Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  She was too weary to think about it now. Perhaps all of Warsaw was safe from the designs of the Führer, perhaps not. All that mattered to Lucy was that her baby was safe. She was traveling to Warsaw so that there would be an address for her, a place where a letter might come to her from England with news about the child.

  She raised her head slightly to look as the bright headlight of the express train to Warsaw washed over the berm beside the river.

  “Look there,” said Herr Frankenmuth proudly. “You can see our Polish guns along the tracks.”

  The old man was right. An artillery piece that had been new when Herr Frankenmuth was young now resumed its duty as a rusty sentinel between rail line and river. The silhouettes of soldiers waved up at the lighted window of the passenger cars. Uniforms, helmets, and guns all seemed unchanged from photographs Lucy had seen of the Great War. A picket line of horses stamped and snorted a protest against the noise of the train.

  Lucy laid her head down against the rough canvas and closed her eyes. It was not enough—horses and ancient artillery beside a river were nothing compared to what she had seen at every corner in the Reich. Tonight Lucy had no illusions about the security of great nations. Probably Warsaw was not the fortress that Herr Frankenmuth imagined it to be. But for the moment, none of that mattered to her. There was only one thing she cared about for herself now—that a letter would come for her in Warsaw and she would know where her baby was. She would hold the letter to her heart and imagine that the hand that had written it had just touched her child. That was all. That was enough. It was the last fortress for her broken heart.

  ***

  Alfie Halder and Jacob Kalner slept soundly as the express train to Warsaw rattled over the rails. The black-and-white kitten that had disrupted the best-laid plans now curled peacefully on the lap of Samuel Orde.

  The lights from the train reflected in the dark waters of the Vistula River. Houses and tiny villages huddled at the river’s edge. Lanterns of ships and small boats glowed like fireflies in the night.

  How peaceful the night is! Orde thought as he stroked the kitten. And yet, a Polish soldier had been shot and killed today on the frontier between Poland and Germany. Tonight, in answer to that, Warsaw had mobilized all Polish troops, moving their Army into the forward positions facing the Reich. Orde spotted evidence of this troop movement on the upward roads of the Polish countryside. He had noted the horse-drawn carts among outdated vehicles in the columns. What he knew about the German divisions on the opposite side of that unfortified border made him shudder inside.

  Orde knew that Poland could not afford to remain mobilized for long. Unlike Germany, which directed every resource toward remaining on a war footing, Poland’s Army was not equipped for months of standing on guard against aggressions.

  What Orde had witnessed in Danzig convinced him that war here was inevitable. Certainly it must come before the first rains of autumn made the primitive highways of Poland impassible.

  “September,” he whispered, turning his gaze on his peacefully sleeping charges. He would have to find a way out for these boys and the Lubetkin family by then, or it would be too late. The fate of Poland would be their fate.

  ***

  In the end it was not a coded report from a clandestine agent that caused Adolf Hitler to make up his mind. Nor was it a newspaper account of doings in Parliament that decided Hitler on his action against Winston Churchill.

  Dr. Schmidt had been reading to the Führer from the New York Times. It was innocuous stuff—FDR’s calm reassurances to some Chamber of Commerce about how the European situation would not damage the U.S. economic recovery. Roosevelt agreed with the businessmen’s resolution that Americans should maintain strict neutrality, not getting entangled in foreign affairs that were of no concern to the U.S.

  Hitler was relaxed and jovial, nodding pleasantly as he made a circuit of the great room at Berchtesgaden with its magnificent views of Alpine scenery. In Dr. Schmidt’s view, it was the purest of bad fortune that Hitler’s wanderings about the room took him past the hewn oak coffee table at the precise moment when Schmidt turned to page six of the first section.

  There, opening directly under the Führer’s gaze as if brought to his attention by some sinister force, was the abhorrent face of Winston Churchill. Hitler stopped in his tracks. He stared down at the page, and his breath surged audibly through his nostrils.

