by Bodie Thoene
“Look,” Jamie said at last, tracing his finger along the thick black line of the main railroad from Berlin to the east. “It is only two and a half inches from here to the border of Poland. And another half inch to Danzig and the transports.”
Lori reached across the map to touch Prague in the south. “But it is still only two inches farther to Prague. We should not think about Danzig. They will not take us on the ships to England. Papa said we should go to Prague; that is where his friends are, where the refugee children’s headquarters are. Aunt Anna started that program. I’m not going to Danzig!”
Jacob leaned closer to the map. “There are more Nazi Storm Troopers between Berlin and Prague since the Sudetenland has fallen. It will be a more dangerous passage for us. And these things . . . here, where the Czech border used to be . . . these are mountains.”
“Not very big ones,” Mark said.
“But there will be snow,” Jacob tapped the mountain fortifications that were now firmly in Nazi control. “Snow and Storm Troopers between Berlin and Prague. I say we head north instead. We reach Danzig. Call your aunt in England.”
Lori drew back, sitting on her haunches and clenching her fists angrily. “You heard the rules. We do not qualify for those ships to England!”
“To Danzig!” Jacob’s reply was firm. He was the leader. If it was up to Lori, she would simply sit in the church until the Nazis knocked it down on her head. She still hoped her father would come back! What did she know? “Yes. To Danzig. It is closer, and there will be fewer troops to get past.”
Her chin trembled as she searched for words to express her outrage. “No! I am not going to Danzig! Papa said Prague, and so Jamie and I will go to Prague! If we must leave here, we should go where Papa wanted us to go. That way he’ll be able to find us. Besides, you said we should go to Prague!”
Jamie’s face reddened. He did not like his sister making decisions for him. This was not for a mere girl to decide. “I am going where Jacob goes.”
“You are going right where Papa and Mama wanted us to go—the refugee center in Prague! Otherwise, how will they find us when—?”
“There is no when,” Jacob growled in a low whisper. “Stop thinking they are coming for us! They are in prison, or worse!”
“Shut up!” Lori cried. Her fist came from the north and glanced off his cheek in the south. “You always think the worst!”
The blow did not hurt Jacob. He touched his hand to his cheek and smiled wryly at the attack. “You hit like a girl. You think like a girl.”
His amusement only made her more angry. With a strangled yelp she threw herself against him, her fists pummeling his face and shoulders as he fell backward on the floor and raised his arms to shield himself.
Quick-thinking Mark rescued the precious map from Lori’s scrambling feet. Jamie drew back in amazement at his sister’s wrath. He had never seen such a thing from his sweet and gentle sister! Not ever! Now, here was Lori, slugging away while Jacob rolled back beneath the blows and tried to stifle his laughter.
“Join the Hitler Maidens,” Jacob mocked. “They will teach you how to fight!”
At that, Lori’s eyes widened. She hit him harder, but still he laughed at her as her fists bounced off the shield of his big hands.
“Anything! Anything is . . . better—” She reached for his hair and pulled. He gasped with surprise and grasped her arm, angry.
“You little—” He jerked her back and down to the floor, pinning her without effort while she kicked and called him a filthy Nazi commando, a Gestapo slime, and an atheist.
“You are rotten! Rotten!” she hissed, kicking her legs hard as he sat on her and held her arms against the floor. “Let me go! Let me—” Tears of hot anger spilled over. “I won’t go with you! Not ever!”
Her knees struck him in the back, but he held her firmly in place. “Now you listen to me!” Jacob’s voice was just as angry as hers. “You have been nothing but trouble! You whine about your parents—”
“When Papa gets back—”
“He’s not coming back!” He gave her a shake, let her cry for a minute, then continued. “So! No one is coming to save us; do you hear me, Lori? It is up to us! We cannot survive if we argue—and you argue about everything!”
“You are . . . unreasonable!” The rage in her voice fell away to frustration and grief. “I cannot! I have not . . . you have not even let me have a bath! I want a bath! I want . . . my mother and father! I want to go to Prague so they will find us!”
