Danzig Passage (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  Charles shrugged. He did not know. Maybe they should call Elisa. There were still some guests at the party. The members of the orchestra were not pushing and shoving on the curb. Either they had gone out the back way or whatever was happening did not affect them. He could hear the low murmur of voices through the floor. The voices did not sound happy anymore. Nobody was laughing.

  He looked at his pajamas and bare feet. Maybe they should get dressed. He was scared. Maybe the Nazis had come into London the way Hitler had come into Vienna without anybody knowing it. The newsmen had run around and looked unhappy on that day, too.

  “Some-thing . . . bad,” Charles stammered. His mouth did not want to talk. “Hitler, maybe.”

  Louis’ eyes got big. He nodded, remembering the way the grown-ups had acted in Vienna. He looked out the window and then hugged Charles. He was crying now, and he needed Charles to comfort him again. It was always that way when things were bad. Charles was stronger than Louis.

  Horns hooted angrily outside. And then, as Charles held his trembling brother, the voice of D’ Fat Lady began to sing again. There was no trumpet or piano behind her. The song was slow and sad. Her voice, deep and rich, pierced the walls until it sounded as if she were right there in the room with them. Charles had never heard her sing so beautifully, not in all the times he heard her on the radio.

  “Go down, Moses . . .

  Waaaaay down, way down in Egypt La-and!

  Tell ol’ Pha-raoh! Tell ‘im!

  Let. My. People. Go!”

  She sang songs like this for a long time. Instruments from the orchestra joined in. Charles sat still with his eyes shining in the dark as he listened. He could hear the sweet cry of Elisa’s violin playing. He knew the voice of her instrument as easily as he would recognize the voice of his mother. Tonight it was sad, crying music like Charles had never heard before. Louis fell asleep with his head still cradled in Charles’s arms. Charles stroked his brother’s hair the way Mama used to do, and eventually he fell asleep as well.

  ***

  “Tor auf! Tor auf! Bitte! Please! Open the gate!” Desperate voices of hundreds rang in the air outside the British Embassy. Theo wondered if his friends were among those begging to enter. He frowned and thought of Anna’s only sister. Little Helen. She and her family were not Jewish, but here in Berlin, they might be brought under suspicion because of their relationship to Theo.

  Embassy Secretary Kirkpatrick was no longer filled with the assurance that Theo would be out of the Reich by morning. He glanced nervously at Theo’s packed luggage as he explained the negotiations taking place downstairs in the office of the ambassador.

  “The Nazis have stated that since you are an escaped criminal of the Reich, you will be arrested the moment you leave the compound. Of course you are safe as long as you remain here within the walls of the embassy.” He cleared his throat nervously, as if he did not believe what he had just said. “They have told the ambassador that the Führer would much rather this matter be settled through proper political channels. That in light of what happened in Paris, it would be a gesture of goodwill by His Majesty’s government if—”

  “If I were handed over immediately,” Theo finished.

  Kirkpatrick nodded once, then pointed toward the shuttered window. “There are hundreds of Jews outside the gate, begging to get in, begging for refuge. It is the same at the American Embassy.” He gestured toward Theo’s valise. “You must leave your luggage. Come with me. Hurry.”

  Theo picked up two sealed envelopes. The first contained his letter to Anna. He held it out to Kirkpatrick. “A letter to my wife—she is in London. The other is to my sister-in-law. She lives here. Please see that they get delivered, will you?”

  Kirkpatrick took the notes and pocketed them with a preoccupied nod. “Please, Mr. Lindheim. We must hurry.”

  Newly waxed hardwood floors squeaked beneath their shoes as Theo followed Kirkpatrick down the broad hallway of the old mansion to the back servants’ stairs. Theo could not help but wonder if the Nazi downstairs could hear them, if even now his eyes turned upward with the knowledge that his prey was attempting to leave by the back door.

  “Tor auf! Tor auf!” The pleading penetrated even here.

  Kirkpatrick glanced over his shoulder at Theo and held a finger to his lips as if he, too, felt the eyes of the hunter.

