by Bodie Thoene
Bronze double doors swung back, revealing a sitting room with an enormous fireplace. The mantel was crowned with an eagle clutching a swastika in its claws. The Führer stood with his back to the roaring blaze. As Vargen entered and saluted, it seemed to him as if Hitler had just emerged from the fire. Was this appearance also thought out beforehand?
To his right, Gestapo Chief Heinrich Himmler sat in a comfortable overstuffed chair. When Vargen hesitated a moment too long, Himmler motioned impatiently for him to come into the circle of sofas and chairs in front of the fire.
“Well? What news do you have for us from von Kleistmann?” Himmler asked. The Führer did not speak. He did not turn his gaze on Vargen. He rubbed his hands as if to wash them in flame.
Vargen held out the leather case. He clicked his heels and bowed slightly. Still the Führer did not seem to notice him. “We captured him quite easily as he attempted to board ship in Holland.”
“That ship was bound for?” Himmler asked.
“England.”
At the word England, the face of the Führer darkened. His eyes narrowed as if this confirmed his suspicions. Yet still he did not speak.
“And who did von Kleistmann name as his conspirators?” Himmler leafed through the pages without reading them.
Vargen felt his face grow red with embarrassment. “He . . . admits to nothing . . . no one else involved, he said.”
“You believe him?” A peculiar smile played on Himmler’s lips.
“I cannot see that a man could lie under such . . . circumstances.” Vargen shrugged. He had tried everything. What else was there to do short of killing von Kleistmann?
Himmler studied the photograph of Thomas. “A handsome man, was he not? Strong.”
“It is his strength that keeps him silent . . . that is, if there is any more to tell.”
The Führer’s face was unmoved, dark and angry. He wanted answers from the traitorous young Abwehr officer, not examples of Aryan endurance!
“Exactly what does he admit to?”
“Nothing,” Vargen said.
“Not even the murder of Georg Wand?” Himmler leaned forward.
“Not even that. He says he had a personal hatred for Wand. A distaste for worms such as Wand who soiled the German people. And he admits to secretly disliking . . . our party.”
Hitler’s face contorted. “Traitor!” he cried. “That is enough! He admits his guilt! Have I not said that he who is not for me is against me? There! We have a verdict on this arrogant aristocrat! And mark my words! He is not alone in his conspiracy! I want names!”
Both Himmler and Vargen drew back at the outburst. Vargen shuttered a reply, an apology that he had been unable to extract the desired information from von Kleistmann.
“But . . . what if he is alone? What if there are no others, mein Führer?” Himmler managed to ask.
“Are you saying he is innocent?” Hitler shrieked. “Innocent? Then do what is always done with the innocent! Crucify him!”
Vargen and Himmler exchanged looks. Could the Führer mean such a thing?
“Crucify him!” Hitler screamed again. “He would destroy me! Did he think I would not see? Crucify him!”
Vargen swallowed hard. “Yes, mein Führer. But . . . if he still does not speak?”
“He is against me!” A black lock of hair had fallen across Hitler’s eye, completing the picture of madness. “He has slept with a Jewish whore! That is enough! Kill him!” Hitler took a step toward Vargen. For an instant it seemed as if Hitler might strike, then, abruptly, he turned on his heel and faced the fire.
Awkward minutes of silence ticked by. Vargen dared not move. Himmler dared not speak. The Führer was once again deep in thought. It was often like this. Great passion, then silence as the mind of Germany’s leader moved on to other matters.
Vargen was sweating. He mopped his bald head and waited until the Führer’s inspired thoughts would take the form of words. Logs crackled in the heat of the flames.
At last the Führer spoke again. “Palestine.” He turned and faced the two men. He was smiling as if the rage over Thomas von Kleistmann had been a dream. He rose up slightly on his toes and beamed. “Yes. Palestine!”
He gestured for Vargen to be seated and he also took a chair across from Himmler. Pleasant. Charming. An answer had come to him, and now he would share it.
