by Bonnie Toews
At this point, Lee could have directed the driver to move on, but she didn’t. She pulled out her sketch pad and pencil from her shoulder bag.
Grace watched in amazement. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Some reporters take pictures,” Lee replied. “I draw.”
As she swiftly flipped the pages to a clean sheet, she instructed the driver, “Keep the engine running.”
“Judenschweine!” yelled the maddened throng. “Verrecken! Jewish pigs! Die!”
The pillars supporting the portico trembled with their taunts. “We know you’re there!”
Lee’s quick strokes became a camera, freezing each act of terror on paper.
Shouting and cursing, the disguised storm troopers beat the front door with ax handles and lead pipes. Some removed large rocks from pockets or backpacks and hurled them, pummeling the windows on the first floor with diamond-sharp blows. The panes of glass shattered like fireworks bursting into thousands of glittering crystals, falling and crashing in a jagged maze on the cobblestone below. A cheer rose after each hit.
“They’re all mad dogs!” muttered Lee, drawing furiously to keep up to their hysteria.
In no time, the mob, savage in their manic zeal, broke down the main door and stormed inside the house. One by one, lights came on. Shapes behind the curtains bobbed up and down and around, like puppets. The drapes were pulled, and one window after the next, on every floor, was smashed from inside. The sound of glass breaking against the side of the house and on the stone courtyard below chimed in tune with the blood curdling screams from within.
Lee was so immersed in catching every detail that her focused view completely detached her from the horrors she was witnessing. When she glanced at Grace’s devastated disbelief, she experienced fleeting guilt, but the momentum of the story drove her on. As she drew with increasing swiftness, her drawings erupted into desolate pictures of inhuman breadth.
From the second floor balcony, one rioter after another tossed books and furniture to the ground. Three men shoved an upright Bechstein piano between the French doors of a balcony. A younger man pushed the wheeled stool over, sat down, and began pounding out a German polka on its keys.
Down at the front entrance, two uniformed troopers dragged out a man and woman in nightdress. The woman clutched a small bundle to her breast. Other families from the apartments inside were herded out and made to stand in their bare feet on the shattered glass. Their prized possessions were heaved out the windows onto the ground. The polka played on in a crazed parody of the humiliating drama. Laughing, the torchbearers set fire to the growing pile, while others used their lead pipes to push and prod the victims to dance around the smoking fire on the jagged shards covering the courtyard. Their pitiful squeals from the pain of the cuts to their feet and their trail of blood incensed the most vicious of the rabid Nazis. He snatched the bundle from the woman’s arms.
“Who wants a Jew baby?” he yelled.
A great swelling of laughter rose skyward with the hungry flames. While the beat of the polka pounded louder and faster, the light from the fire and the shimmering heat illuminated the infant he held. The mother looked on in dreadful apprehension as he raised her baby with one hand above his head and hurled it like a rugby ball to a teammate, who caught it and threw it to another. As they yelled and cheered tossing the baby about, the blanket wrapping the infant fell off, and its tiny legs flapped loosely, while the mother desperately raced back and forth from one to the other, begging them to put her baby down. At last, the one who had seized it from her leered, “So you want your baby back. Here. Catch!”
He wrapped his big hand around its tiny feet and pitched it to her headfirst. She reached out in pitiful hope, but it dropped short of her grasp in a lifeless heap at her bleeding feet. She fell wailing to the ground and carefully gathered up its broken body in her arms. With inconsolable grief, she clutched the baby to her breast and crooned, and began rocking on her knees in rhythm with the pounding piano.
Lee had never seen anything so fiendish. Bombing civilians and innocent children was one level of perversion, but this … this monstrous disregard for life was quite another. Flinging the baby to death was so inconceivable she didn’t want to believe what she had just seen. Cold shivers possessed her. She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. A part of her wanted to grieve with the mother, but the journalist in her took up her pencil and drew the terrible anguish of the woman clasping her dead baby to her breast.