  It was an advertisement for an upcoming issue of Collier’s magazine. With Churchill prominently displayed as the cover photo, the caption read: “Hitler Is on the Run—The Inside Story from the Man Who Has Been Watching Him since 1933.”

  “Since 1933!” exclaimed the Führer. “Yes! In my way, hounding me, barking at me! But no longer . . . not one moment longer!”

  Hitler practically ran to the telephone that stood on a small mahogany table in the corner of the room. “Himmler!” he demanded of the operator. “No, I’ll wait!” His tone suggested that his wait had better not be a long one.

  Dr. Schmidt heard the moment when Himmler must have come on the line. “No questions,” ordered Hitler. “Commence Operation Edifice at once, exactly as planned.”

  ***

  Suddenly bread crumbs were not enough. As the hungry chirping of naked chicks filled the cell, mother and father sparrow embarked on a frenzy of journeys to and from the nest. They always carried morsels of food in their beaks, which they crammed into the wide-open throats of their offspring.

  Four baby birds, as near as Karl could figure, maybe five. He could not see them, but he could hear them in their endless demand for nourishment. The bits of Karl’s black bread were reserved for the adult sparrows, even though they no longer seemed to notice the meal Karl placed for them on the window ledge.

  Caring for their children had driven every thought of self from their tiny minds. This fact made Karl smile to himself. Sparrows were not so unlike humans, after all, were they?

  When doubt and worry over the fate of Jamie and Lori came to Karl, he only had to look up at the sparrows laboring over their little ones. If the God who watched sparrows was aware of how the little birds loved their babies, then the God who loved him certainly understood the times when Karl Ibsen grieved for his own children.

  Today, once again, his feathered guests preached a sermon to him. “The Lord pities us as a father pities his children.” If such a thing was true, then no doubt the Spirit of the living God hovered over Karl and Jamie and Lori. Like the sparrows, the Lord carried nourishment to them. He spread His wings to cover them and shield them from the danger that even now surrounded them.

  Outside the window of his cell these days, the endless drone of aircraft could be heard skimming the tops of the trees, prowling along the border of Poland. Karl knew what this meant. He was certain of what was coming. The sky would not be safe for baby sparrows to learn to fly. The earth would not be safe for human children to walk to school. There was nothing he could do now to change that fact.

  ***

  It was the last refugee children’s transport ship. The last miracle. The last chance! Some said that it was easier for those who left than for the mothers who were left behind. After all, they reasoned, the children had a whole new world to learn about and exciting things to experience. The mothers, on the other hand, turned their faces from the last glimpse of the ship and returned to face empty rooms, scuffed little shoes left in the closets, a much-loved toy left behind.

  And just beyond the horizon, the wall of fire loomed higher and brighter and swept ever nearer. Could those mothers dare to hope that they would ever see their little ones again?

  A full twenty-four hours had passed since the last embrace. The ship arrived at Southampton. It was nothing like the arrival of a busload of children at summer camp. No smiles. No cheers. No little hands raised in greeting. Anxious, homesick faces stared down at the beginning of a new life. Anxious, hopeful adult faces looked back up at them from the quay. A small group of musicians played the bright music of Moz
art. The music was nice. It was something familiar in this unfamiliar world.

  Here and there among the waiting crowd, uncles and aunts, old family friends who had left Germany in time, called up to children whom they had not seen in years. Those children were considered the lucky ones by their companions. At least someone knew them, yes? This distant connection was better than nothing.

  Exuberant joy, the tearful happy reunion of a mother with her two children was a miracle not expected on the docks of Southampton. Such a sight might have broken the little hearts who had no more mama to hold them; no more papa to lift them up and carry them away on top of broad shoulders.

  For this reason, Helen Ibsen waited for her children in the privacy of a cluttered shipping office. She sat very still between Anna and Elisa while one thousand immigrant children were sorted between those who had someone and those who had no one. It was a lengthy process; an hour and a half that seemed as long as terrible as all the months that had gone before. All the while doubts and fear hovered close and black in the little room.

