh lobby of the hotel and read a paper as a parade of humanity passed by. Assignments like this made his ordinary appearance an asset. He simply blended in.
Sooner or later, he reasoned, if Elisa Murphy were indeed at the Savoy, she would pass through this lobby. She would not notice him, either. A woman of such great beauty looked at a man like Georg only in pity because he was alone and likely to remain that way. He had found that such emotions in women often worked to his advantage. How surprised those women had been when they had found that Georg was so different than they had imagined! When their pity and revulsion turned to fear, he found his greatest sense of fulfillment.
He absently patted the coat pocket containing his passport. He would present himself as a Jewish refugee to Elisa Murphy. Her file indicated clearly that she had sympathy for the Jews. He would tell her that his wife had been detained. She would listen to his story and her heart would go out to him. Such a fragile, innocuous man! She would greet him each day in the lobby. She would tell him when she was due to leave, where she was going, when she would be back. They would be friends—and how surprised she would be when she discovered the truth!
***
The first glimpse of America was not the Statue of Liberty, but a place called Sandy Hook Lighthouse. The waters around this beacon were filled with boats of all sizes that had sailed from New York Harbor to greet the Queen Mary.
The great whistles of the Queen bellowed a greeting that could be heard for ten miles. Charles put a hand to his chest as he felt the vibration from the sound. Instantly hundreds of other ships’ whistles responded, creating an unending racket. Fishing boats, yachts, sailboats, and tugs tied their whistles open as the New York Harbor pilot boarded the Queen to navigate her into port.
From their place beside the rail at the bow, Murphy could see a flock of newsmen and photographers. A trip from Southampton to New York in four days was a feat to earn the Queen Mary a slot on the front page. She had beat the best time of the Normandie, the French liner, by more than two hours . . . in spite of the North Atlantic fog.
As the Statue of Liberty came into full view, many of the passengers raised their arms to mimic hers. Murphy, the wind stinging his eyes, stood silent. A thousand times he had imagined this moment, imagined Elisa at his side. He had wanted her first view of the Lady to be with him. Lost in self-pity, he then glimpsed the face of Bubbe Rosenfelt. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Suddenly, as he recalled the insistence of Secretary Ickes that any plan to settle Jewish refugees would take time, the smallness of his own disappointment became quite clear. If the Darien did indeed come to New York Harbor, Murphy had little doubt that it would be turned away. At least when Elisa arrived, there would be no question that she could stay.
Did the old woman have any sense of the tidal wave of laws and red tape in which the refugees onboard the Darien might drown? Murphy touched her lightly on the shoulder. She stubbornly brushed away her tears and raised her chin. “My family will be here soon!” she shouted above the din. “They will come there—” she pointed to Ellis Island to show Charles—“That is where my family first came to America. Thousands every day streamed from the little ships. No money. Nothing but their hands and their backs, Charles. But see how they have made America blossom!” She swept her hand across the panorama of giant skyscrapers. The buildings of Manhattan sprouted up like giant rows of corn. All this had flourished from the seeds of dreams, from the visions of children who had come with the huddled masses to create something from the poverty of their lives.
“There is still room,” Murphy muttered. He could not even hear his own voice in the wailing of the whistles. It did not matter. He knew that refugees from a hundred freighters like the Darien could be absorbed into American cities and hardly anyone would notice. Oy! Another man is coming to shul for prayers every morning! His wife and children seem like nice people. She bought pickles from Izzy yesterday!
Holding tightly to Charles’ hand, Bubbe Rosenfelt stared at the upraised torch of Liberty and then began to point out landmarks and buildings from among the craggy peaks of Manhattan. All the while she wept unashamedly with joy and hope that very soon she would be pointing out the same sights to her family.
Crowded pleasure steamers were crammed with sightseers who snapped pictures of the Queen and waved handkerchiefs as the great liner passed by. The Darien would take at least another week to reach New York. One week would give Murphy time enough to write a few stories, publish a few facts that might turn public opinion in the right direction.
***
The docks of Cunard Lines, Pier 90, were crammed with reporters from every major newspaper chain. The tall chain-link fence separated arriving pas
sengers from friends and relatives until baggage had been searched and duties declared. Murphy did not suspect that a reception committee was there to greet him and Charles, organized by Trump Publications.
Inside the customs house, a battalion of officers pawed through thousands of suitcases and steamer trunks and handbags while the impatient journalists clamored for Murphy and “the kid” outside.