  The corridor was dimly lit by electric lights that had been converted from gas lamps at the turn of the century. The electric wires ran exposed along the baseboard of the wall, evidence that embassy renovation had been halted since the discovery of listening devices installed by German electricians in remodeled rooms downstairs. Were others planted elsewhere in the embassy? Neither Theo nor Kirkpatrick spoke. Theo did not ask where he was being led, nor did Kirkpatrick offer explanation.

  Somewhere in the building a telephone rang insistently. Theo counted ten rings before it fell silent.

  Kirkpatrick led the way down a steep stairway. The scent of baking bread drifted up, a strange contrast to the distinct odor of smoke that blanketed Berlin. Kirkpatrick did not switch on the lights. With a touch on Theo’s arm, he guided him across a tiled floor.

  In the kitchen, a tall, cadaverous man in a chauffeur’s uniform waited silently beside a much shorter, stocky man dressed in a business suit and a raincoat. Both looked up when Theo and Kirkpatrick entered the room.

  Wordlessly the short man took Theo’s hand; then Kirkpatrick offered a silent farewell. Theo’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he followed the short man toward the servants’ entrance to the embassy.

  The chauffeur preceded Theo out and opened the door of a black limousine that bore the insignia of the American ambassador. With a nod he motioned for Theo to get in, and be quick about it.

  Sliding into the backseat of the car, Theo looked up to see that Kirkpatrick had already closed the embassy door. In a moment the chauffeur started the engine and pulled slowly around to the front entrance of the building. Theo did not look out the curtained windows of the vehicle, but he could clearly hear the cries of Berlin’s Jews who had gathered outside the embassy gates to beg for asylum. “Tor auf!” Then other cries arose—shouts of the men who had pursued them there.

  “It will only be a moment, sir.” The chauffeur turned his long face to look at Theo. He heard the people too, and his eyes reflected anger and frustration that there was nothing to be done. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.” Perhaps there was some comfort in the fact that Theo, at least, could be helped. The chauffeur sprang from the car and circled around. A moment later he opened the door and stepped aside as the short man in the raincoat slipped in beside Theo. The door shut quickly behind him.

  Once again the short man took Theo’s hand. “Ambassador Hopewell.” The man smiled. “We’ll give you a lift to the airfield.” His handshake was as warm as his eyes. “They’re quite intimidated by us Americans, these Nazis are.” He seemed pleased. “I’ll be flying with you to London tonight.”

  Theo barely managed to repress a shudder. He felt the nearness of those who would not be leaving Berlin by their own free will tonight.

  “Tor auf!”

  If he looked out the window, would he see the faces of friends and family pleading to go with him? Such a thought robbed him of any relief he might have felt.

  ***

  The climb over the wall was easy. Alfie wondered why he had not done it before. Perhaps it was because Mama had always told him to be a good boy; and good boys, she said, obeyed.

  Alfie jogged along the wooded lane that wound through the park outside the hospital compound. It was dark, but he could see the bright light of Berlin and the big fire. Home was there somewhere.

  The cold stung his bare feet. Sometimes he stumbled and almost fell, but he did not slow down as he ran. Mama had said that he was a good runner. A deer in the forest. A fine strong boy. Here he was not a Dummkopf.

  The air cleared his lungs and he was not afraid anymore. The city was ahead. He woul
d go home and get some clothes, and—

  Suddenly it came to him that he could not go home. Mama would not be there. She was at New Church. Dead. Alfie stopped running now. He braced himself against a tree and struggled against the confusion that filled his head. “Dummkopf!” he said aloud. What had he been thinking of? He had been so happy that he had forgotten Mama was gone.

  But there was still Pastor Ibsen! Pastor would be at New Church. He would be glad that Alfie had come back!

  The other children at New Church would be glad to see him, too. Lori had always been nice to him. She did not let other children make fun of him. And Jamie had been his partner in hide-and-seek. Together they had found a dozen places to hide that no one knew about. And Pastor’s wife, Frau Helen, had loved Mama. He could still remember the comfort of her hug when Mama had died.