Once she remembered Grace and looked at her with concern. She was sitting white-faced and white-knuckled, traumatized.
But it was not over. More torch-bearing youths encircled the piano. One by one, each lanced the piano top with the tip of his torch until teeny clefts of fire cracked and spread, bursting into one sheet of flame. Barbs from the bunch, now drunk on their own power, dared the pianist to keep on playing. He lasted until the keys became too hot to touch and the heat scorched his hair. Charcoal crisps twirled above his head. The drapes framing the French doors then caught fire, and he fell back coughing.
“Dumbkaufen!” fumed the driver. “They could have saved the piano. Who would have known it belonged to a Jew!”
His remark finally penetrated Lee’s detachment. She connected with such helpless rage that the urge to choke him consumed her. Only professional discipline held her back from betraying her true revulsion.
“Have you seen enough?” he asked, eyeing both women in his rear view mirror. Lee nodded stonily and stashed her sketch pad in her bag.
Beside her, Grace strangled on a sob. “Why?”
Grace’s stricken plea twisted Lee’s heart. She didn’t know the reason for the horrors they were witnessing, only that Hitler’s fanaticism was poisoning the mind and morals of a whole nation. Undisciplined passions had become fodder for his twisted concept of Puritanism. He had banned Berlin’s racy nightlife and splashy street sales of sex and dope and channeled the people’s lust for sexual pleasures into a demonic orgy with the fatherland. It was as if the absolute submissiveness of the true Nazi to Hitler today had been spawned by the devil himself, and not of man at all.
“Why?” Grace repeated. “Why?”
Lee reached for her hand and held it. “Easy, Grace. You must hold on. Can you do that?”
Grace nodded in quick jerks and released a shaky sigh.
“Go,” Lee ordered the driver.
The cab rolled forward just as a large open truck screeched to a halt behind them. The sound frightened Grace, who instinctively ducked and cradled her head between her hands.
Lee snapped her neck around to see out the rear-view window and glimpsed a squad of SS soldiers jumping down from the truck. They cocked their rifles and aimed them at the Jews in the courtyard. Most dragged from their apartments were clad only in nightclothes. At the edge of the bonfire, the bedraggled lot huddled together listening to the babble of orders squawking from a loudspeaker on top of the truck. By the time their tormentors began pushing them into lines to board the truck, the cab pulled away. Above the apartment house, Lee saw burnt orange and crimson flames licking the sky.
Following the streets through the cosmopolitan area in West Berlin… past homes once gracious but now desecrated, past shops and sidewalk cafés that had strutted with character and charm but were now stripped of all dignity, past spires of flames scouring the sky where synagogues burned in disgrace … their cab crunched over the crushed glass, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Down every route, they saw stores raided and splintered glass cases with more jagged shards of glass strewn over the sidewalks in front.
Mobs running wild through the streets sought Jews they could rob and beat. They looted and ransacked the buildings already plundered by the more organized bands. The local police ignored the victims’ cries for help and mercy, and the fire trucks only hosed down Aryan stores and houses threatened by fires next to them.
The smell of kerosene and charred wreckage glutting the air stung the
girls’ eyes. Even with the car windows closed, black smoke penetrated the cab, burning their throats and sinuses, and filled their lungs until they retched in coughing spasms. Lee reached into her purse and extracted a hanky. She motioned to Grace to do the same as she covered her nose and mouth. Grace nodded she understood.
The cab finally turned east and escaped the nightmare already spreading beyond Berlin. They sped along the tree-lined boulevard that bordered the Tiergarten, made a jog south on the Bellevue Allee, then east on Leipzigerstrasse to Wilhelmstrasse.
Near the American Embassy, the streets again clogged with people rushing the American gates seeking refuge from the crazed Nazis’ revenge. Inch by inch, the driver threaded the cab through the desperate crowd until he could make his way to a side lane accessing the rear driveway.
Quinn was watching for them, and as the cab pulled up to the back door, he rushed out to pay the driver.
