by Bodie Thoene
Göring had never seriously intended to consider the exchange of lives for trade agreements. Theo had been brought here for a far more sinister purpose. He would be Göring’s personal mouthpiece to carry back to Britain the message of death.
Theo looked out the back window. It was a miracle that the automobile was indeed speeding back to the British Embassy with him alive inside it. He could still see the orange glow from distant Karinhall. Foreboding filled him as he wondered what answer had been planned for the world and the Jews of Germany tomorrow. God was still alive, but Reason was indeed dead. Hitler, Göring, and the rest ruled over millions, but they ruled to serve only the Prince of Darkness.
***
Victoria awoke in the half-light of predawn. Eli was already dressed. She watched him from the bed as he stoked the fire with a fresh supply of pine boughs.
“Eli?” she called sleepily to him.
He replaced the poker and stood slowly. His face was shadowed with the regret that he had to leave her, on this, their first morning together. He returned to the bedroom and stroked her hair as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Why are you up?” she asked, taking his hand and laying it against her cheek. “Come back to bed.”
“I can’t. It is almost light.”
“It’s the middle of the night. Come back to bed.” She smiled dreamily and pulled him down against her on the bed. She wound her silky arms around his neck and kissed him until he kissed her back with an unresisting hunger.
“It is almost light,” he mumbled.
“It is just the moonlight. Come back.” She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
“Captain Orde said . . . he said . . . I should meet him at the gate before the sun comes up.”
She kissed him harder. “It is the moonlight, Eli.”
It was hopeless. At her urging, he was helpless to leave her. “All right. I’ll stay. Even if they see me leave. Even if the Mufti himself should spot me from the city wall. If you say it isn’t dawn but the moonlight, I will stay with you. What is anything compared to this?”
Suddenly she released him. She sat up, leaving him panting, his shirt half-buttoned. “No!” she exclaimed wide awake. “You cannot leave the convent in the daylight! The whole area will be filled with Arabs by morning! You must go now, Eli!”
He protested. He kissed her neck and resisted leaving. “It is the moonlight.”
“It is the dawn! Almost morning! You must go now by the cover of dark!”
“But, Victoria,” he whispered, in pain.
She leaped out of the bed and quickly buttoned her gown as she searched for his jacket. “You must hurry.” She held it for him to put on. “If the Arabs see you, then they will know where we are. We will have to find some other place, and—oh, hurry, Eli, before the sun comes up!”
“I will be back tonight.” He sighed with resignation. Gathering her close against him, he muttered, “May we have an eternity of nights and morning and days together.”
“I will be waiting here for you.”
“Dressed like this, I hope.” He stroked her cheek and smiled down into her eyes.
“Waiting for you.”
***
Still out of breath, the Arab messenger was shown directly into the bedchamber of Haj Amin Husseini. He wiped sweat and mist from his brow as he bowed low before the Mufti.
“What word?”
“As you predicted,” the messenger said. “I watched the British captain bring Eli Sachar into the British headquarters. Sachar wears an English uniform. He has shaved.”
“And the woman?”
“I did not see her. She was not with them, but I followed Captain Orde. He picked up Eli Sachar from the grounds of the Russian convent.”
“You are certain of this?” The Mufti’s eyes were animated in thought.
“No. I mean, I did not see Sachar at the convent, but the armored car pulled up to the gate in the back. It stopped a moment. The gate swung back and then the armored car drove away. It did not stop again until it reached British headquarters, and then Sachar got out.”
This news pleased the Mufti. “She is there, then,” he said under his breath. “At the Russian convent in Gethsemane.” He was smiling, a rare smile. This all seemed so easy. “We shall have to think of a way to draw her out.” He tugged his earlobe.
“The walls are ten feet high. She will not come out from their safety,” protested the messenger.
“We will send her news.” The Mufti clapped his hands, summoning the muscular bodyguard into his room. “Go awake Commander Vargen,” he ordered. “We must discuss the nature of our announcement about the trial of Eli Sachar.”
The messenger frowned. Trial? The Jew was obviously under British protection. “A trial?” muttered the man.
“People will believe anything they hear on the wireless, will they not? The wording must be perfect. She will come. You will see. Victoria Hassan will come to this very door and plead for the life of Eli Sachar.”
“But that would be suicide.”
“A small matter when love is involved.”
***
As if anticipating a coming conflagration, citizens of the Old City Jewish Quarter had begun building barricades across every street into their Quarter.
Eduard Letzno had volunteered to set up an infirmary in the Jewish Old City; he arrived just after dawn with a carload of medical supplies.
Rabbi Lebowitz helped him set up in a back room at the Great Hurva Synagogue; then both the young doctor and the old rabbi had joined the crews who filled sandbags and also canisters with water.
There would be a Muslim funeral in the Old City today, and the rage would no doubt flood the narrow banks to sweep away any within its path.
On this day, Rabbi Lebowitz would not travel to the Western Wall to pray. He would not mail his letter to Etta and Aaron in Warsaw. He would not pass beyond the boundaries of the Quarter. There was no question of that.