Jacob glared down at his sobbing captive. She closed her eyes tight but tears still escaped. Her pretty face was red. Her nose was running. A flash of pity for her coursed through him. “Lori . . . ,” he began gently, but did not let her up.
“And you are so . . . brutal! I am glad to know!” She tried to raise her arm against his weight. “You hear me? I am glad to find out how mean you are, Jacob Kalner, because I . . . I didn’t know how mean you were!”
The blow hit home. Jacob had not thought of himself as mean. He had only been cautious and careful. His rules and regulations had been for their safety. Somebody had to be the leader, and it certainly could not be this sniffling female. “I am the leader,” he said defensively. “Somebody had to be the leader, and it’s me.”
“You’re a bully. Like Hitler! If you weren’t Jewish, you’d be a basher, just like they are! And I’m glad I know the real you because as soon as we get out of here I never—” she struggled against him—“I never want to see you again!”
Jacob eyed Mark and Jamie, who watched from a safe distance. Mark shrugged as if to say, What do you expect? Jamie scratched his head in embarrassment at his sister’s outburst. Neither boy seemed to agree with her. “If I let up, will you promise not to—”
“I promise nothing!” she sobbed back.
He pressed harder on her arms, and she winced with pain. “Promise. And we will talk reasonably.”
“Let me up! Bully! Adolf Hitler!”
Fresh anger flooded him at her words. He bent down over her, his nose an inch away from hers. “Take it back!”
She turned her face away. He pressed his lips against her ear and whispered fiercely, “Take it back, or I will—”
“You will what? Hitler! Hitler! Hitler!”
“I should throw you out of here. Turn you over to the SS! I’m glad to see what a stubborn person you really are! All this time I was thinking you were such a—”
“Such a what?” she demanded, raising a knee hard into his back.
“Such a pleasant person! I am only glad to have this time to get to know the real you, that’s all! Not the kind of girl a man wants to . . . be trapped with . . . that’s all!” He scowled up at the boys who still watched the struggle with amazement. He addressed them as their leader. “If we go to Prague, it would only be because I want to get rid of her, and she will not be gotten rid of any other way.” He released his grip, but remained sitting on her stomach. She did not move for a moment. The print of his fingers showed red on the skin of her wrists. “You are a lot of trouble, but I will take you to Danzig with us anyway,” he said. As she sneered back defiantly, he rose and stalked out of the basement, pausing only to gesture to his troops that they should follow and leave the mutineer to herself.
25
The Only Way Out
Over a hot cup of tea, Lucy studied the travel brochures and timetables as though every word contained a happy prophecy about her future. Within each paragraph she inserted her own name. In the frame of every photograph, she imagined herself smiling in the sun on the steps of the old brick Marienkirche cathedral, or sipping a glass of white wine in a little café along Grosse Alle. She scrutinized the names of little shops housed in the gabled buildings of Langer Market. In one of those shops she would find a job and pass her days happily gazing out on that very street!
At this point Lucy frowned, sat back, sipped her tea, and looked away with a long stare of worry. And what will happen if I do not find a job?
/> She flipped to the part of the brochure that discussed in detail the currency restrictions for leaving the Reich.
The financial situation has made it necessary to limit the amount of currency of any kind that may be taken out of Germany. The maximum permitted as this is published is 200 marks.
The cold chill of reality set in. She stared bleakly at the rates of exchange. Two hundred German marks was equal to just under fifty dollars. One American dollar was equal to one Danzig gulden. Legally she could take not one penny more than that amount out of the Reich. To attempt to do so would result in arrest for smuggling and instant imprisonment after the first customs check.
Lucy had seen firsthand how thorough the Nazi customs officials were. Some months before, she had witnessed the arrest of a Jewish couple who had concealed currency in the lining of their coats.