“I’ve already paid him,” Lee said as he helped her out of the back seat.
Quinn nodded. “What took you so long?” he demanded. “We’ve delayed the last British Airways flight out of Tempelhof for you two.”
“Quinn, do you know what’s going on out there?” she asked as she turned to help the English pianist climb out.
Grace’s diamond tiara lay forgotten on the taxi’s back seat.
“Only what we hear. It’s been bedlam since we arrived,” he told her and quickly ushered them inside. “The phones are ringing constantly. We’ve heard Jews are being arrested and put on trains for concentration camps, specifically Buchenwald and Dachau.”
Lee nodded. “We saw people loaded on trucks. The SS and the Hitler Youth are dressed up like ordinary Germans, and they’re plundering everything and anything that belongs to a Jew. The ones they catch …”
She looked down and fought a sob lobbing in her throat.
“They’re killing, wounding, and maiming. I don’t know if there will be any synagogues left standing by morning. The Nazis are letting them burn themselves out. And you should see the streets, Quinn. They’re covered in broken glass from all the windows and display cases they’ve smashed.”
Quinn looked grim. “That explains why German reports are calling it Kristallnacht.”
“The Night of Broken Glass,” Lee interpreted. “How apt! Whatever you’ve heard can’t begin to describe how terrible it is. Where’s Sir Fletcher?”
“He’s still briefing the American ambassador,” Quinn answered.
“And Grace … Lady Grace’s parents?”
“Her mother’s here. Her father’s at the airport waiting for you.”
“Did you get our suitcases from the Adlon Hotel?”
He pointed to them by the doorway.
“Good. Where can Grace and I change?”
“In the staff room.”
“We’ll leave our ball gowns and most of our luggage. The embassy can send them along later.”
She turned to Grace. “Change into slacks and your thickest sweaters. You’ll need boots to keep your feet warm on the plane.”
Grace stood dazed and unresponsive.
Lee clicked her fingers. “Did you hear me?”
“How could they hate them so much? What have the Jews done? A baby. Just a wee baby. Why? That poor mother. What will happen to her? Lee, we should have done something. We didn’t do anything! Oh God! We didn’t do anything.”
Grace broke into sobs. “We just watched.”
Lee understood how time had stopped for Grace. From her own experience she knew being a witness deepened one’s sense of powerlessness. Lee’s reporting at least involved her enough that she could feel she was doing something, even if it failed. Grace didn’t have such leverage. Lee tried to reason with her.
“What could we do? We might have made everything worse for them. Or we could have been taken with them. How would that help?”
The young English girl did not respond to Lee’s words. Her anguished sobbing continued.
Lee tried more earnestly. “No one would know what happened to them. No one would know what happened to us. But, we’re still here, Grace. We can tell what we saw. And we will talk about it and talk about it until we can gather the right forces to do something about it… to do something to make it stop. Do you hear me, Grace?”
Grace inhaled, and her crying stopped. She repeated, “We will never forget.”
“It’s a pain locked in a corner of our hearts forever,” Lee admitted.
Grace raised her head and focused on Lee. “I’ve read the pain in your articles, but I never fully understood. Not until tonight. Oh, Lee, how dreadful!”
New tears spilled down Grace’s cheeks. Lee, fighting her own feelings, gathered the young girl to her and held her.
“It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
When Grace had calmed, Lee let her go. “This is the time to show me that stiff upper lip you Brits brag about.”
Grace sniffed. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can. Now we have to change quickly and get back to London.”
Quinn picked up their bags and led them to the staff’s quarters. Inside the room, they pulled out the clothes they needed for the flight and switched into them. In five minutes, they were ready and returned to the servants’ entrance of the embassy where Quinn, Grace’s mother and Sir Fletcher were waiting. At the sight of Princess Alexandra, Grace forgot herself and rushed into her mother’s arms.
“Oh, Mommy, it was absolutely dreadful.”
