by Bodie Thoene
Pastor Karl Ibsen stood in line with three thousand other newly arrested prisoners outside the warmth of the railway terminal, Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse. Damp mist from the Spree River clung to his face and hair and soaked through his coat. Like the others, he had not slept in over twenty-four hours. The stubble of a reddish-gold beard frosted his face; his eyes stung with the stench of Berlin’s burned-out buildings.
On the platform, two dozen SS strutted above the prisoners. At the opposite side of the miserable group, soldiers patrolled with dogs. Prisoners were not allowed to sit down or speak or relieve themselves. Respected men who had once taught at German universities or practiced medicine or led a congregation in worship were forced to defecate or urinate in their clothing. They had learned in the early hours of their captivity not to question, not to ask for favors from their guards.
Karl spotted Nathan Thalmann, a faithful member of his congregation. Their eyes met. In a look, Karl hoped to give Nathan encouragement and hope. Nathan simply shook his head and looked away. What was the use? A Christian of Jewish heritage, Nathan had been singled out when he went to the aid of an old shopkeeper who was being beaten to death. His concern, like that of Karl, had brought him here to the gates of hell.
An SS officer, resplendent in his tall boots and black uniform, walked out onto the platform. He spoke briefly to one of the guards who nodded, saluted, and then fired his machine gun into the air with a burst that sent the prisoners to the pavement in their fear.
Screams pierced the morning, then silence followed by the laughter of the guards and the officer.
The officer stepped forward and looked over the faces of his prisoners. He was still smirking.
“Well, Jews!” he boomed, and his voice carried well in the still, cold air. “How do you like the sound of guns, eh? The last sound Embassy Secretary vom Rath heard before a Jew shot him full of holes. How do you like the sound of death?” He raised his hand in signal, and half a dozen weapons sputtered an ominous warning.
Although the guns shot over them, prisoners ducked, shielding their heads, covering their ears. Once again there was total silence. No one dared breathe as the echo of machine-gun fire died away.
Karl glanced across the street toward the Winter Garden Theater. Only three weeks before, he and Helen had gone there. They had eaten at the Aschinger Restaurant on the next block. Karl focused on those places, reminders of a saner world. How far away!—a gulf separated by guards and dogs and strutting Nazi officers.
The officer assessed the grim faces of the three thousand captives before him, reveling in their fear. “You do not enjoy our humor, I see.” He shrugged. “Wait until you experience the jokes of the Concentration Camp Commandant, eh?” He seemed pleased with himself, keeping his men amused with his great wit. “Well, Jews, we have gotten the news that Buchenwald is filled. Sachsenhausen is also filled. There is still room enough in Dachau for most of you, however. How do you fancy a little train ride to Bavaria?” He raised his chin as if waiting for an answer. The breath of the silent captives rose into the air like steam from a stewpot, giving the illusion of heat. “What? Not anxious to see Bavaria? Ah, well, it is very cold. I hope you have all brought your warm ski clothes.”
In fact, some men among the group were dressed only in nightshirts and stocking feet. Karl had given his sweater to one older fellow at the police station. Karl’s overcoat was warm enough for now, but he regretted not having the foresight to put on woolen socks and heavy boots instead of street shoes. Perhaps Helen would be allowed to send him a package. She would think of such things without being told. She would feel the ache of the cold in his limbs as if it were her own.
The officer smiled as he spoke. Then his tone changed to a patronizing whine, as if reprimanding naughty children. “What? You forgot your gloves and cap? You do not have shoes? Well, without your shoes you will no doubt lose your feet.”
A cry rose up from a small group of women clustered beyond the outer perimeter of the guards. At his words, they covered their mouths in horror and wiped angry tears from their cheeks.
These were the wives—Aryan wives of arrested Jews, Karl guessed. He admired their courage to follow their husbands and face the ridicule of the Nazi guards. The women stood on tiptoe and strained to see their husbands as they peeled off their own coats and sweaters and held up bundles that were forbidden to be passed to the prisoners.