  When at last the door groaned open. Helen’s heart hung in her throat.

  The grim face of a balding clergyman appeared. “Mrs. Ibsen,” he said in a soft voice. A sad and sympathetic voice. “We have a bit of a situation here. Something concerning one of the boys.”

  Helen, Elisa, and Anna stood together. They grasped each other’s hands. As if their blood supply was linked, they grew pale at the same moment.

  And then the clergyman stepped aside.

  First Jamie ran to the arms of his mother with a shout! Then Mark entered—poor Mark, no mama among the three women. Had he guessed the fate of his mother and father? He looked hopefully at Anna and Elisa. He had been hoping for a surprise; hoping that his mother would be there. Like a gift that was expected, but not received, the absence of Mark’s mother caused him to burst into tears. Helen reached out for him, pulled him close. She ran her fingers through his hair and touched the tears on his cheeks just as she did her own son.

  And then came Lori, cradling the baby in her arms. Her eyes were red from crying. She looked exhausted from the ordeal of walking among so many little broken hearts.

  She hung back, hesitant to run to her mother. Almost shyly she greeted Anna and Elisa. Four men and women wearing official identification tags crowded in behind Lori, interrupting the reunion with nervous coughs and uneasy looks.

  “Mama?” Lori asked and then, she too fell into her mother’s embrace.

  It was well known and discussed openly among the older children on the refugee ship that in many cases infants were to be placed in British homes for permanent adoption.

  Lori kept this in mind as she faced off with the tribunal of the immigration committee who questioned her about why this tiny baby was given Alfred Halder’s identity when the records showed that Alfred Halder was quite a bit older, indeed.

  When it was discussed that the infant should be placed immediately into the home of a loving British couple who had been longing for a newborn child, Lori wept with all the sincerity of that long-ago mother who stood before King Solomon to plead for the life of her baby.

  She would not let anyone lay a hand on the baby. She claimed that the child was her own; that she and Jacob Kalner had conceived it in New Church, and that she had given birth to it prior to their hasty marriage.

  Then, as a final touch, she presented her copy (one of two) of the certificate of legal and holy matrimony. It was dated, signed, and sealed by Pastor Douglass of the English Mariner’s Church in Danzig.

  A very shocking affair, indeed! The grandchild of the famous Pastor Karl Ibsen had been born out of wedlock! These words were whispered in urgent, barely audible voices by the committee.

  However, they believed the story and enjoyed repeating it immensely in the coming days. The baby was allowed to stay with Lori. Papers were adjusted, and the accounting showed that there was nothing irregular here as far as the correct number of children who passed through the line. One thousand ordered. One thousand delivered. And that was the end of that.

  Even though Helen Ibsen knew the truth behind the story Lori had told, she did not mention it as she rode back to London with her arms around Lori. She cuddled the baby. She praised God for such a beautiful miracle as this!

  Then Lori explained everything to Anna and Elisa and her mother. She told them how dear Alfie Halder had given his place to the baby—his life to save this life! She showed them the christening gown and the silver crucifix at the bottom of the basket. She laid the note before these women, her family; and they read it and wept for Lucy and circled around Lucy’s baby like a herd of mother buffaloes protecting a calf!

  Elisa knew as she held little Katie in her arms that the woman who had written such a note had love as strong as iron! Should the baby of Lucy Strasburg be given away and adopted, never to be seen by her again?

  Elisa, Anna, and Helen agreed with Lori. There was no arguing with the wisdom of Solomon that the mother who loved the child enough to give it up must be the woman who should ultimately raise the child.

  Elisa decided that she had milk enough for two. Room enough for two. Clothes which she had not yet returned from baby showers intended for a baby boy. Lori would come and live with the Murphys and help out. And all of them together would begin to pray for Lucy Strasburg, whoever she was and whatever kind of trouble she was in that had driven her to such desperation. God paid wise attention to such prayers, Anna said, as she held the tiny baby boy in her arms.

