Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  It had all apparently started with some action involving an unknown village named Gleiwitz, but that fact seemed unimportant. The war, long expected and feared, had begun.

  Murphy struggled with deciding what to do first. He desperately wanted to go home to Elisa, but knew that he should go to the TENS office and start gathering the threads of the breaking stories.

  Glancing at his new watch, Murphy realized that there was not time to do both. If he went directly to TENS, he could change clothes there and meet Elisa at the Remembrance Service. Maybe he could get through to TENS Warsaw. Then he could at least reassure Elisa about Jacob Kalner. But what to do about Lori?

  37

  Passport to Life

  The harsh voice of the German Führer emanated clearly over the radio from the Kroll Opera House in Berlin, where he now met with his rubber-stamp Reichstag.

  Everything inside the London TENS office had been put on hold as staffers gathered around the shortwave to listen to the Führer rasp out his reasons for attacking Poland.

  Murphy entered and stood for a moment, unnoticed at the back of the tense and angry group.

  The voice cried in fury:

  “I should like to say this to the world. I alone was in the position to make such proposals . . . For two whole days I sat with my Government and waited . . . I can no longer find any willingness on the part of the Polish Government to conduct serious negotiations with us . . . I have therefore resolved to speak to Poland in the same language that Poland for months past has used toward us.”

  Staff members exchanged disgusted looks. “Bombs,” said James Samuels dryly. Then he noticed Murphy. “Hi, Boss.” Back to the radio.

  The applause of the Reichstag slowed.

  “This night for the first time Polish regular soldiers fired on our own territory . . . We have been returning the fire, and from now on bombs will be met with bombs!”

  The roar of approval was tremendous.

  Murphy imagined Timmons observing this farce from the press gallery as the heroic voice of the German leader rallied his people to his call to die:

  “I am from now on just the first soldier of the German Reich. I have once more put on that coat that was most sacred and dear to me. I will not take it off again until victory is secured, or I will not survive the outcome!”

  The familiar chant of Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! erupted from the receiver.

  “Well, I guess that is that.”

  “You heard the man. Victory or death.”

  “Gives us something to aim for.” Nervous laughter followed.

  “No,” Murphy added. “Gives us something to shoot at.” More laughter. Faces turned to see him, recognizing him in a surprised sort of way.

  “Thought you were in Warsaw, Boss. Harvey said—”

  “Did you get Orde out in time? And the kids?”

  Murphy shook his head. “No dice.”

  All faces were glum at the news. The radio was switched off. Reporters moved like sleepwalkers back to their desks. There was plenty to write about, but nothing to talk about. No one felt like gabbing.

  Murphy caught his grimy reflection in the glass of his office. A glance at the clock told him he had only minutes to get to St. Paul’s to hear what Winston Churchill would say in reply to the lies and distortions of Adolf Hitler.

  There had been no further word on Lori Kalner, his secretary informed him. Murphy felt sick. Had there ever been a day so tragic in its portent of the future?

  “Where’s Harvey?” he asked. To his surprise, the night desk editor, who always seemed to be present when bad news hit, had left for home. “Said he had to change for the service at St. Paul’s,” a secretary remembered.

  Murphy reflected that he had not even known that Terrill cared enough to attend the Remembrance Service. Murphy chided himself for unreasonably wishing that Harvey had stayed at the office to track war stories.

  After a quick change and a washroom shave that caused only two small nicks, Murphy went into the conference room. The bulletin boards there were plastered with maps of Poland. Strands of red yarn were already creeping across Polish territory like the spreading tentacles of an octopus.

  Murphy picked up the conference-room phone. “Try to get me Orde in Warsaw,” he said to the operator. Then he turned back to studying the maps. The floor was littered with reports and dispatches. The head of TENS picked up a handful and flipped through them, comparing village names with map locations.