Karl searched the group of women for some sign of his wife, but Helen was not among them. No doubt she had heard of his arrest. Karl hoped that the Gestapo had released Leona Kalner, who would have carried the news to New Church. He thought of Jacob and Mark escaping over the rooftops. If they managed to make their way through the riots, surely they had alerted Helen to his fate.
He had not seen Richard Kalner after their arrest. The two men had been separated immediately. Karl had not been beaten badly, but Richard was almost unconscious when they threw him onto the truck.
Karl shuddered at the thought of what would happen to Richard Kalner. At that same instant, the press of prisoners surrounding him parted slightly, and he caught sight of Richard’s bloodied face. Right eye swollen shut. Cheek blue. Lips cut and puffy. Brown hair caked with his own blood.
Richard saw Karl, too. He raised his hand and let it drop. He did not look away even when the shrill wail of the train whistle announced the beginning of their journey. The two men moved toward each other in hopes that they might be loaded into the same freight car. Then they could talk. After the doors slid shut, they would be free to talk.
***
The airplane passed over the industrial center of London. Smoke from hundreds of factory chimneys mingled with fog to blacken endless blocks of identical houses with soot.
Theo watched as thousands of workmen made their way in the gray morning light toward the huge barn-like factories that cluttered the docks along the Thames River. With the eye of an experienced Luftwaffe pilot, he could easily see what perfect targets the English factories would make from the air. He scanned the riverbanks for possible anti-aircraft guns. Although Parliament had been discussing the need for defense from air attacks, nothing was being done. That fact, coupled with the brutality he had witnessed last night, frightened Theo. What would it take to awaken England? Life seemed to flow on peacefully, monotonously, as though nothing at all had happened in Germany.
He looked across the aisle at the sleeping American diplomat who had helped him pass so easily through German customs. Hopewell’s mouth hung open, his head flung back. He had not uttered a word since five minutes after their takeoff from Tempelhof. Had he seen all the fires across the landscape of the Reich? Had he witnessed enough to sound the alarm for his own countrymen to hear? And, wrapped in their own apathetic dreams, would the Americans want to hear?
Theo frowned and looked down across the city of London. In Germany, they battled the Nazis, a tangible enemy. Here, the enemy was less obvious—the apathy of people who would simply rather not have their personal comfort disturbed. As the plane dipped lower toward the airfield, Theo prayed that the sleepwalking world might awaken before the darkness also crossed their threshold.
As if startled by an inward alarm clock, Hopewell sat up suddenly, yawned, and wriggled a finger in his ear. “Is it London yet?” he asked as the drone of the engines slowed and deepened.
Theo nodded and pointed down. “You’ve been sleeping since Berlin.”
“The only way a diplomat can sleep at all.” Hopewell smoothed his rumpled suit and straightened his bow tie. “En route somewhere. That’s the best sleep I get these days. And I can tell you, after what I saw last night, it may be a while before any of us is able to sleep through an entire night.” He checked his pocket watch and squinted in thought. “I called Joseph Kennedy last night before we left. You know Kennedy, American ambassador to England? Blasted pacifist thinks Hitler is a swell fellow, and we ought to mind our own business. That sort of rot. Anyway, we’ll be having breakfast together this morning. I’d ap
preciate it if you could join us. Maybe open the eyes of the blind ambassador, if you know what I mean. We can go over the dispatches from our consulates in Germany as they come in this morning. Seems to me that might be of help to you as well, eh?”
***
Moshe felt out of place among the mourners of Hanita who gathered in the mess hall after the brief services. He left them there and retreated with his own grief to the privacy of his tent.
The strong smell of onion greeted him as he entered. Before his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he knew he was not alone. Samuel Orde lay on his cot. He took a bite of a raw onion as though it were an apple and then answered Moshe’s astonished expression.
“If you are going to bunk in my tent, you cannot live like a pig.” The captain gestured toward Moshe’s unmade bed. “I am not your mother or your maid to clean up after you. Keep it neat, or I will throw you out on your ear.”