  And then, as if to shout His approval, the Lord Himself saved a remarkable surprise for the last.

  “She gave this address to Alfie.” Lori took the torn page from her pocket. “She said she wants to know that the baby is well. She would like it if we could write.”

  Lori gave the paper to Elisa, who read the name and gasped and grew very pale. “Where did you . . . ? Where did she . . . ? This name! Lori? Can this be right?”

  Anna took it from Elisa. She clamped her hand over her mouth and blinked in wonder at the hastily scrawled name and address.

  FRAÜLEIN LUCY STRASBURG c/o RUDOLF DORBRANSKY

  2334 NISKA STREET APARTMENT 3A

  WARSAW, POLAND

  Rudy Dorbransky was dead, of course. He had died in Vienna, paid the ultimate penalty for moving Jewish children beyond the reach of the Reich. Elisa knew his family remained in Warsaw after Rudy had been killed. Seeing his name was a reminder of all that had gone on before—a verification that perhaps the children who had arrived on this last ship to the West must not be the last!

  The train cars of Elisa’s nightmares had been peopled with children guarded by Nazis and all had been headed east! To Warsaw? The children had dissolved into heaps of bones before her terrified eyes. But now, perhaps, that dream had a different meaning than Elisa had imagined.

  By carefully picking the identities of children long dead, they might give the children of Elisa’s nightmares another chance at life. Alfie had given his own precious papers to this baby. It was the clearest sign to Elisa that they must not abandon hope of turning those eastbound trains back toward life and freedom!

  ***

  The public house known as Lamb’s Tavern looked out over the pleasant, tree-studded Red Lion Square. From the corner window overlooking Lamb’s Conduit Road, the house of Elisa’s and John Murphy was in full view.

  In this convenient perch, Alexander Hess and Allan Farrell shared a plain English midday meal of blandly flavored roast, mixed vegetables, and cheese, with a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale for each.

  Hess inhaled the yeasty aroma of the dark brown ale. It reminded him of the smell of fresh baked bread. Although he carried the credentials identifying himself as a wine merchant, Hess would not touch the stuff. When quality schnapps was unavailable, there was nothing quite so welcoming as a glass of good beer.

  It had been a hectic few days, but now everything seemed to be heading for a satisfactory conclusion. He relaxed, sipped his beer, and listened as Allan
Farrell filled him in on the progression of events that had occurred inside the Red Lion House.

  “They were due home—” Farrel checked his watch— “over an hour ago.”

  It did not matter. Hess ordered another pint of Newcastle’s. All the work and worry had been done in Danzig; now it was simply a matter of watching and waiting for the right moment. He was unconcerned by the late arrival of the Ibsen children. They would come. Helen Ibsen would be there. Anna Lindheim. Theo Lindheim was home on leave for the occasion. John and Elisa Murphy.

  A scholarly looking man holding the hands of two towheaded boys swung around the far corner.

  Farrell leaned forward and whispered urgently, ”There he is. That is Grogan.”

  “And the children?” Hess asked, picking at his vegetables.

  “German refugee brats. Being adopted by the Murphy family. Grogan uses them as a cover.”

  “Sensible,” Hess remarked. “Who could suspect a man of anything sinister if he has won the hearts of children, eh?” Then he looked again at the harmlessness of the man’s physical appearance.

  Farrell smiled slightly and scrutinized his hands. Who would look at Allan Farrell and imagine that he was any threat at all? And yet he had turned England on its head. “His looks are deceiving,” Farrell said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Hess watched Grogan and the boys as they stood and chatted for a minute in the sunlight. Grogan leaned down and said something to one of the two children. Then he mussed the boy’s hair affectionately and followed them up the stairs and into the upper story of the tall old house.

  At the top of the steps, Grogan turned around and swept the square with his eyes. Satisfied, he disappeared into the house.

  “Very good,” Hess remarked. “But any man who knows would spot him as an agent. He has the look, you know. Like a very dull sentence with an exclamation mark at the end. It labels him like a sign.”