Within the great synagogue, he led prayers for Eli Sachar. Everyone knew the truth of what had transpired in the foundry. But truth had little meaning when weighed against blind fury and a rampaging mob.
There was no radio here to spread the word of Muslim outrage. No radio was needed. Not one shop opened. The bells of the Christian Quarter tolled the hours over empty streets. The British soldiers were doubled in force along the wall. Everyone knew what was coming. It was only a matter of when the violence would erupt.
***
For a moment Herschel could not remember the name he had signed on the hotel register.
“Monsieur?” asked the man on the other end of the telephone line.
“Ah. Yes. This is . . . Heinrich Halter. Room 22. Please send up strong coffee and croissants.”
As he took the room service tray and paid the porter for breakfast, it seemed strange to Herschel that he felt so calm this morning. And hungry as well.
If he had any remaining doubts, they had dissipated last night. Herschel had not eaten anything since noon yesterday; he devoured his breakfast hungrily. His depression was gone. A resolute excitement replaced it. Today was the day! The Nazi monster Adolf Hitler would hear Herschel’s message. He would raise his head and know that at least one Jew was not a lamb to be led quietly to the slaughter!
Dressed in his new suit, Herschel took one last triumphant look at himself in the mirror. His one regret was that Hitler himself was too far away to be his target. His one fear was that he would not be allowed into the German Embassy, and that all of this would come to nothing.
He placed his fedora on his head and pulled the brim low. Then, carefully filling the pockets of his overcoat with his identification in case he was shot dead, Herschel left the Hotel de Suez and walked briskly toward The Sharp Blade, the gunsmith’s shop.
He lingered outside for a few moments, trying to decide which weapon in the display window would be best for his purposes.
Then the smiling face of the proprietor appeared at the other side o
f the window, welcoming the young customer into the shop.
***
So many guns. Herschel had not imagined that there could be so many weapons to choose from.
The owner of The Sharp Blade, a man named Carp, showed him nearly every revolver available in the store. Herschel’s head was spinning. He did not know what would best kill a man. Should he choose an automatic or a small caliber pistol?
He picked up one and then another, measuring the weight of each weapon in his hand. He could not decide. An hour passed and still Carp labored over his one lone customer.
At last the diminuitive balding shopkeeper asked in exasperation, “You are so young. Why do you need a gun?”
How could Herschel explain? The reply Hans had given him to such a question entered his mind. “I am a foreigner. I have to carry large amounts of money for my father.”
Carp nodded with relief. He would help the boy decide. “Something to frighten away thieves, eh, young man?”
“If they should attack I would wish to do more than frighten them.”
“Ah well, any one of these will wound and kill. You need something easy to handle.”
“Yes.”
“Easily concealed and quick and simple to use!”
“Exactly,” Herschel nodded seriously as he imagined attempting to conceal one of the larger weapons in his pocket. They were so heavy, certainly someone at the German Embassy would spot the bulge.
Carp held up his trigger finger in pleasure. “Then I have just the thing for you. A small barrel, 6.35 caliber pistol.” He held up the gun. It looked like a toy compared to many of the others.
“But will it do the job?”
Carp laughed at the question. “Would you not run if someone pointed this at you and began to pull the trigger?”
Herschel smiled also. He nodded. Yes. This would be perfect.
***
The pistol had cost Herschel two hundred forty-five francs, including ammunition. He had plenty to pay for it. He inwardly thanked Hans for providing the money that made all this possible.
He smiled as he left the shop. Monsieur Carp had showed him how to load the weapon and how to fire it. Herschel strode quickly to the Tout Va Bien restaurant and went directly into the restroom. With steady hands, he loaded his gun with five bullets and then held it. Soon these bullets would enter the body of a Nazi. Herschel nodded. Yes! All his own pain would be transferred to the enemy through these five tiny bits of lead!
He slipped the weapon into the left inside pocket of his coat before he left the restaurant and descended into the Metro. At Strasbourg-St-Denis station, he caught the subway train for the Germany Embassy.
***
Ambassador Neville Henderson was visibly agitated when he returned from an early morning telephone call. He sat across the breakfast table from Theo Lindheim on the morning after Theo’s trip to Karinhall.
“My God, man! What did you say to Field Marshal Göring? He’s normally such a jolly fellow. I’ve never heard him so distraught before.”
Theo did not reply. Instead, he stared out the window of the ambassador’s residence into a murky-gray Berlin morning. How appropriate, he thought. The world is dividing itself between light and dark, and only the British are still attempting to see shades of gray.
“How could you antagonize the Nazis so?” Henderson continued.
Without answering the question Theo replied, “Exactly how did Göring express his displeasure?”
“He’s ordered, no, demanded that you be expelled from Germany at once. Twenty-four hours, he said. If you’re not off Reich soil in twenty-four hours, he’s going to have you arrested!”
***
Ernst looked up from where he sat at his desk in the embassy to find an immaculately uniformed Konkel staring at him from the doorway. The Abwehr officer had an odd smile on his face. Definitely an unpleasant smile, Ernst thought.
Ernst decided that a touch of bravado was required to overcome the quaver he felt in the pit of his stomach.
“Getting a late start for the celebration, aren’t you? The ambassador and the others have left without you.”