  About halfway down the pile he came to a note in Elisa’s handwriting. It requested Harvey to contact Orde about meeting the plane. The phone rang. “I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said. “I can’t get through to Warsaw. Shall I keep ringing?” Murphy stuffed the note in his pocket.

  “No. Send a wire telling Orde to contact us, although I’ll be he’s already trying. By the way, I’m leaving now for St. Paul’s. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  ***

  Allan Farrell watched from his perch in the bell tower as the cars began to arrive at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Pastors in clerical collars, musicians lugging instrument cases, and politicians in formal dress arrived in anxious little knots.

  Soon after these recognizable professions came the common folks. Some looked sad, others frightened. A cabbie brought a group of people, then parked and joined the crowd now thronging into the church. “Need to teach that Hitler bloke a lesson, we does.” He spoke so loudly that Allan could hear every word.

  The words “teach a lesson” reminded Allan of his mission, and he checked the transmitter for the hundredth time. He fretted briefly about the lack of opportunity to test the device, then relaxed when he reminded himself of the previous successes of German technology.

  He turned his attention back to the front steps. When the terrorist spotted three women arriving together and noted the resemblance to Lori Ibsen, he was certain that he was watching the Lindheim-Murphy-Ibsen family.

  The discordant sounds of the orchestra tuning up floated out of the church and drifted up to the bell tower. Allan tried to imagine the noises that would come from the centuries-old building as the lantern tower came crashing through the dome and floor. He compared the kettledrum sound to the thunder of falling masonry and the plaintive strings to the wail of human voices. Excitement gripped him as he anticipated his symphony of terror.

  But where was Churchill? Where was the greatest stroke of all?

  As if saving the best for last, a car bearing Churchill and Anthony Eden arrived. The two men, grim-faced and deep in discussion, were obviously hurrying between meetings. It was Allan’s intention that they would never hurry anywhere again.

  ***

  Three passports lay in the secret compartment of the violin case.

  Only three?

  Orde’s face was pained as he looked at the folders. He had hoped for so many more. He opened each one. As the boys of the Zionist Youth brigade looked on like starving children, he gave Jacob his identity. Then he smiled and handed Alfie his folder.

  As he gazed down at the photograph on the third folder, his face was troubled. Rachel Lubetkin! And not one for Lucy!

  The thin, dirt-streaked arm of Peter Wallich snaked in over the shoulders of the circle. His fingers clamped around the passport and he pulled it back to stare at it. “She will be saved.”

  Behind him, as if to emphasize his thought, the radio announced:

  “All citizens of Great Britain are urged to report to their embassy at once. A state of war has not yet been declared between Great Britain and Germany….

  The group exchanged horrified looks. Where was England? Polish cavalry in the west was being overrun by German panzer divisions. Even now tons of dynamite were exploding on fourteen Polish cities. Where was England? Were they not coming? Would England and France arrive in time to save Poland?

  Peter’s hand trembled. He held up the passport. “With this she can get out?”

  Jacob looked down at his own folder. His passport to life, a ticket past the Ge
rman lines. British citizenship! As long as war was still undeclared, he could walk up to any German officer, flash this passport, and be let through the lines all the way to England.

  Did Alfie understand? Alfie looked at his own photograph. He was listening to the devastation being reported over the shortwave. His eyes were sad.

  “Where is England?” asked Peter.

  Alfie patted Orde on his shoulder. “Right here.”

  “But . . . where is England?” asked another boy, his voice filled with a sense of betrayal. “Who will save us?”

  Alfie answered again in the uncomfortable silence. “Here is the captain. He will save us.”

  Peter whirled on Alfie angrily, “Idiot! Don’t you hear what I’m asking? England! An army! Will they come and fight for us?”

  Alfie was unoffended. He still smiled. “We should stay together. And see the Promised Land.”

  Orde had turned away to fiddle with the radio in a preoccupied way. The Poles were taking a beating in the west. New formations of Luftwaffe had passed over the city, bombing indiscriminately.