Vargen was only barely able to take the jump from von Kleistmann to Palestine. Himmler, on the other hand, shifted gears smoothly.
“So, mein Führer.” Himmler smiled and polished his glasses. “An answer has come to you at last?”
“It took the presence of Commander Vargen for me to see clearly.” Hitler was almost jovial now. He turned to Vargen, who was still perspiring, still inwardly contemplating the rage of this now reasonable man.
“Me?” Vargen ventured.
Hitler fixed his piercing blue eyes on Vargen. “You served with the Turks during the Great War against the English, did you not?”
“Yes.” Vargen still failed to see where this was leading.
“Then you know how essential the territory of Palestine is to our aims, especially now.”
Vargen nodded as though he understood, but he did not. “Of course.”
Hitler slapped his knee. “The Arabs do us the greatest service in their rebellion against England and the Zionists. You see? There are nearly twenty thousand British troops in Palestine trying to keep the peace. Twenty thousand! More men deployed there than anywhere else in the British Empire. More in Palestine than are pledged to support France when war comes.”
Not if, but when . . .
“How might Commander Vargen be of service, mein Führer?” Himmler asked earnestly.
“We have been training the Mufti’s men here in Germany for some time. I propose that Commander Vargen return to Palestine, where once he knew defeat at the hands of the English! Yes! That he train the men on location. Fight and train in Palestine and Jerusalem beneath the noses of the English while we continue to fortify our western defenses.”
Vargen could not think of a more distasteful task. Perhaps this was some sort of banishment from Germany since he had failed to crack through the wall of von Kleistmann’s silence. He had no choice but to accept the assignment. “An honor.”
“You must engage the British, you see. Keep them tied up. Occupied by their own problems.” Hitler stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I will send orders by courier this afternoon. We have an agent in Jerusalem now who has contact with the Mufti. It will be all arranged.” He waved a hand absently. “First you may finish this unpleasantness with Thomas von Kleistmann, of course.” He smiled again, as if he were discussing a favor, a gift.
Vargen was taken completely off guard. He had no chance to express opposition to duty in Palestine. Perhaps this had all been planned, like the wax on the polished floors of the Chancellery, to keep him off balance.
Himmler picked up Hitler’s enthusiasm. “Of course, all of this will also serve to demonstrate the hypocrisy of the Western nations in dealing with the Jewish problem, ja?”
Hitler appraised Vargen. “If the matter is handled well, then yes. We will see that even a self-righteous race of governesses like the English will be part of the final solution to the Jewish question.” The gaze lingered on Vargen like that of a snake on a bird. Then the smile reappeared. “There are great cosmic forces behind all this, Commander Vargen. Do you believe that?”
Vargen had never thought of any force greater than the man seated before him. “If that is so, then you are their prophet.”
This answer pleased Hitler. “Ah. So some say.” He relaxed again. “And now I will share a secret with you, Commander. Men like us are chosen to serve. We must be willing to serve in this battle . . . ” He lifted his hands and eyes upward. “There are spiritual forces at work here, Commander Vargen. We are their tools. Their weapons. Like the Crusaders of old you will return to Jerusalem, and there you will fight against the Jews until our side is vi
ctorious.”
***
There was no escaping the news; horror and dismay was evident on the faces of the orchestra members. This morning the halls buzzed with the word of the brutal deportations of Polish Jews from Germany.
For Elisa, the mention of cattle cars heading east to the Polish border was a stark reminder of an old nightmare. Some among the orchestra members knew people in Germany who had come from Poland. Names and faces came to mind. Questions were unspoken and unanswerable. Elisa thought of the old tailor Grynspan and wondered if he was with the thousands in the cattle cars.
The orchestra played badly throughout the morning rehearsal. Horns came in late. First violins were hesitant and preoccupied. Woodwinds squawked like an amateur orchestra until Sir Thomas bellowed and barked and at last threw his baton to the stage in frustration.