The words slapped Moshe in the face. He exploded with anger. “Where have you been? The whole camp was looking for you, and believe me, these people have more important matters to think about this morning than the whereabouts of some arrogant Englishman!” He tossed his coat onto the unmade cot. “And I will make up my cot when I’m ready! At least I do not stink like an Arab onion field!”
“Exactly.” Orde took another bite. “That is because you have not walked through an Arab onion field recently.” He held the onion up. His meaning was clear. Samuel Orde had been deep in hostile territory, and he had come back safely.
“So what? Am I supposed to be impressed? You made me look like a fool this morning. I stood up for you. No one trusts you, but I stood up for you.”
“You are a fool. You all are. Fools and infants facing something you cannot possibly imagine or fight against because you haven’t the slightest idea how to do it.” He threw the onion at Moshe, who tried unsuccessfully to dodge it. “That is why I am here.”
He stood and pushed past Moshe. Moshe followed angrily after him. In the daylight he could see that Orde was filthy and scratched. Even without the onion the Englishman smelled of sweat. Orde walked toward the mess hall. It did not matter to him if Moshe tagged along.
The murmur of conversation fell silent as he entered the building with Moshe at his heels. Eyes widened. The missing-and-presumed-dead Englishman was alive. How had he reentered the compound? Where had he been? Hostility showed on the faces of many who looked at him. After all, how could anyone slip out of Hanita and return alive on today of all days? He must be a spy, some thought. The accusation was not on their lips, but in their eyes.
“Where have you been?” Zach demanded. “We were looking.”
“He has been to an Arab onion field,” Moshe blurted out harshly.
Orde’s strong aroma confirmed his words.
Zach was not amused. “And what did you find there?”
Orde lifted his chin slightly, exuding the authority of his rank and addressing the men of Hanita as through they were his soldiers. “Come with me,” he commanded, pointing to the same four men who had driven out to deposit the dead Arab on the threshold of his village. Then he also pointed at Moshe and Zach. “You come as well.” He smiled coolly at Moshe. “And if you wake up in hell tomorrow, you have only yourself to blame.”
“Where are we going?” Zach was defiant, suspicious.
Orde turned back the others who followed them curiously across the compound toward the gates. Only the six he had chosen were allowed to hear what he had to say next. He passed out bullets enough to fill each Webley revolver completely. Only then did he explain where he had been and where they were going.
“I tracked the trail of the men who raided you last night. I found where they keep their weapons stashed.”
“So. This is news?” Larry said. “The Arabs have weapons, and we are left with guns for shooting clay pigeons and target practice.”
Orde ignored the complaint. “You Jews of the settlements have been fighting a defensive war against the Muslims for too long. Such tactics will not save your lives or your settlements. You will never put down the enemy that way.” He looked out beyond the barricades. “We will wage a new kind of war.”
“We?” repeated Zach skeptically.
Orde turned on him fiercely. “Yes, WE! You must stop thinking of me as an Englishman and consider me as one of you—fighting the same fight as you, with the same idea in mind and the same goal! I am with you with every beat of my heart. So let’s have no more of these suspicions.” He shifted his gaze and abruptly took charge. “Henceforth, we will not wait for the men of the Mufti to come to us and murder us in the settlements. We shall go out and meet the enemy in the open, near his villages. We shall carry the battle to him.”
The law of the British Mandate declared such actions by Jews were punishable by prison and death. Orde wore the uniform of the British government.
“But that is illegal,” Larry Havas protested.
Orde waved his hand in dismissal of such puny matters. “Leave such little details to me. But first we will need weapons. The Holy Strugglers have kindly provided fine German-made rifles for us just a short hike from here. The seven of us will fetch them and carry them back to Hanita under cover of night.”
***
By the time the plane had bumped down on English soil, the London presses were running hot with the news of Kristal Nacht, the “Night of Broken Glass.” From all indications, the violent night rolled over into a violent morning. The breaking of glass and lives continued after the breaking of a new day.