  Such thoughts led to a decision as easy as climbing the tree. Alfie would go home to New Church! They would be glad to see him come home.

  ***

  The American ambassador seemed in no hurry to leave Berlin.

  “Turn here!” he ordered the chauffeur, who turned toward the brightest glow on the Berlin horizon. Then he looked sternly at Theo. “The President will ask me what I have seen. I intend to have something to tell him.”

  And so, like tourists cruising through hell, they viewed the carnage. Theo followed the example of the American and rolled his window down slightly so that he might hear as well as see what was happening.

  The largest fire in the city consumed the wealthy Fasanenstrasse Synagogue near the zoo railway station. Clouds of dense smoke rolled up from the three domes of the stone building. The interior of the synagogue was a white-hot furnace; tiles of the roof glowed from the heat that devoured the rafters. Theo did not doubt that passengers arriving by train from the West could clearly see the conflagration. He watched without comment. After all, what could he say at such a sight? Did it matter that he held memories of this place and this city in better times?

  The embassy vehicle inched along, hindered by the thousands who gathered in central Berlin. Dozens of men and women rushed into a smashed toy shop in the arcade on Friedrichstrasse to scoop up merchandise.

  “Come on! Free Christmas presents!” they shouted.

  Theo knew the owner of the elegant little shop. Anna had purchased Elisa’s dolls there. Theo wiped a hand over his eyes.Am I dreaming? he thought. Can this be happening?

  Gangs of youths followed the looters, smashing plate glass windows, glass display cases and counters, partitions, and even leftover toys.

  The American car watched the destruction from a discreet distance with the engine still running. Five other shops in the arcade were plundered within minutes of the first.

  A short distance away, on the corner of Jaegerstrasse, a second-story pawn shop became the focus of violence. Nazi youth with lead pipes broke the windows and threw fur coats down on the heads of the waiting crowds. Around the corner a tailor’s shop was looted. In the doorway the tailor’s dummy, with a hat on its head, was hung from the neck. GYNSPAN THE TAILOR! read a sign pinned to the chest.

  In front of one magic shop, children lined up holding broomsticks with string and safety pins tied onto the ends. A policeman laughed as they fished through the broken window for boxes of tricks.

  While older boys and young men threw typewriters and furniture out onto the street, another gang wheeled a piano out of a music store and began to play the latest Berlin tunes for the onlookers.

  The ambassador sighed heavily, glanced at his watch, and tapped the chauffeur on his shoulder. “I have seen enough,” he said. The limousine slid by a shoe store where myriad laughing men and women sat on the curb and tried on stolen shoes.

  These were the scavengers, Theo noted. They came in after the Rollkommandos, the wrecking crews who proceeded from shop to shop under the command of a leader. This was not the spontaneous outbreak the Nazi propaganda machine had been speaking of. From start to finish, it seemed highly organized and well thought out.

  “He owns the young people,” Theo whispered, heartsick as he gazed at the evil light in their young faces. How thankful he was that his own sons had been forbidden to belong to the Hitler Youth because of their heritage! How grateful he was that they would soon be leaving for American schools, thanks to the help of Mr. Trump! Once, Theo had imagined Wilhelm and Dieter as part of Berlin. He had thought they might become businessmen, or maybe belong to the German Reichstag. But now, on this night, he saw the destruction that Hitler had brought to the souls of Germany’s young people, and he rejoiced that his sons were not considered worthy to be part of German culture.

  Everywhere they passed beatings and arrests; every streetlamp provided a spotlight for a tiny human drama. The audience cheered as Jewish men were kicked and stripped and beaten.

  The ambassador hastily scribbled notes, writing down the names of ransacked shops he knew to be owned by Americans. Some official protest could be made based on the destruction of American-owned enterprises—three small businesses among hundreds now in ruins.

  Ambassador Hopewell rolled up his window as a shout of “Hang the Jew in his shopwindow” was called by a jeering young man in a Storm Trooper uniform.

  “And now we take our leave, eh, Mr. Lindheim?”

  Theo nodded curtly. He also raised his window but could not take his eyes from the spectacle.

