Safe Passage

by Ida Cook

  As we listened, one certain thing emerged. She wanted to lean on no one. She was prepared to do any work, live at any level, sacrifice anything, in order not to take more than the barest necessities needed to maintain herself until she could struggle to her own feet in a foreign country. Long before she was through, I had made my decision, and I knew Louise had, too. It was one of the quickest decisions we ever made about anyone, and one for which we have never ceased to be thankful.

  At the end, I said, “It’s all right. I have thought of something. We will get a student’s permit in your case.” This was still possible in those days. “You will come to England, live at our flat, and be enrolled in an English language course. When that is completed, we will find some way of extending your studies and your stay. Maybe you can do translations for me, or film scripts or something.” She was already a journalist of some experience. “But, anyway, you will have an invitation to come to England and therefore a reason to demand, or have us demand, your passport. The question of final emigration need not be raised at this point.”

  The idea succeeded by its sheer simplicity. This was, I must emphasize, before the situation had taken on anything like its final degree of danger and difficulty. Friedl came to us and lived longest of all in our flat, keeping it beautifully for us, doing endless jobs of every kind for us, and causing us only one serious anxiety: we could not make her eat enough, because she wanted to cost us as little as possible.

  After a while, we were allowed a new light on Friedl’s affairs. It seemed she had a fiancé in Italy, an Italian journalist whose one goal in life, now that Friedl was in London, was to join her there.

  This he presently achieved, but only by taking a position with the Italian Radio as their representative in England. This, of course, was an Italian government concern, and as an Italian official employee, he was, in those days, unable to marry a Jewish girl. But at least they were in the same city and could see each other daily. And we all hoped that, one day, things would be better.

  As everyone knows, things unfortunately became worse. The war came, but still an uneasy peace hovered between Italy and Britain.

  Then came the final disaster. Italy declared war.

  I remembered that night. Louise and I were at home when Friedl telephoned us to come to the flat, and we went at once. Ruggero, her fiancé, was there and another Italian journalist whom we knew slightly. The two men had to decide whether to return to their own country, whose regime they detested, or to try to remain in Britain—rootless, jobless and technically an enemy.

  The other man elected to go; I think he had a wife and family in Italy. Ruggero unhesitatingly elected to try to stay. But even with this decision made, the way was not very clear. He took counsel with an English colleague in a fairly responsible position, who explained that all journalists, diplomats, radio officials and so on were ordered to return by the last “diplomatic” boat, leaving almost immediately. If any were permitted to remain in Britain, some British opposite number would be detained in Italy.

  “If, however,” his adviser continued thoughtfully, “you make every arrangement to go, but are unfortunate enough to miss the boat, it is no concern of ours. Later, of course, you will have to give yourself up as an enemy alien and be interned. That’s all I can tell you.”

  It was enough.

  Ruggero made every arrangement to depart with the others. His luggage was sent down to the boat. But on the day the boat was due to set sail, he just was not there. As a matter of fact, he was at our flat a large part of the time. Then later, when he and Friedl judged it wiser not to remain in any fixed place, they went to one of the outer suburbs and walked about the streets until late that night, when they knew the boat must have gone.

  Once this had been confirmed, he gave himself up to the police and was interned for a while. Presently, however, he was released, being among those chosen for radio propaganda purposes. He was told that he would have to work in one of those semi-secret and rather remote propaganda centres dotted over the countryside. Also, he was asked if he happened to know of a reliable shorthand-typist, perfect in both Italian and English.

  “Yes,” Ruggero replied promptly. “My fiancée.”

  “Well, could you marry her right away and take her down there with you?” he was asked.

  To which he replied, “I am marrying her in a few days, anyway.”

  So, one busy, air-raidish morning, I dashed off to witness their marriage at Caxton Hall.—Louise was, dismally enough, evacuated with her office by then.—As they both came running up the steps, late as usual, with Friedl carrying her hat in her hand, and I thought, “Happy ending!”

  Which, as a romance merchant, I consider I was entitled to think.

  One of the most dramatic stories concerns the Maliniaks, and we came into this case, also, indirectly through Clemens Krauss and Ursuleac. The Maliniaks were part of the magic circle of Viennese operatic life during the early 1930s. Jerzy Maliniak was assistant conductor and choir repetiteur at the State Opera and, according to Krauss, “probably the finest operatic coach in Europe.”

  We already knew them by name quite well when Mitia received a letter, early in 1939, from Gerda Maliniak, Jerzy’s very lovely non-Jewish wife. She, her husband and little daughter were in the same desperate straits as all families where the man of the family was a Jew. His employment had been taken away, his contributions to the pension fund washed out. Starvation and despair were coming daily nearer. Could Mitia make any sort of connection for them in the outside world? There was a faint possibility of their getting away to America eventually.

  The letter, only one of dozens poor Mitia used to receive at this time, immediately became the subject of earnest discussion among us.