  “Elisha,” Orde said, “at nightfall you and Jacob will go to the embassy compound. You will be taken out. You will be safe there. Lucy and the rest of us will—”

  “No!” Alfie said. “We stay together! Me and you and him and him and Lucy and—”

  “Dummkopf!” Peter shouted.

  “Shut up!” Jacob stepped between Peter and Alfie, and for a moment it seemed as though another sort of battle would explode right here. Orde pushed both boys aside as the shortwave continued to blare the sad news of the German Blitzkrieg rolling over Polish defenses.

  Sweating and panting in the small place, Jacob and Peter stared at each other around Orde.

  “That’s enough!” Orde menaced. “Or I will beat both of you! Now is not the time or the place!”

  Alfie was still smiling. He gave Werner-kitten to Lucy. He shrugged and shuffled his feet self-consciously. He had not meant to make anyone angry, but he knew how they would get out and he also knew that they must stay together. “Today is Friday,” Alfie said. Angry, resentful eyes looked at him, but he pressed on. “I know how we can get out of Warsaw on Friday.”

  Peter snapped Rachel’s passport folder down. “I am going back to the Jewish district,” he said, as though Alfie were only rambling. “I’m going to find Rachel and get her to the British Embassy.” He backed up a step.

  Alfie continued to talk. “On Friday all the Catholics in Warsaw eat fish. Herr Frankenmuth told me—”

  “The Germans are bombing that quarter worse than anywhere else, Peter,” Orde warned. “You might make it in, but—”

  Alfie pressed on. “Werner is very hungry. He has not had any breakfast. None at all.”

  The kitten yowled at the mention of his name.

  Peter looked down at the picture of Rachel. “I know a way, if I can get this to her. Britain is not yet at war. That’s bad for Poland but good for whoever has one of these.” He held it up. He was going. Orde could not stop him. Peter looked at Lucy, whose eyes reflected her love for him. Her admiration.

  Alfie said loudly, “Peter!”

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said softly to Alfie as the buzz of bomber engines grew louder again.

  “Don’t miss the boat!” Alfie stepped forward and pumped his hand. “We are going to Herr Frankenmuth at the fish market, you see? He sells fish to the Catholics in Warsaw every Friday, and he will take us on his boat! The fish market! Hurry!”

  ***

  The planes had returned again over the Jewish district of Warsaw. This time they were serious. Why, after all, bomb a military target when there were so many Jews down below to exterminate?

  Rachel finally understood the meaning of the meetings, the discussions of how to protect the Jewish children of Warsaw—where to take them, how to get them out of here if the worst should come. Well, the worst had arrived. It had come! And this was only the first morning of the war!

  Rachel held baby Yacov, his eyes wide and troubled by the rhythmic thumping noise and the trembling of the earth. Women in the shelter wept for their lost children. Men prayed.

  At last Rachel understood why Mama had talked of sending her children away. Rachel would gladly give up Yacov, give up David and Samuel forever, if only they could escape this terror!

  Papa stood, his face lost in the shadow of the strange light of carbide lamps.

  All eyes turned to the great Rabbi of Muranow. They looked to him for hope, for comfort. He raised his hands and gradually the weeping died away, except for one woman who huddled by the door and called the name of two children who had fallen on the steps of the Torah school. Her quiet sobs accompanied his prayers like the counter-melody of a sad symphony.

  “For the sake of heaven, Jews, don’t despair! The salvation from God appears in an instant!”

  And then he began to sing this summons to believe, this cry for salvation found in a Yiddish melody as old as the hope for the coming Messiah:

  “O look down from heaven and behold,

  Look down from the skies and see!

  For we have become as a derision,

  A derision among the nations . . “.