The memory made Lucy blink. Jews, she knew, could take only ten marks from the country. She had thought their arrest was only right as she had watched them being led away. But she was considering the same crime against the state. Her cheeks reddened with a flush of shame at her former self-righteousness. She had raised her head in disdain as the pale woman had begged the officers to let them go. How unfeeling Lucy had been then when Wolf had haughtily uttered, “Jewish swine! Trying to steal from the Aryan people!”
With a shudder of regret, Lucy pulled her attention back to her own troubles. HOTELS. Danziger Hof, 100 rooms (6 with baths), 2-3 guldens per day.
“No,” she muttered aloud. All her funds would vanish within two weeks at that rate, even if she gave up eating! “There will be no sipping of white wine in a café,” she sternly warned herself as she skimmed down the list to the bottom. Continental, 35 rooms opposite the Main Station. 1 gulden per day.
There was nothing in the booklet any cheaper. Lucy mentally marked the place and resigned herself to the fact that even before she found a job, she would have to search for a boardinghouse where meals were included with a room.
Such restrictions made the matter of counting her assets seem foolish now. What was the purpose of selling her watch and rugs and her grandmother’s silver crucifix if all the cash would be confiscated, anyway?
With a sigh, Lucy pushed away the brochures and timetables. She stared, unseeing, across the rooftops of Vienna. Perhaps this was all futile. Maybe she was, indeed, destined to be a prisoner in the elegant Lebensborn. Perhaps she should simply resign herself to giving up the baby. Certainly Wolf’s arrogant self-assurance in this matter was his knowledge that she was trapped. How could she leave Germany? And if she did leave, how would she survive?
Her tea grew cold in the cup. She wanted to ask God for help, but she dared not. Why should she expect her prayers to be heard?
Once again the vision of Stephanie Bridge and the cold waters of the Danube coursed through her mind—a vision as easily imagined as the streets of Danzig. Perhaps it was the only way out, after all.
***
The obvious distortions and lies published by the State Church and pronounced by men like Gustav Dorfman did not threaten Karl Ibsen. He knew the Scriptures; he could recognize in an instant where whole passages had been lifted out of context and mutilated to suit the aims of the Nazi party. Reading the booklets and inwardly debating their twisted contents became a game with him, a mental and spiritual exercise. If other Nazi clergymen came to debate him in his cell, he would be ready for them. He could reply with the whole truth of God’s Word. At first, this confidence had made him smile. All these years he had preached the importance of memorizing the Scriptures not by isolated verses but in the context of their whole meaning. He had not foreseen how valuable that lesson would be to him. But then, he had not ever imagined being locked in a tiny cell with no other company than a stack of printed lies.
The theology of the Nazi church was not the big lie that attacked Karl in the darkness of the night. The battle was much more subtle and much more dangerous.
As dawn crept through the tiny window of his cell, he lay beneath the thin blanket on his cot and listened once again to the whisper: Once I was of use to God. Now what good is my life? What testimony do I have in this utter silence and loneliness?
Karl could hear the distant whistle of the train to Danzig. The counterpoint of the prison loudspeakers echoed in the clear morning air.
He closed his eyes and pictured the groaning awakening in the barracks, the shouting guards, the growling dogs. The whisper came to him again: You stayed here to help them. To minister to the suffering of this place. And here you are, locked in a cell. You are somewhat warm. You are fed. You have paper on which to write. And you are of no use to anyone here.
Outside in the corridor, Karl could hear the rattle of the approaching meal cart. He would get thick, lukewarm porridge, a slice of bread, and a cup of tasteless coffee—an elegant meal compared to the breakfast given to Richard Kalner and the others in the barracks.
Karl sat up slowly as the meal slot at the bottom of the door slid back and the tray was shoved through. He stared at it, wishing he could give some of the abundance to those who needed it more than he did. The voice inside grew louder: Maybe there was some reason for being a martyr when you could minister to the others. But this is pointless! You are separated from your family. You are more silent than you would be if you had signed the Nazi paper! At least you could do something if you left this place! Why not sign what they want and leave? You serve no one in this place.