“All right, children! And what can we do to change the headlines in this morning’s Times?” he asked his silent and shamed musicians. “Do you think it will help those people if we play like the Ladies Home Auxiliary Band?” Without explanation Sir Thomas turned his steely gaze on Elisa, as though she had personally caused the disruption. She felt herself color as other members of the orchestra glanced nervously in her direction.” Any suggestions?” He seemed to direct the question to her.
Elisa stared self-consciously at the fine old instrument in her hands. She was fiddling while the world beyond was burning.
She closed her eyes and prayed for an answer. Some small thing. Something to give her prayers hands to work with. An instrument to play for the sake of mercy in an unmerciful world.
“A benefit performance!” she blurted. Her own words surprised her. She blinked in amazement that she had dared to reply.
Sir Thomas drew back as if her words had struck him. He frowned and continued to glare at Elisa. Finally his eyes shifted to the baton on the boards of the stage. He pointed at it and addressed the gray-haired concertmaster. “If you would be so kind . . . ”
The concertmaster retrieved the baton and bowed slightly as he presented it to the maestro. Sir Thomas whirled the stick in his fingers. “A benefit,” he remarked at last. “Yes. An excellent suggestion.” He almost smiled at Elisa. “And now may I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen. We will begin again at the eighth bar, please.”
***
It seemed natural that Theo, as head of the F.A.T.E. organization in England, would be chosen by Sir Thomas Beecham to travel to Poland with funds collected by the orchestra for the Jewish deportees. The request gave Theo hope that not everyone in England was asleep.
Theo’s limp took on a purposeful and resolute strength as he made his way to the British colonial office. He intended to travel to Poland to see to the condition of the Jews recently deported from Germany and discuss their options.
The clerk in the visa office—a tall, thin man—so resembled a stork that Theo half expected him to be standing on one leg over a nest behind his counter. The fellow peered down his long nose at Theo’s papers. His eyebrows arched as if in permanent surprise and disdain. “Mr. Lindheim.” He sniffed. “If you leave for Poland, of course, His Majesty’s government can make no guarantee for your safety, nor can we guarantee your readmittance to England.”
Theo stared at the clerk in disbelief. He was being told that he and Anna were veritable prisoners on the little isle of Great Britain. To travel elsewhere might mean the revocation of their residence papers. Could it be that their hands were still cruelly tied by the British bureaucracy when they wanted so desperately to help?
“Is there no appeal?” Theo asked wearily.
“Your residence papers were issued under certain conditions, Mr. Lindheim. We simply follow the regulations as stated. And you did sign the forms. You agreed to the terms. Travel outside Great Britain is limited.” The man began a countdown of the conditions of Theo’s residence appeal.
Theo cut him short. With a curt nod, a thank you, and a good day, he left the office and limped, less resolutely, out the door.
What was the use of pretending any longer? The Reich had marked Theo as a criminal and a traitor in Germany. His extradition had been sought while he was in Prague. England had accepted him conditionally—the condition being that he do nothing that might offend Germany while he was in England. This meant that his physical presence among those spurned and persecuted by the Nazi Reich might well be misunderstood by the Führer and used as anti-British propaganda.
Anna met him as he descended the steps of Whitehall. The look on his face told her everything. She took his arm as he jammed his fedora down on his head and tugged angrily at the brim. “In a word,” he said gruffly, “I am an offense to the Reich. And we must not offend the Führer by assisting those whom the Führer has singled out to destroy.”
“They will not let you travel to Poland to the refugee camp.” This was not a question, but a statement.
“My hands are tied.”
“Your heart is willing, Theo,” Anna chided her husband gently, “and so God has some other task for your hands.” She intertwined her fingers with his and squeezed his hand in encouragement. “He will show you, my darling. And if you stop and think for only a moment, you will remember that you also believe this.”