  Hundreds in the packed shelter joined in. Papa closed his eyes as he sang. The song was heard in heaven, Rachel knew, but how would God answer it? Would He save them all in one miraculous sweep of His hand? Or, as Papa had explained to her, would He save only one? For God’s plan, even one Jew would be enough to keep his covenant! Because of this He cared for every Jew as though each was the only one! Rachel felt the presence of the Eternal One among them. He came to them in the calling of their hearts. One to one, the Lord of heaven was very near.

  “Therefore we plead with you ever::

  Now help us Guardian of Israel,

  Take notice of our tears . . . ”

  The bereaved mother wept on. Only one woman crying, and yet she cried for everyone, every Jewish mother who had ever lost a child. Rachel knew this as she sang.

  “Now take notice of our tears,

  For still do we cry aloud, ‘Hear O Israel.’

  Show all the peoples that you are our God.

  We have indeed none other, just you alone.

  Whose name is ONE.”

  Papa prayed again, and even the weeping mother, the one woman, raised her head and was comforted.

  ***

  The orchestra assembled to remember the plight of the imprisoned pastors soared into their contribution. It was the Elijah by Mendelssohn.

  Fret not thyself because of evildoers . . . the words of Psalm 37 reminded the listeners, for they shall soon be cut down like the grass.

  In the front row of the congregation, three woman joined hands and hearts. They prayed for the missing Lori, for absent Jacob, for Theo who was even now flying patrol missions with trainee pilots along the English coastline, for thousands of children represented by those sitting bravely beside them.

  The Lord knoweth the days of the upright; and their inheritance shall be for ever.

  They prayed for the Poles, for the free nations to resist Nazi aggression, for the Jewish people trapped in the middle.

  The wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him.

  They prayed for the righteous men of honor and courage who stood up to evil when they could easily have saved themselves instead. For Karl Ibsen: pastor, husband, father. They prayed for courage for themselves to be as strong.

  The salvation of the righteous is the Lord; he is their strength in time of trouble.

  The melodic strains floated up and up into the shining bright dome where the soft glow was like looking into heaven. Lifted by the prayers of hundreds of anxious hearts, the sounds and thoughts reached past the galleries of stone to the ears of the frightened girl imprisoned overhead.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered. “Mama, Jacob. I’m here.”

  ***

  Charles remembered that the last time they had been with Doc Grogan on their Thursda
y excursion, they had been right here—St. Paul’s Cathedral, in this very place. It was a peaceful place. A happy memory, as long as he did not think past the time they spent here in St. Paul’s.

  Today rows and rows of chairs filled the space just beneath the dome. There had been no chairs here on the day they had climbed high up into the Whispering Gallery and then on to the Golden Gallery. The polished marble floor had been empty that day. Louis had leaned far over the rail and considered spitting, but Jamie had reminded him that this was a church, a holy place. Although it would have been fun to watch his spit fall so far, it would not have been a nice thing to do.

  So here they were, all in a row far below the place from where they had looked down. Mr. Winston Churchill had asked for them to be here today, and Charles was glad for that. Although it had hardly been any time at all since he had been with Elisa, he had missed her terribly and wished she was with them all in the little cottage. Elisa had stayed in London to practice for today’s performance. Lori had stayed to help with the babies. Now where was Lori?

  Little Katie and baby Alfie were parked in their carriage next to Elisa at the end of the aisle. Charles could see them sleeping. He could make out the box that contained the little tent that served as a covering for the little ones in case of a chemical gas attack by the Nazis.

  Charles supposed that now everyone throughout England would carry their gas masks all the time. He looked over his shoulder at the worried faces of the grownups. All of them, indeed, had their gas masks with them.

  Charles, Louis, Jamie, and Mark seemed to be the only children in the whole vast gathering. Already half the children in London had been evacuated because everyone knew what was coming. And here it was. A war, just like Mr. Churchill said would come if someone did not stop Herr Hitler. Charles was very glad that Mr. Churchill was going to speak today. It would be a terrible thing if everyone in England was quiet on a day when Germany was dropping tons of bombs on Poland.