Eddie Cantor, Harold Ickes, even Henry Ford with his Nazi medal, held little interest compared to the little boy who had lost his parents and had escaped from beneath the noses of the Nazis who had killed his father. The Gestapo had made a big mistake rubbing out Walter Kronenberger in the offices of the International News Service. The arrival of the dead man’s son in New York was just the kind of human interest story that old man Trump figured would double the sales of his newspapers.
Bubbe and Charles sat quietly on one of the long wooden benches that lined the inside of the enormous room. Murphy and a black porter wrested the baggage to one of the officers who sat behind a marble counter. The man glanced at Murphy’s passport and then at those of Charles and Bubbe Rosenfelt. He smiled.
“Oh! So you’re the fella they’re all after. I thought they’d be here to interview the captain after Queen Mary broke the record. Or maybe to interview Ford or Cantor or . . . that government man. But you’re the bigwig of the hour. You and that kid.”
“What?”
“Fifty guys out there—all want a picture of the little boy with the harelip.” The customs man tapped Charles’s passport and visa papers. “Big news, I guess. ’Course, you oughta know. You’re a newsman too, huh? Your boss is out there. Mr. Trump himself. Asked if we could move you through in a hurry so they could talk to the kid about his folks being killed.”
Murphy grimaced. Talk to Charles? Take his picture? Plaster his face all over the front page before surgery? The child was not a circus sideshow freak.
The customs officer did not bother to search the luggage; he stamped Murphy’s documents and waved him through. “Your public awaits,” the officer said with a grin.
Murphy stepped away from the counter and doubled back to Charles and Bubbe. He slipped the old woman her papers and Charles’s visa. “Look,” he said in a low voice. “Half the press corps in New York is out there waiting for Charles. It’s nothing the kid needs right now. Those guys are a mob. They would interview their dying grandmother if it would make a story.” He glanced back toward the doors that led to the lobby.
Murphy paused and exhaled loudly, remembering the fiasco when he had left Charles in the playroom on the Queen Mary. He was growing fond of the boy—almost as if Charles were his own son. He didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to subject him to any danger. They were in America, after all. What could happen to a child and an old lady in New York City? And the decision had to be made now. “We’ve got a suite at the Plaza Hotel, across from Central Park. I’ll meet you there with your luggage, and then—”
Bubbe wrapped her arm protectively around Charles. “Would you like to go in a real New York taxi with me?” she asked cheerfully. Murphy didn’t need to say any more.
“Uh-huh,” came the muffled reply.
“Okay. I hate to leave you, kiddo, but I think it’ll be best.” Murphy patted his knee. “I’ll meet you at the Plaza Hotel.” He slipped a twenty-dollar bill into Bubbe’s hand. “Give me five minutes, then make a run for it.” He winked and gave Charles the thumbs-up sign, then slipped out through the crowd of departing Queen Mary passengers to pull the hounds from the scent.
***
“The Plaza Hotel, you say?” the round-faced businessman smiled pleasantly at Mrs. Rosenfelt from the bench at the taxi stand. “That’s my hotel also.” He tossed his suitcase into the taxi. “A pity for you to wait here. Would you care to share the cab with me? Split the fare?”
Bubbe started to refuse, then looked over her shoulder toward the doors of the customs house. Any minute a hoard of reporters would storm through those doors and engulf her and Charles. Murphy could hold them back only so long.
“Such a gentleman!” She herded Charles to the car. “Our luggage will be along. Yes. A friend is bringing—” The sound of voices echoed from behind. Bubbe nudged Charles hard into the rear seat.
“Come on, Murphy! You gonna keep the story all to yourself?”
“Where’s the kid?”
“We just want to ask him a few questions! Get his picture!”
“And where’s that old lady? The one with kids on the coffin ship! Level with us, Murphy—you made it all up, huh? Nuthin’ to do on the ship, so you’ve taken to writin’ fiction!”
“Mr. Trump ain’t gonna like this, Murphy!”
The plump businessman climbed in after Bubbe and slammed the door. “Celebrities.” He jerked a thumb at the mob trailing Murphy.
Bubbe pretended not to notice the clamor sweeping across the sidewalk. She smiled wanly and drew a deep breath. “So. New York.”
The taxi lurched into traffic. The real world. Cabs and government cars. Freight trucks coming and going from a hundred piers. Smokestacks of other liners blocking out the sun on one side, while towering buildings hid the sky on the other.