“I heard, dear. But we must get ready to leave. We can talk about it on the plane.”
Lee watched Princess Alexandra draw her daughter tighter into her arms and begrudged Grace the comfort of her mother’s love.
After holding her for a moment longer, Princess Alexandra let her daughter go, and Sir Fletcher stepped forward. His hulk towered over her as he gripped Grace’s shoulders.
“We must get on with it, lass. No more tears. Your father is waiting for us at the airport.”
Grace bit her lip and nodded obediently.
“Princess Alexandra, I want you and Lady Grace to get in the embassy car first. We’ll be along shortly.”
The embassy driver led them to the rear exit. Once they were out of hearing range, Sir Fletcher faced Lee and Quinn.
“What has happened here is a preview of life under the Third Reich anywhere in the world.”
Lee shuddered. “Sir, permission to speak?”
“Granted.”
“I would rather stay here with Quinn. There’s more we can do to infiltrate the German Scientific Institute in Berlin.”
Sir Fletcher’s craggy brows pinched together.
“No, Lee.” His set expression squelched the objection forming on her lips. “That’s an order.”
She caught Quinn’s hard glance at the spymaster and his frown. She sighed. “Yes sir,” and turned to Quinn.
“Be careful,” she said, offering him her hand.
He covered it with both of his. Expressions of relief and regret mingled in his eyes.
“You write from London. I’ll call in the copy.”
After a pause, Quinn added, “I’ll miss you.”
A telltale nerve twitched in Lee’s jaw. “You’re not getting rid of me this easily. I’ll be back as soon as I can. This war against Jews has become personal.”
“That may be so, but,” Quinn reminded her, “nothing can be done to save the Jews if we don’t stop Hitler from building nuclear weapons first.”
Sir Fletcher placed a fatherly hand on Lee’s shoulder.
“In addition to writing your daily column, I need you to help me set up a center to house the German scientists Quinn convinces to defect. We’ll set up a laboratory where they can continue their experiments under our supervision in London.”
“And then, Poland,” Quinn said. “I want Lee to join me there.”
“We’ll see,” said Sir Fletcher. “It depends on what Hitler does next.”
SEVEN
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sp; Wednesday, August 30th, 1939
Lee watched Quinn sprinkle water on the soil surrounding the mushroom growing in the pot on the sill of their newsroom window overlooking Warsaw’s Market Square, or Rynek Starego Miasta, as the Poles called it. She couldn’t believe another year had passed since she and Grace witnessed Kristallnacht.
“Looks like Edelweiss, doesn’t it?” she observed.
He frowned as he stood back to look at it.
“Not to me. It’s just a mushroom. You have a vivid imagination.”
“It’s not just a mushroom. The amanita is poisonous. So, why keep it?”
“Two reasons: I want to see how long I can preserve it, and it reminds me of our operation.”
“How?”
“There’s no antidote,” he replied, “just as we have no defense against Hitler if he produces the atomic bomb first. That’s why Sir Fletcher agreed to call it Project Amanita. We’re on a life or death mission.”
“I don’t need a mushroom to remind me of that,” she muttered.
The telephone jangled on her desk. She picked up the earpiece and spoke into the speaker. “Hello.”
A heavily accented voice said, “Tell boss I at meeting place. Where him?”
Lee gestured to Quinn to take the phone.
“Yes,” he said and listened.
“You’re half an hour early… I see … Give me ten minutes.”
He replaced the earpiece on the hook and turned to Lee.
“Another recruit for our underground network. You don’t need me to air your broadcast tonight.”
“No, of course not.”
He picked up his tweed jacket and flung it over his shoulder. “Then I’ll see you later,” he said, and left.
Lee stared after him.
In the year since she and Grace had observed the horrible night in Berlin, she had accepted Princess Alexandra’s invitation to live with the Radcliffe’s in London, while she helped Sir Fletcher set up suitable quarters to house the vital nuclear scientists Quinn persuaded to leave Europe. Many of them were Jewish refugees.