by Bodie Thoene
To the left was the sign for the Hotel de Suez. Strange that Hans had recommended that he stay in a hotel patronized by Arabs from the French colonies of North Africa. This had always been a place Herschel and his friends avoided. They had often stepped from the Scala Cinema and seen men in strange red fez hats enter the lobby of that mysterious place. Ah, well. It was close to the Metro station.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked resolutely toward the hotel. The gold lettering on the door was flaking, the tiles of the foyer marked with muddy footprints. A handful of guests sat reading their papers in the flowing Arabic script. The ancient clerk behind the counter did indeed wear a red fez, although no one else did. The hooked nose of the proprietor almost bent over his upper lip when he smiled at Herschel.
“How may I help you, monsieur?”
“A room.” Herschel’s voice quavered and he began again, consciously trying to strengthen and deepen his voice.
“A room, please.”
“You are not French?” asked the old man, turning the register for Herschel to sign.
“No. German.” Herschel remembered Hans’s instructions. When the green registration card for foreigners was presented for Herschel to sign, he was to explain that he was a salesman from Hamburg and his luggage was still at the station. “I will complete the formalities when I collect my luggage.”
The old man bowed slightly in acceptance as Herschel counted out payment in advance for the room. Three francs. The old Arab, still smiling, placed the key in his hand and directed him toward the wrought-iron cage that served as the elevator.
“A pleasant stay . . . ” He looked at the signature on the register and repeated the name Herschel had given. “Herr Heinrich Halter.”
Herschel smiled, trying to shrug off the feeling that the old man somehow doubted that he was a salesman from Hamburg. It did not seem to matter much anyway. It had been easy. Hans had told him there would be no problem.
***
The message from the proprietor of Hotel de Suez was short and to the point. At the Berlin headquarters, Gestapo Chief Himmler sighed with relief as he read it. With a cheerful nod he picked up the telephone and dialed the private quarters of the Führer in the Chancellery.
“We have just received an update from Paris. Yes. The guest has arrived at Hotel de Suez on time. He has said and done everything exactly as he was instructed. Like a trained dog, this little Jew. He mimics every word, just as he was told.”
This information and the anticipation of the drama to be played out in Paris and in Germany strengthened the outline of the Führer’s speech for the coming celebration. It was now very clear that a hand stronger than that of a mere mortal was guiding this war against the Jews. An earlier dispatch from Vargen in Jerusalem indicated that events were happening all on their own, quite without a need for premeditation. The English Woodhead Committee trembled in their hotel rooms at the sound of a balloon bursting. Small incidents were gathering into an avalanche that would soon sweep the enemy from the face of the earth. “First in Jerusalem,” Hitler quoted, “and then to the ends of the earth.”
***
A murmuring darkness slid over the walled enclave of Jerusalem. Samuel Orde had been waiting for the darkness before he dared to move the newly married fugitives.
With his beard shaved, dressed in the uniform of a British officer, Eli was not recognizable. Victoria was also dressed in the uniform of a British soldier. Her long black hair was tucked up under a pith helmet, and she carried a rifle slung over her shoulder as she climbed into one of the armored cars in front of the Old City barracks.
They all felt the eyes of the Mufti’s watchers following the progress of the vehicles. There were six armored cars in the line of a convoy. Outside Jaffa Gate, they split off two-by-two, each pair taking different routes to various destinations in the New City.
Eli held Victoria’s hand as their armored car swept down and then through the residential district of Rehavia, past the Montefiore windmill, and then around the city walls toward the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane. Eli had explained that he had rented a small room for him and Victoria, but Orde protested. There was no place in all of Palestine safe enough—except one place that Orde knew.
Through the slit windows in the vehicle, Eli could see that place nestled on the slope of Olivet at the edge of Gethsemane. The seven golden onion-shaped turrets of the Church of St. Mary Magdalene glowed in the moonlight like a gingerbread castle in some Russian fairy tale. Each dome was topped by the cross of the Russian Orthodox church. Surrounded by aged pines, the compound was populated by White Russian nuns and a handful of followers of the Russian czar who had managed to escape the massacres of the Bolshevik Revolution.
Here, on the hallowed slopes of Olivet, this small core of Russian faithful had found refuge and a sanctuary while men like Joseph Stalin murdered their Christian counterparts by the millions in Russia. Still living within the green iron gates of the compound was a Russian general who had led the Imperial Cossack Guard of Czar Nicholas into exile after the Russian royal family had been murdered.
Samuel Orde explained these things to the couple as he drove. He knew these people, knew the Mother Superior well. They were people who understood as well as any sect in Jerusalem what it meant to be hunted. Eli and Victoria certainly qualified for such a classification. The old nuns would take them in, give them a place to sleep and provide them with the privacy they needed. More important that that, there was no possibility that the men of Haj Amin would think of searching for them beneath those seven golden domes. Never would they imagine that Eli Sachar, the Jewish rabbinical student, would take his Muslim bride to a Russian convent!
Orde was quite pleased with himself for the idea. Besides, there was no more beautiful place in all of Jerusalem. Tonight they would close their eyes and smell the scent of the pine trees. Perhaps somehow, near the place where Jesus prayed, Eli and Victoria would find one night of peace within the safety of these walls.