The meal slot shut with a clang. He stared at the food tray angrily, resenting the luxury of a meal that denied him the right to say, I am here for Christ. I stay among the suffering and the hungry to serve my King, to share the comfort of God’s love with others in need.
A sense of guilt hung over him as he prayed over his meal. He ate it all, every bite, with the awareness that every morsel was precious. At the far end of the corridor the cart rattled back, picking up empty trays. Karl took his pencil and wrote the note he had written every morning since he had been placed in the cell:
Let me go back to the people I have come to minister to.
Pastor Karl Ibsen
He never received any acknowledgment of his request. The official answer of the Nazi state church was that it was not suitable for any Aryan to minister to a Jew. Karl knew that answer from the booklets. They were all lies, and yet, still, he listened to the whisper: Why not tell them what they want to hear and go free?
***
After lunch, Moshe lay back on the cot and watched Samuel Orde scribbling away at the desk against the back wall of the tent. It was not a desk, really, but two planks laid out on sawhorses pilfered from the Hanita workshop. It served its purpose.
When Orde was not training the young men of the Yishuv to fight like Englishmen, to march sixty miles a day and survive hardships in the desert, he spent his off-hours writing about it at this desk.
Does he ever sleep? Moshe wondered drowsily. His feet ached from last night’s hike over rough terrain. His back and neck felt as though he had been trampled by a herd of elephants. He wanted only to stretch out and sleep. But there was Orde—writing, writing, checking notes like a bank executive, putting sections of paper to one side and shuffling other sections together.
The stack of manuscript pages grew day by day. While some members of the Special Night Squad returned to the plow during the daylight hours, Orde plowed through his magnum opus. Moshe had come to find out what it all meant.
“What is it?” Moshe asked at last.
“A training manual for the army of the future nation of Israel. And for the Haganah to use until there is an official army, of course.”
It was an answer, but Moshe had not been asking that question. He wanted to know what drove Orde to work so hard. Why did he love the thought of Zion, the Jewish homeland, so much that he dedicated all his life and training to moving it nearer to reality . . . Or at least to helping keep the dream alive in these perilous times?
“No.” Moshe tried again. “I mean, why are you
doing it?”
Orde did not lay his pen down or turn around. He kept writing as he spoke. “It seems important for you to have a training manual, one particularly fitted to this terrain and these fighting conditions. Also, it seems important that I put down on paper what we are fighting for—the specific promises God has given in His Word about Israel and the return of your people to the land.” He paused for an instant, the pen held just above the paper, poised to continue. “Also . . . I have the feeling I may not be here with you much longer.”
This was not exactly the reply Moshe had wanted either. The ominous foreboding in Orde’s voice made Moshe sit up in alarm. “Don’t say such things, Hayedid. It is bad luck,” he said. He had already lost his brother and did not relish the thought of losing his English friend.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Orde laid the pen down and turned to look at Moshe. His expression was kind, as if Moshe’s concern had touched him.
“I am trying to ask you . . . not just about this book of yours, but about why you do this? Why do you care so much what happens to the Jewish people? You must be one of a handful. Other Englishmen resent the way you help us, resent your faith. We all see it, even when you slap a man for coughing when we are on a sortie, even when you are so harsh with us that we think we cannot walk another step. You keep on walking yourself, and so we must follow where you lead us. How do you have the strength? And why?”
“Ah. So that is your question, is it?” Orde seemed amused by this burst of emotion, confused though it was. “I can tell you this, Moshe . . . I keep walking to get back to Hanita so I can write this book for you!”
“You could get killed,” Moshe challenged. “The Mufti calls you the most dangerous man in Palestine. There is a great reward for your head. Quit joking with me, Orde. I want to know why you are so interested in us!”
Something deeper filled Orde’s eyes. He considered the question. “Your Messiah came through the root of Israel. He says His Covenant is with you, forever, for a thousand generations. The Lord submitted himself like a lamb of sacrifice to pay the penalty of my sins. Mine. Samuel Orde. My many sins He took on himself.”