Bubbe was thankful that their fellow passenger seemed quite uninterested in small talk. He scanned a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal like a hungry man needing nourishment. Bubbe whispered explanations of landmarks and city sights to Charles, who gaped with wide-eyed fascination.
The journey from the piers to the Plaza Hotel seemed surprisingly quick. But when the entrance of the hotel came into view, Bubbe saw they had not escaped quickly enough. She could tell the press corps by their cameras. Pencils behind ears. Notebooks in pockets. Crushed fedoras pushed back on curious heads. They were waiting like vultures squawking and cawing among themselves.
“I have changed my mind.” She leaned forward and tapped the cabby on his shoulder. “I would rather go to Brooklyn first.”
“Suit yourself, lady. It’ll cost you. Gotta run the meter from the Plaza. Like you was ridin’ from the Plaza to Brooklyn, see?”
Now the businessman looked up from his paper. He seemed surprised. “Brooklyn?” he said.
“I have family there,” she explained. “I think I will see them before I check in.” She checked the meter. Three dollars. She would pay half regardless. It was only right.
“You will be coming back here?” the businessman asked, his round cheeks like apples when he smiled. “Then perhaps I shall see you. Such a nice, quiet little boy you have.” He lifted his hat and tipped the cabby, who shrugged and started the meter ticking all over again.
“Brooklyn, huh? You Italian, Irish or Jewish, lady?” Her answer would determine exactly where he would take her in Brooklyn.
***
It was obvious that Mr. Trump had expected more news in the arrival of Charles Kronenberger and the old grandmother. The suite at the Plaza was decked out with hors d’oeuvres and drinks and an assortment of reporters gathered for the story.
Trump took Murphy by the arm and escorted him firmly through the double doors into the bedroom. With a patronizing smile, he closed the doors behind him and then, red-faced, he exploded.
It was a quiet, whispered explosion. “Where the blankity-blank is everybody? Look, Murphy, Trump Publications—that’s me—has gone to a lot of expense with this one . . . breaking a great story here. We’re out in front on this German refugee thing, and now you’ve hidden the witnesses! And where—you didn’t even bring your wife! I thought she could play the violin for us. I’ve got half the bigwigs in New York out there. A couple of senators who might even care about these refugees!”
Murphy let him wind down. He nodded agreeably with every point Trump made. “You want these people to talk to Charles, right? Ask him about the death of his father? His mother?”
“That’s right. Is that too much to ask?”
“The boy can’t talk.”
“You could interpret for him.”
“I
mean . . . he can’t talk, Mr. Trump. He has a severe cleft palate, remember? Everything that has happened, everything he has witnessed, the child is unable to talk about.” Now Murphy dug through his briefcase, finally producing the paper-wrapped scrapbook that Timmons had rescued in Paris. He passed it to Trump. “It’s all in there. You need documentation of racial theories and practices by the Reich? Mercy killing? Abortion? Persecution of the church? Parochial schools? It’s all in there.”
Trump worked his mouth, opening and closing it but not saying anything. “What about this Mrs. Rosenfelt? The Darien? Eight hundred refugees?” he said at last.
“She has Charles. Somewhere. I told her to come here and meet me, but she’s a good old gal. Knows the kid doesn’t need a press reception.” Murphy shrugged. “I’m sorry Mr. Trump, the boy has been through more . . . stuff . . . than most people see in seventy years of living. I appreciate all this; I know you’ve done it with the best of intentions, but—”
Trump opened the book. His expression softened, and he flipped through the pages for a long time. “My grandson is five,” he said finally. “The same age as Charles. Looks like him, too.” Suddenly Trump looked up at Murphy, his eyes filled with tears and blazing with anger. “What if it was him, Murphy? What if it was my grandson who was condemned as subhuman for something he couldn’t control?”
Murphy gaped at Trump, astounded. Something in this story had pierced beyond the crust of this tough old newsman and struck a nerve. “It could happen here, Mr. Trump,” Murphy answered quietly.
“Not if I can help it!” Trump roared. He stuck out his lower lip. “I did it to sell papers, Murphy.” He looked up. “Every one of these hounds is out of my own kennel, so to speak, and I’ll call them off. He’s just a boy. And if it were my grandson—”
“Mrs. Rosenfelt will have plenty to say to the press. Can we give her a go at it in a day or so? There are iron bars around the Statue of Liberty now, Mr. Trump. Iron bars keeping a lot of desperate people out. She can speak of that. So can I. She can speak about people—real people, not just numbers and quotas.”