  “You lived here your entire life?” the ambassador asked, many questions summarized in the one. Has it always been this way with the German people? How did you survive their hatred?

  “Nearly all my life,” Theo said in a barely audible voice. “And life was nearly always good here.”

  The eyes of the ambassador narrowed with doubt. “But how—” He swept his hand toward the flames of a newly lit bonfire of furniture and clothing on the sidewalk. A Jewish couple in their nightclothes wept and begged for mercy in this tableau of horror beyond the window of the limousine. Theo wanted to jump from the car, to drag the couple into the vehicle and speed away. He could do nothing. Nothing but watch and wonder how. . . .

  Finally the vehicle turned onto a dark street, an obviously Aryan street. There was no destruction here, only silence and unlit windows.

  Finally Theo found an answer for the American. “It is happening because we thought it could never happen here.” He looked away at the slumbering houses. “We were naïve. We were asleep. The Christian Church was also asleep, Mr. Hopewell. And now we have lost our children and our nation to the darkness of that terrible sleep.”

  Theo did not look back toward the glowing skyline during the short trip to Tempelhof. The ambassador did not ask him any other questions, but did provide him with an answer as they turned through the gate of Tempelhof Airfield.

  “They will not question you,” Hopewell said. “We are blackmailing the Nazi thug who will examine your papers.” He shrugged. “Sometimes we have to play the game by their rules.”

  7

  The Death of All Hope

  Pastor Karl looked in the rearview mirror of his automobile. New Church shone bright in the reflected light of the dying synagogue. He turned onto Friedrichstrasse and glimpsed the torch-bearing gangs in the shopping district eight blocks ahead.

  For the first time he regretted his decision to drive the old Damlier-Benz to the Kalner apartment. Even from this distance he could see the shimmer of broken glass on the cobbled street. Crowds of spectators ringed the Storm Troopers as they hefted stones through plate glass windows and doused heaping piles of furniture and merchandise with kerosene. Suddenly bonfires blazed on the boulevards of Berlin’s finest shopping district. Ten thousand voices raised in triumphant cheers against the Jews.

  Karl slowed and pulled to the curbside. He gripped the steering wheel in astonished horror at the sight unfolding before him.

  A fire truck lumbered indolently around the corner of Wilhelmstrasse. It blocked the intersection, helping to hold back the human tide from the government section of the city.r />
  Hundreds of people swarmed the truck, climbing onto the idle equipment to sit beside firemen and watch the planned conflagration.

  A group of two dozen rowdies emerged from a side street half a block from Karl’s car. They seemed intoxicated with the pleasure of their task; their young faces wild with excitement as they called out to yet another group on the opposite side of the wide street. “Are we too late here?”

  “Never too late until every Jew is dead!” came the reply. “Heil Hitler!”

  “The next block over!” shouted another young man.

  Karl tugged the brim of his hat low over his forehead and walked toward them. They appeared no older than Lori, no older than Jacob Kalner, whom they would kill with little provocation tonight. The thought made Karl shudder. He wondered if he was too late. The next street over. The street where the Kalner family lived. The pogrom was just beginning there.

  Karl felt the gaze of a thousand spectators from the apartments above him. Some members of his congregation had lived on this street, including two families who left the church when Karl had refused to allow Lori and James to join the Hitler Youth. When he did not expel the non-Aryan members of the congregation from the church, still another spate of defections had occurred.

  Karl looked up at the darkened windows of one such home and saw the fires reflected in the glass. He wondered if that man and woman, who had denounced his pro-Jewish policies so loudly, now recognized him and watched. Perhaps they stood just beyond his view and made cynical bets about his purpose for going out on such a night as this: “There is Pastor Jew-lover. Probably going to the Kalners’.”

  Karl quickened his pace. He stepped off the sidewalk to pass around the gang of laughing young men.

  The cans of kerosene they carried were all the same: government issued. These young Storm Troopers, dressed in civilian clothes, still sported their military boots. They stood languidly on the street corners, exchanging stories about the old Jewish cloth merchant they had beaten, the daughter they had raped after locking her mother in the closet.