“I have been detained briefly by important business for the Reich,” replied the officer haughtily, “but now I find that all matters are in order and proceeding as they should, so I am free to leave. I shall certainly arrive in time for the solemn remembrance ceremony.”
“Well, then,” Ernst said, with as much nonchalance as he could manage, “Heil Hitler! Naturally, I will be here giving my full attention to the words of the Führer’s speech as it is broadcast to the world.”
That same curious mirthless smile evoked a small shudder in Ernst’s frame, despite every effort he could manage to repress it.
“Before I can depart,” added Konkel, “I must give you instructions about a matter of importance to Reich security.”
“Certainly, Officer Konkel.”
“We have had reports to the effect that there is a violent uprising being planned by gangsters of international Jews. We even have reason to believe that such violence may be directed against Reich property here in France. I have certain contacts who have pledged to bring me advance word of any such activity, and I do not intend to miss receiving the information because of my absence.”
He fixed a piercing stare on Ernst. “Naturally, it falls on your shoulders, vom Rath, to accept such an important message. You must not, under any circumstances, be absent from your post. Is this obligation completely clear?”
“Quite understood. I’ll do my utmost to aid military intelligence in this delicate and important matter. How will I know this individual when he arrives?”
“I have instructed both the housekeeper and the porter to be expecting someone who will indicate that they have an important message to deliver to the person in charge, whereupon the fellow will be shown immediately to you.”
Ernst was puzzled by the apparent change in Konkel’s high regard of him. Perhaps it’s a trap to see what I’ll do, he thought. “And what do I do with the message when I receive it?”
“Have no fear,” said the Abwehr officer bluntly, “you’ll receive explicit instructions that will leave no doubt about what to do.” He gave a Nazi salute of textbook precision and spun on his heel to leave.
Ernst called after him, “Be thinking of me working away here all alone.”
Through the same strange smile Konkel agreed, “I can promise you, we will all be thinking of you.” Then he was gone.
42
The Hour of Agony
Beyond the walls of the Russian convent, all Jerusalem simmered. Emotions, like white hot coals, waited for even a light breeze to whip them into a frenzy.
Proclamations were made from the Dome of the Rock, and Ismael Hassan became a holy martyr to the cause of the jihad against the Jews. From Damascus and Amman and Cairo, radio broadcasts declared that the murderer Eli Sachar must be turned over to the Arab Council for justice! The return of the kidnapped Muslim bride of Ram Kadar was demanded. Speculation was made as to whether Victoria still lived or if the murderer had killed her as well after he had violated her.
In reply, the BBC of Palestine announced that Eli Sachar was in custody and being detained for questioning. So a war of accusation and defense was being made over the airwaves of the Middle East. Vengeance was demanded with a new fervor. The dreaded winds of rumor and lies began to whip against the coals of hatred.
Behind the walls of the convent, Victoria heard none of this. Dressed in the borrowed habit of a novice nun, she walked freely about the compound. She felt no apprehension; there had been no reason for fear. After all, Eli had been taken to the British military headquarters for routine questioning. A deposition. A simple statement of fact about the attack. He would be back as soon as the sun went down again. Victoria longed for that time.
She sat down on the low stone wall surrounding the flagstone courtyard. The sun had broken through the heavy piles of clouds in the east over the mountains of Moab. Sh
afts of light beamed down on the bulbed domes of the Russian church, as if that place alone was in heaven’s spotlight.
Victoria watched the shifting light and shadow for a few moments, then opened her precious mother-of-pearl Bible. The wind rustled over the onion-skin pages until they flipped open to the story of Christ’s agony in Gethsemane. She began to read:
My soul is exceeding sorrowful unto death: tarry ye here, and watch.
She raised her eyes to ponder the ancient olive trees whose roots, it was said, dated back before the prayer was uttered.
Abba, Father, all things are possible unto thee; take away this cup from me; nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt.
Within the peaceful enclave of this convent, the suffering of Christ in the garden seemed tangible and immediate. Somehow she felt that if she climbed the tiny footpath up the slope tonight, she would find Him there. Perhaps tonight, when Eli came back, they would steal away together to Gethsemane and talk to Jesus about suffering.
She turned her face toward the gentle slope of Olivet as it rose behind the church. In these whispered memories of Christ’s suffering, Victoria found a measure of peace.
***
Herschel had changed trains at the Paris Metro station rue Madeleine, and arrived at the Solferino station near the German Embassy a few minutes past ten o’clock.
He stood across the street from the embassy, staring up at its grim walls and the bloodred flag waving lazily from the flagpole above the entryway in the middle of the block.
Herschel nervously fingered the pistol in his coat pocket and thought about the five little messages it contained. He raised his right foot, preparing to step down from the curb and cross the street, when an oncoming truck made him draw back. It passed without stopping, but Herschel did not immediately move again.
What am I standing here for? he pondered. Why don’t I just go in and get it over with? This all seems too easy; it can’t possibly be this simple to kill someone. Maybe I should go around the block to see where the guards are located. Then a horrible thought struck him. What if this isn’t the right entrance and I can’t get in?