Murphy had been up since Anna had telephoned with news that Theo was en route across the Channel from Holland. He had not stopped to eat breakfast, but instead went immediately to the TENS office for three hours of work. As he walked quickly beside Anna toward the tarmac, his stomach rumbled. It was only 7:00 a.m., but it felt like the middle of the day.
Word had somehow leaked that an American bigwig diplomat was flying in straight from Berlin. Dozens of reporters from various news agencies jostled for position at the gate. Anna held Murphy back from the hubbub. She did not want to have to fight her way to Theo.
The hum of conversation rose to a shout as the grim American ambassador emerged from the plane. The man looked surprisingly rested and unruffled after last night’s ordeal. He fielded questions easily, replying that he had a report to make to President Roosevelt before he went into much detail, but that he had been witness to the blackest night in history since the Dark Ages. Pens flew at this reference to darkness and ignorance. Bulbs popped frantically, stinging Ambassador Hopewell’s eyes, but missing the exhausted and disheveled figure of Theo Lindheim as he stepped from the plane and searched the crowd for Anna.
“Theo!” she cried, standing on her tiptoes and waving. “Theo! Over here!” For the first time, she let her heart admit that she had spent every moment of his absence wondering if she would ever see him again.
She wept happily as she pushed through the reporters and ran to Theo. It didn’t matter that he was unshaven and rumpled; she wrapped her arms around him and said his name again and again as he stroked her hair. But when she looked up into his face she saw only sadness there. She had seen this look when he spoke softly about the men in the Herrgottseck, “the prayer corner,” at Dachau, and when he spoke about the Covenant—grief coupled with helplessness. She reached up and touched his cheek.
The reporters did not notice him. Murphy hung back for a few minutes while Anna and Theo had their silent reunion.
“One look at you and it all recedes,” Theo said at last. “Like a bad dream, Anna.”
She searched his eyes. “But it is not a bad dream, is it, Theo? And it will not go away like we all hoped, will it?”
“We are past hoping now, Anna,” he answered. “Unless we fight, we have no right to hope.”
12
Through a Wall of Fire
Hours passed slowly inside the stuffy organ bellows. Lori slept standing, leaning against Jacob, who held her up. A wooden brace pressed painf
ully into his back. He imagined them all dying in here, being found by some organ repairman sent to find out why the bellows did not work.
“I have to use the toilet,” Mark croaked. His voice shattered their miserable silence, and Lori woke up as Jacob knocked Mark on the side of the head. Mark began to cry. “I have to . . . I need to use the toilet,” he wailed.
“Shut up!” Jacob hissed, kicking him in the leg.
“Leave him alone,” Lori demanded, suddenly too uncomfortable to care anymore. All she wanted was to get out. Out of the dust and the darkness. To breathe real air again. “We can’t stay in here forever. Leave him alone!”
Jacob groaned as his endurance faded. He was hungry. They had not eaten or had a drink since last night. He needed a toilet, too. Lori was right. They could not stay in here forever. Die standing up in the bellows of a pipe organ? Even the Nazis could not think of a worse prison. “Come on, then,” he said through parched lips.
The trio tumbled out of the bellows, each stumbling in a different direction, away from the enforced closeness.
A cloud of dust followed them. Cobwebs streamed from their hair and hands and clung to their clothing as though they had been entombed for a hundred years.
Like a bird trying to fly, Lori raised her grimy hands toward the high window where a shaft of light beamed down into the little room behind the organ.
Mark stumbled toward the door. A helmet of cobwebs coated his curly blond hair and hung from his chin. He pushed hard against the door, then kicked it when it did not yield. His face was desperate.
Jacob grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him back. “You want them to hear us?”
Mark began crying again. “I don’t care. I want to go to the toilet. I can’t get out. It’s locked.”
Lori shook her head at the two warring brothers. With an air of aloofness, she reached over and grasped the handle of the door. “Pull,” she said, opening the door.