***
The British armored car followed the stair-stepped stone fence that surrounded the Russian convent. A lane crept up the slope of Olivet at the back of the compound. Lights were still shining warmly in the windows of the residence buildings. They were waiting for the arrival of their guests, Orde explained. Mother Superior had been notified early that afternoon and had prepared a place for Eli and Victoria that same hour.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires of the vehicle. The lane was so narrow that there were only inches on either side of the steel plate.
Orde stopped in front of a green wrought-iron gate. He turned off the lights and let the engine idle. Moments passed before the gate swung inward. Only then could he drive forward so the doors of the armored car could be opened.
“Here she is,” Orde said as he peered out the slit at a tiny figure dressed completely in white from head to foot. “Mother Superior.” A lined, pleasantly smiling face welcomed them as they stepped from the protection of Great Britain directly onto the soil of the Russian convent.
The old woman touched Victoria on the arm. “Welcome,” she said in a voice much younger than the lined face. In the lantern light, the slightly hooded eyes of the old nun twinkled kindly. “Welcome. Welcome, Captain Orde.”
No one spoke as she locked the gate and led them along a well-worn path. The two-story buildings of the compound nestled in the lower corner of the property, surrounded by pines and Cyprus trees that whispered and swayed above their heads. She did not seem to need the lantern for herself. Her feet knew the path well. She held it out for the others who stumbled along the shadowed ruts and bumps of the uneven path.
She did not stop at the main building, but continued down a short flight of steps to a flagged courtyard, then across to a small structure that she called the guest house. Beneath its simple archway she recited the names of the Russian aristocracy who had stayed here at one time or another during their long exile. “Not a palace,” she said with a warm look m
eant for Victoria, “but comfortable.”
And so it was. She opened the door to a sitting room illuminated by soft candlelight. A Victorian settee was placed in front of a fireplace where broken boughs and hissing pine cones burned, infusing the room with warmth and fragrance. Photographs of emperors and patriarchs and Russian aristocrats occupied the spaces on one entire wall. The names of these fell from her lips like the names of old friends. Looking down from among them was a large photograph of the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodrovna, who had carried out the plans for the building of the church before she was killed by the Bolsheviks. She was buried in a chapel on the grounds, explained the old nun.
When she had made the introductions, she looked at Victoria’s clothing with pity. Men’s trousers and shirt. Heavy coat and boots. Not the sort of wardrobe for a woman’s wedding night. “There are night clothes on the bed for you, dear,” she whispered conspiratorially. “And some for your husband as well.”
“We could not bring their belongings out of the Old City,” Orde explained. “I will bring the things Leah packed for you when I come back tomorrow to pick up Eli.”
Victoria gripped Eli’s hand. “Pick him up? But why?”
“Statements. Depositions about the struggle. Your brothers. There are still questions that must be answered for the official record. We can’t take the risk of bringing officers and equipment out here during the daylight hours. It will be simpler—and safer—for Eli to come into the city.”
Eli squeezed her hand. “It will be all right. A formality only, and I will be back here.”
The Mother Superior raised a crooked hand. “Tonight is not a night to think of business, children.” She opened the enameled green door that led to the bedroom. Thick down quilts were turned back. A bowl of fruit and cheese with a small bottle of wine sat on a sideboard lit with candles, along with a plate of bread. Victoria looked at the plain whitewashed walls, thankful that there were no photographs gazing mournfully down at her. Above the bed hung a Russian Orthodox cross that seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight. “And so, children, the good captain and I bid you good night. God’s blessing.”
Orde smiled self-consciously as he shook Eli’s hand and muttered, “Good luck, Mazel tov, and shalom.” He tipped his hat to Victoria and then followed the frail old nun out of the house, closing the door behind.
***
Eli stood with his hand resting on the footboard of the intricately carved olive-wood bed. Still in the pith helmet, Victoria lingered at the side of the bed.
The crackle of the fire in the sitting room was the only sound inside the house. Outside, pine branches tapped against the roof and high windowpanes. Candlelight made shadows dance on the clean stone walls of the bedroom.
Victoria bit her lip and looked away self-consciously toward the open door of the sitting room. It seemed hard to believe that at last they were alone.
She lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly shy at the warmth of Eli’s gaze upon her. She reached out and felt the fabric of the long white cotton nightgown the old nun had laid out for her on the coverlet. It was beautiful—trimmed in soft eyelet lace, with tiny buttons all the way down the front, and full, loose sleeves.
Then she touched the buttons of the borrowed khakis she wore and looked up at Eli, who smiled at her. She laughed and pulled off the pith helmet, letting her long black tresses tumble down over her shoulders.
She smiled as his eyes filled with emotion—bright, loving. All the months of longing, and now they were here.
“Funny,” Eli said in a hoarse whisper. “Every night I fell asleep dreaming of you. Of this moment. Now I am afraid to reach out. Afraid to hold you. Afraid this is only a dream.” He did not move toward her, so she walked slowly around the bed to where he stood. She took his hands in hers and lifted them to her lips in a kiss.