Theo stopped walking. He scanned the vast city of London, where he was now a prisoner of the politics of appeasement. He shook his head, then lowered his eyes in acknowledgment of Anna’s words. In that moment he again accepted God’s sovereignty in his life—and hers. The anger melted from his heart and his face. “How hard it is for an old warrior not to want to fight the battle in his own strength,” he said. “The doors slam shut. And yet I must believe.”
13
Wise as Serpents
Murphy scanned Trump’s latest wire from New York. In America, news of the deportations had gone unnoticed by the vast majority of the public. The horrible reality of the latest Nazi persecutions had been obscured by, of all things, the Halloween radio broadcast of Orson Welles, War of the Worlds. Thousands had actually believed that aliens were invading the nation and the world with the intent of destroying human life. American roads had been jammed with fleeing automobiles. Men and women had committed suicide in the belief that the performance was real. In the face of this, the fate of a few thousand Jews deported to Poland from the Reich was relegated to the back page of every newspaper except those of Trump Publications.
Murphy studied the reports of the American panic with the feeling that perhaps Orson Welles had not been far off in his make-believe story. Perhaps there was some sort of unseen power attacking the world with the intent of destroying human souls. Somehow reports of Nazi brutality fit very easily into such a plotline.
The thought made him shudder, and with that came the realization that even as the British threatened Jewish immigration to Palestine, Hitler was turning up the flame to a white-hot intensity.
Trump in New York, along with Bubbe Rosenfelt and thirty Christian and Jewish leaders, was bombarding Congress and President Roosevelt with requests that he personally intercede with the British government on behalf of the British pledge for a Jewish homeland.
At the same time, Theo and Anna had continued with Britain’s Zionist leaders to fight against what was whispered to be inevitable in the face of Arab protests in Palestine.
Murphy’s repeated phone calls to the British colonial secretary in hopes of getting the straight scoop on the matter that been curtly refused. What business was it of the United States if Britain did close off Jewish immigration to appease the Arab Council? he was told. Had not America closed her doors to the Jewish paupers as well?
The failure of each nation had in turn become an excuse to other nations for more failure. Today’s editorial in the Manchester Guardian expressed world sentiment about the homeless refugees who now huddled in stables at Poland’s border:
Can Germany expect the rest of the world to receive and settle thousands of paupers in the next few years? This is carrying international cooperation to th
e limits of lunacy!
Thus the matter finally became clear as Murphy pointed out the column to Theo over lunch. This was not an issue of what was morally right. It was not a matter of saving lives. It was a matter of money.
If England’s rulers were suspicious of Theo, there were many other men who were not. This afternoon half a dozen of those men gathered in Theo’s little study to plan what must be done since the utter failure of the Evian Conference. Surely something must be done, after all. Were the persecuted thousands of the Reich expected to be offered up as a sacrifice to apathy? The possibility seemed unthinkable to these few.
Dr. Chaim Weizmann lit his pipe and considered the flame of his match. “Perhaps we have been wrong in appealing to human decency then, Theo?” he asked.
Theo nodded slowly. He gazed sadly at the lined face of the great British scientist who had played such a vital part in Britain’s first promises of a Jewish homeland. “The Nazis have proved that appeals to humanity fall on deaf ears. The failure of Evian confirms that this is true for others besides the Nazis.”
“So what do you propose?” Weizmann asked, shaking out the match.
“The refugee problem is an economic problem to the leaders of world governments.” Theo let out his breath slowly. He had read and reread the transcripts of Evian. Money. Cold, hard cash was always a central issue. “Germany intends that every Jew within its borders be driven out. Not one nation has disputed that intent seriously. And not one nation is willing to accept paupers as immigrants.” Theo spread his hands. “So here is the dilemma: The Reich will not allow Jews to leave with any money. Nations will not take in those who are penniless.”
Heads nodded in agreement. “There is not money enough that we can raise to solve the problem,” said Weizmann as a wreath of smoke encircled his head.
Theo smiled. “I was a businessman in Germany. I know what turns the hearts of these men. And also the key that will open the doors of the Reich and the doors of other nations to refugees.”