  As I said, the Maliniaks were part of the magic circle to Louise and me, definitely among those to whom Ursuleac’s words, “Now you will be all right” must, in our view, be extended. Friends and colleagues of those who had started us on the work could not be left to perish. So Louise and I went to Vienna to see them personally.—As recorded earlier, this was the occasion we visited the Kultursgemeinde.—We found them the most enchanting family, even in their distress, and set to work at once to make what plans we could.

  The first sad essential, as always, was to split up the family temporarily, as one could never, particularly at that late date, have obtained a guarantee for three people. We managed to get the little girl adopted temporarily and she arrived safely in one of the children’s transports—those sad boatloads of children who came without their parents. But after that, everything went wrong.

  First, I tried for a domestic permit for Gerda. That broke down. Then I managed to raise a well-meant but very shaky guarantee, on which I hoped to get them both out. At the last moment, it was judged insufficient. And the same post that brought us this information brought also a frantic letter from Vienna, telling us that Jerzy was threatened with arrest at any moment. Not only was he Jewish, he was also Polish, and the Polish Jews were daily threatened with a complete round-up.

  It was one of the worst moments in all those years of work. There was not another soul in the whole of England to whom I could apply for a guarantee, and I literally walked London that day, trying every faint chance I could. I came home that night, unsuccessful and so completely dispirited that I cried. Whereupon Bill, our silent Bill who never said a thing unless he thought it was worth saying, suddenly looked up and spoke to some purpose.

  “Well, I haven’t got a bank account,” he said. “But you can take my Post Office Savings Bank book, if you like, and a statement that I’m a permanent civil servant, and see if they will accept me as a guarantor for the two of them.”

  It was the most hopeful thing that had happened that day and well worth trying. But I knew that no pipsqueak official would accept it. I had to get to one of the big men who would take the responsibility for accepting an irregularity.

  I telephoned Mitia to ask if she had any ideas.

  She had. She ga
ve me an introduction to someone who could smooth my way to Sir Benjamin Drage, the head of the Guarantee Department at Bloomsbury House.

  By dint of pressure all round, I managed to get myself ushered into Sir Benjamin’s presence the following afternoon, my story perfectly arranged in my mind in its most telling phrases. I was prepared to pull out every organ-stop in my voice to make the best effect, and no star actress had her role better prepared.

  Imagine, then, my dismay when I discovered that the man I had to impress was stone deaf; I had to tell my story into what looked like a small radio set. As I have always been rather better at manner than matter when I am trying to persuade anyone, I felt as though, from the outset, I had been deprived of my best weapons.

  However, I started off. I suppose it was just one story out of thousands that he had heard. And yet, appliance or no, he gave every detail the utmost perfect attention. He hardly said a word until I had finished. Then he sent for the file and completed all the stages of the case in front of me, while a horrified official stood by, saying at intervals, “But you can’t do that, Sir Benjamin! You can’t do that.”

  “But I’ve done it,” replied Sir Benjamin, as he made the last entry. “Now—” turning to me “—that’s four weeks saved in the case. From this point, it has to go to the Home Office where, in the ordinary way, it will take four weeks more. I can’t do any more for you. But if you have any sort of Government string to pull, pull it now.”

  I did a bit of quick thinking.

  There was a chance I had always kept in reserve and never used before. We had a friend in Downing Street, who just might be able to help. I asked for permission to use Sir Benjamin’s phone and telephoned Downing Street. By the mercy of providence, our friend was available, and I rapidly explained the position to him.

  “Well, of course, there is nothing I can do for you officially,” he told me, “but can you get hold of the name of the Home Office official who would deal with this case in the ordinary way?”

  On my anxious enquiry, Sir Benjamin was able to supply this information.

  “Very well,” our friend said. “I can ring him up and say that you’re coming along, and ask him if he will please see you personally? After that, it’s for you to do the best you can with the opportunity. I’m afraid I can only get you the interview.”

  It was enough.

  Because it was already late in the afternoon, Sir Benjamin bundled me into a taxi and paid my fare for luck. Presently I arrived at the Home Office and was ushered into the presence of a very courteous, but completely hidebound, official. He was sorry, but he could see no reason why this case should be specially hurried. I patiently explained about the threat of arrest and about the expected round-up of all the Polish Jews in Vienna.

  He looked thoughtful then and said, “You had better telegraph to the effect that White Form 227A”—or some such number—“is about to be authenticated. That should stop the Gestapo.”

  I stared at him helplessly and cried, “What are we talking about? Do you really suppose anything will save him but the telegraphed information that British visas are on the way? What do white forms mean to the Gestapo?”

  He found me as trying as I found him. And he wanted to go home. That, of course, was my best card. I just sat on and on, refusing to go. We talked around and around the point, and presently he told me the real difficulty: when there had been the abortive attempt to get a domestic permit for Gerda, a Maliniak file had been opened, but unfortunately this file had been lost.

  “And it’s quite impossible to take action without the file, of course,” he explained patiently.

  “Well, then, open another one,” I suggested.

  He was horrified. This, it seemed, was even more impossible than taking action without a file.

  “What is the good of your finding the file after my friends are dead?” I asked.

  That moved him a bit, and he finally agreed to have a special search put on that night. “And once we’ve found the file, we’ll take immediate action,” he promised.