“I am not a dream, Eli. But if I were, I would wish that you would never awaken.” She held his hand to her heart and then raised her face to his as he bent to kiss her. “No dream, my love,” she whispered. “Touch me . . . touch me.”
40
Hell Has Nothing Better Left to Do
Field Marshal Hermann Göring sent his private car to fetch Theo from the British Embassy. Long, sleek, and glistening black, even the raindrops stood at attention on the highly waxed finish. Two stiff swastika flags flanked the front bumpers. The chauffeur wore the black uniform of the SS. He saluted with a “Heil Hitler” as he held the door open for Theo.
For a moment, Theo hesitated before the curving driveway of the British Embassy. He turned to look at the softly glowing lights of the old mansion. It was not too late to turn around. Not too late to go back inside and send word he could not meet with Göring. Perhaps he could even catch the morning plane back to London. To Anna. Elisa. His children and grandchildren yet to be. Everything within him yearned to live only for those who were his own family. But what of other families? How many prayed tonight within this very city? How many prayed for help? For a way out? For a voice that might speak for them since their own voices had been so ruthlessly silenced?
Theo tossed a quick salute at the British union jack that hung limp in the evening mist. He eyed the plush red-velvet interior of Göring’s car, and then took one last deep breath of air before he plunged in. As he exhaled, he whispered a secret farewell. Jacob Stern. There must be a reason Göring has insisted his passport be issued in the name of the Dachau prisoner. Was Theo to become that prisoner again? Or worse?
He caught himself, restraining his mind from thinking about the possibilities as the limousine slowly drove past the floodlighted Reich Chancellery building on Wilhelmstrasse. He found his eyes looking toward a balcony that opened off the Führer’s private quarters. The balcony was a new addition—designed so the Nazi god could review his marching troops and adoring masses.
Theo shuddered. The heaviness of Hitler’s living nearness was oppressive. The Evil on this street was a thick black curtain that made Theo long for one more clean, untainted breath of air. He whispered a prayer against the Darkness, but here, where the backlighted windows gleamed as if illuminated by a lampless power, Theo’s prayers were whispered with difficulty. A great weight pressed against his chest. He could not take his eyes from the dwelling place of the one who had made life more terrifying than death for so many. What words are being whispered behind those curtains? What plans are being made? What demons hiss their commands against the People of the Book? Against true Christians who protest? This is not the evil of a mere man, Theo reasoned. He tore his eyes away from the crooked cross of the swastika flag that hung everywhere. The broken cross. Symbol of ancient evil. Everywhere!
The car continued down Wilhelmstrasse and then turned at Leipziger Strasse where the building that had been Lindheim’s loomed up. Had the route been chosen on purpose? Had Göring laughed and instructed the SS driver to take Theo past the grand old building for one last look?
The windows held displays that were only half as full as they had been in the old days. Theo could see that the German economy and Göring’s four-year economic plan was in trouble.
Theo was glad they had driven this way. Seeing the barrenness in the windows of Lindheim’s department store gave him courage and a sense of hope. Perhaps Göring might be serious about a trade agreement. Foreign money for Jewish lives.
He caught the glance of the driver in the rearview mirror. Was the man in the SS uniform studying Theo so that he could report reactions later?
“The displays at this store are quite bare,” Theo said, hoping that his words would indeed be repeated to Göring. “I am surprised to see such a grand old place stripped down. It must be difficult for the German women after so many years of good shopping here.”
The eyes in the rearview mirror hardened. The amusement and curiosity sharpened to resentment, as if to say, How dare anyone criticize—even if it is true!
Eventually the cluster of city lights dwindled to a sprinkling of lamps scattered across the farmland beyon
d Berlin. Theo had been told that he was to be in Göring’s home, that it had been his wish and he intended to discuss the ransom of human life over a quiet dinner at Karinhall. Theo had not questioned the reason for that request until the broad gates of the estate were swung open. As the car rolled up the drive, Theo could see that the front of the house was illuminated not by electricity, but by an enormous bonfire on the lawn.
A ring of SS and Brownshirts stood solemnly around the leaping flames. Their colorless faces turned to watch as the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the large house that Göring had named after his late wife. Lights glowed in every room. On the upper story, a shadow moved in front of a tall arched window. The shadow looked out as if to measure the effect on Theo as he emerged into the night air. Then the shadow moved away.
Theo looked toward the members of Hitler’s private legion. They still watched him with lifeless eyes. Theo did not move from beside the automobile. He watched until the front doors of Karinhall swung open, bathing the porch in light.
“Herr Stern?” asked a deep and resonant voice. “Herr Jacob Stern?”
“Just admiring the beauty of the bonfire.”
He glanced over his shoulder at a tall SS officer who wore the insignia of a colonel. The man was unsmiling. “The Field Marshal is keeping a vigil in memory of the slain who died in the November Putsch.”
Theo nodded. He remembered all that. He turned away from the flames, from this mystical appeal to the spirits of the dead Nazis.
The heat of the flames clung to his back even as he walked into the mansion. The light of the fire still burned as an after-image in his vision when the hulk of Field Marshal Hermann Göring appeared in the foyer to welcome him.