  “Very well,” I told him. “I’m going out now to telegraph to my friends in Vienna that British visas are on the way. They must have something in their hand.”

  “But suppose we don’t find the file?” he cried anxiously.

  “You’ve got to find it,” I replied. “You’ve got all night, haven’t you?”

  “Well, it should be all right,” he conceded doubtfully. And I staggered out.

  I sent my cable, with some misgivings, and went home feeling like the proverbial piece of chewed string. However, I was pretty sure that file would turn up by morning, and then the visas should be forthcoming.

  I was hardly dressed for the next morning before the telegram boy came roaring up to the door. And I received that dramatic telegram mentioned earlier.

  “Georg not at home. Helpless. Gerda.”

  Georg, of course, was the German form of Jerzy, and the telegram meant he had been arrested.

  I telephoned my official at the Home Office and asked grimly, “What about that file?”

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t been found yet,” came the bright reply.

  “Well, they’ve got the husband,” I said. “What are you going to do before they get the wife?”

  “Oh, lord! We’ll telegraph the visas,” came the reply.

  There was nothing else we could do after that. Only wait for further news.

  To follow the sequence of events, I shall have to change the scene over to Vienna, though it was many weeks before we heard this side of the story.

  Having seen her husband as far as the prison, Gerda turned helplessly homewards. Her sister-in-law met her with the information that the Gestapo were waiting for her and she must not go home. Gerda dared not remain in any one place, and so, for two days and nights, she wandered about, not daring to go home.

  Once or twice, she went to the British Consulate to ask if the visas had come, but an unsympathetic official simply replied that there were hundreds like her, and she would have to wait her turn. Finally, in despair and fear, she went to the Polish Consulate, since she was technically Polish by marriage, and asked if they could do anything for her there.

  “We can send you to Poland,” was the reply.

  So frightened was she of the ever-nearing shadow of arrest that she agreed to go to Poland, and a Polish visa was issued. There was still no question of her returning home for her luggage. It is a fact that the poor girl set out for Poland with nothing but what she stood up in, her handbag in her hand. She has sometimes told us since that if it had been possible to die just from misery and despair, she would have done so on that journey. The train was practically empty, and she lay down and thought: My husband is in prison. My child is in England. I shall never see either of them again. Here am I, on my way to Poland, knowing hardly a word of Polish. And there is a war coming. She felt pretty sure that by now, her name was on the blacklist for arrest, and she knew that she could no longer stand up to the kind of questioning she would have to face at the frontier.

  Presently, a kindly Polish train official found her. Seeing her terrible distress, he asked her why she had no luggage and what was wrong.

  Fearing that he was perhaps an agent provocateur, she refused to answer. Then he showed her his Polish passport and said, “See, madam—I have the same passport as you. Won’t you trust me now?”

  She broke down then and, in tears, explained her predicament and that she could not, she simply could not, face the inevitable inquisition of the German officials at the frontier.

  “Give me your passport and papers,” the man said, “and go to sleep. I will look after things for you.”

  She could hardly believe this was possible. But he insisted he would manage. Then, since she said she could eat nothing, he went away and returned with an orange, which he peeled for her and fed to her in sections, as though she were a child.

  Finally she fell asleep, or sank into some sort of stupor. And the next thing she knew, h
e was standing beside her once more, ready to return her papers to her, fully stamped. He had explained to the officials that he had a lady in one of the sleeping compartments so ill, she could not possibly be disturbed. By some merciful dispensation, they accepted this and stamped the papers with hardly a glance at him.

  “Now you would like some breakfast?” he suggested, and Gerda nodded.

  She said that, when he had gone, she staggered into the corridor and looked out on the most beautiful scene. It was early on a summer morning, and they were passing through lovely, peaceful countryside. It was like the morning of the world, before wickedness had come.

  When the man brought her breakfast, she just put her purse into his hand and said, “Please take whatever is necessary.” But he returned it with the reply, “No, madam. The breakfast is my pleasure. You are going to need all your money.”

  All these years later, we still speak of him and wonder what happened to him when his unhappy country was overwhelmed. Here, at least, is a belated tribute to him, one of the kind unknowns who helped to irradiate the fog of misery with a shaft of pure charity.

  Mitia used to call these unexpected manifestations of courage and kindness in people, “The Voice of the Lord, speaking in these terrible days.”

  Having arrived in Warsaw, Gerda went to her mother-in-law’s house. A week later, to the astonishment of all, Jerzy joined her. Both the Polish Consul in Vienna and Clemens Krauss had made energetic representations on his behalf, and he had been released on condition that he proceed immediately to Poland, which he was not sorry to do.

  About his sojourn in prison, he spoke with characteristic dryness and humour. “It was not so bad,” he assured us. “The company at least was good. Probably the best in Vienna at that time.”

  From Poland, it was fairly simple for them to get in touch with us. We had new visas telegraphed to Warsaw and money for ship passages. They said goodbye to Jerzy’s mother—later to be murdered in the Warsaw ghetto—and sailed for England. Early in July, they were reunited with their little girl.