Munich Signature (25 page)

“Probably in your room.” The porter glanced at his ticket. “Ah, yes. You have a suite, I see. Have a look there first and then try the shops. Ladies and the shops, you know. Not the first lost wife we’ve had onboard.”

“Could you page her?”

The steward swept his hand across the panorama of confusion. “Perhaps when we are underway.”

Mrs. Rosenfelt stepped away from the unhappy man. He would no doubt find his wife. She, on the other hand, could only pray that Maria and her family were safe wherever they might be. It would have been such a simple matter to bring them along if it were not for the dreadful American visa restrictions. What an occasion of joy this Atlantic crossing might have been then!

She descended the grand staircase and stopped to glance back at the young husband and his boy. Something about the child seemed familiar . . . something. It did not matter. Perhaps she was simply looking at him because he was a child, like the great-grandchildren she had been forced to send on the
Darien
. The girls would have loved such a place! What fun they would have had together! Perhaps this boy would have been a playmate.

Bubbe Rosenfelt blinked back tears as she searched for her cabin along the corridor. Crowded with other passengers, the narrow hallway was nevertheless lonely. Three thousand people were aboard the liner, but all Bubbe could think about was the candy in the bottom of her reticule, and the little girls who were not here to share it.

15

The Sacrifice

Murphy sat on the edge of the bed in their luxurious stateroom. Charles stood on a chair to look out the porthole as the last glimpse of England slid from view.

All the luggage had been promptly delivered to the room. Elisa’s steamer trunk, a small brocade carryall, and two hat boxes were stacked neatly among the smaller bags belonging to Charles and Murphy. But where was Elisa?

Murphy and Charles had taken a turn around the promenade deck of the enormous vessel, hoping to find her. That deck was only one of several, however, and after forty-five minutes of wandering around, Murphy had decided that he could spend the entire voyage looking for her and she could quite easily be looking for him and they might never find each other. The great
Queen
was touted as a floating city. It was that, indeed. There was only one way to find Elisa—to return to their stateroom and wait for her to wander in like a lost pup.

They had waited here for an hour and fifteen minutes already and still Elisa had not showed up. Was she shopping? Sipping coffee in one of the numerous cafés? Sending a cable back to her parents in Prague?

Murphy stood suddenly and glared at the door. He was angry and worried. First more angry than worried, then more worried than angry. The ship’s officer was quite certain she had checked in—quite. But then, he explained, he had seen hundreds of faces, after all.

“Charles, I’m going out again,” Murphy said gruffly. “To the telegraph office. You wait here and when she comes in, don’t let her go anywhere, will you?”

Charles gave him the okay sign, then turned back to the porthole as the fog enveloped the last point of land. Murphy donned his trench coat and slipped out into the cherrywood-paneled corridor. The stateroom was near the promenade deck, and the radio room was three decks below that and forward about half a city block.

He made his way to the lift, then changed his mind when he saw a dozen smiling couples standing in front of it. He took the stairs instead, clattering downward into the bowels of the ship.

Signs were placed at convenient intervals for any intrepid travelers who wished to explore the vast labyrinth of the
Queen’s
insides. Each landing displayed a map of that particular deck showing cabin placement and shops and restaurants. It was no wonder Murphy had not been able to locate his wayward wife, he thought as he scanned the map for the telegraph office.

The rumbling of the great
Queen
seemed much louder three flights down. Murphy pushed through the door into a corridor that was narrower than that of the upper-deck staterooms. Third-class cabins. No portholes. Murphy felt a bit more at home down here. Every Atlantic crossing he had made had been in third-class accommodations. Students and working stiffs and old ladies who liked shuffleboard—those were the standard fare down here.

He passed each of those types in turn; then the corridor branched off into a corridor lined with offices. Ship’s steward. Head chef. And then, Radio Room.

Murphy leaned against the counter and pulled a blank tablet toward himself as the radio operator finished taking a message. It was a moment before the young man looked up. He was clear-eyed and apple-cheeked and somehow reminded Murphy of the nursery rhyme “Bobby Shafto’s Gone to Sea.”

“May I help you, sir?” He had the accent of English aristocracy, although he wore the simple uniform of a seaman.

“I’m looking for my wife.” Murphy was suddenly embarrassed. Obviously Elisa was not here. “We got separated on the docks, and I thought maybe . . . she had come down here to send a wire.”

“A wire, sir?” The young man eyed him strangely.

“Not to me—I’m
here
. But maybe she sent a wire to—”

“What’s her name, sir?” He thumbed though a sheaf of yellow telegraph forms. “These are all the wires to go out.”

“Elisa Murphy.” Murphy craned his neck to see.

The young man straightened the stack and laid it aside somewhat self-consciously. He reached for the pad he had just been working on. “Then you will be John Murphy?” he asked.

“Yes.” Murphy felt instant relief. So. She had sent a wire to her folks. There must have been quite a line holding her up.

The young man looked at him almost fearfully. “John Murphy?” He held up a single sheet by the corner.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Whatever relief Murphy felt vanished immediately as the scrawled message was laid before him.

“A wire for you, sir.” Then he added, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Murphy groaned aloud.

He held the note a moment, then crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into his pocket.

“So sorry, sir,” the young man said as Murphy stormed from the office.

***

The room was clean, at least. Stripped clean, except for an iron cot with a thin mattress covered by one sheet and a blanket. There were no toilet facilities. An empty tin bucket stood in one corner and a bucket filled with water in the other. Brick walls rose to a windowless height of fourteen feet, and near the ceiling one dingy transom window was ajar to give light and ventilation. This was better at least than a Gestapo prison. No one had cursed her or forced her to strip. But why . . .
why?

Elisa had been left alone for three hours to wonder. Who were these men? Why had they kidnapped her? Had Murphy and Charles made it aboard ship, or were they also somewhere in Southampton? Again and again she ran through every scrap of conversation; every nuance of voice and appearance.

“
Frank managed to stop him?
”

“
Like a charm
.”

“
Mr. Tedrick . . . Port Authority
.”

She had been deliberately separated from Murphy. If her captors had thought that far, they had said only what they wanted her to hear.
Port Authority . . . Mr. Tedrick
. She assumed that this dreadful little room was somehow part of the port authority offices, but she had not seen this Mr. Tedrick whom they said was waiting.

There was only one thing she was sure of as the sunlight dimmed to twilight. She had missed the voyage. She was alone. Without answers, and without Murphy.

***

Anna climbed from bed and pulled the edge of the shade back to look out onto the cobblestone streets of Prague. Below her passed the endless stream of refugees who were pouring into the city from the Sudetenland. Czechs and Jews and Austrian Germans who had escaped the first onslaught after the fall of Austria now congregated in penniless misery on the sidewalks and in the square beyond. She could see the ragged women with their children, making the best of it—at least they were still alive. Husbands worked to erect shelters from cardboard and packing crates and old tin. They had come here with some hope that the Nazi revolt in their own territory would be stopped—stopped by men like Theo, Wilhelm, Dieter.

Anna let the shade fall back, covering the sight. She put a hand to her face in a moment of realization. She bowed her head. The words came clearly to her as if Christ himself stood in the room. “
But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted, and were scattered abroad, as sheep having no shepherd. Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest
.”

Anna gasped. She looked up, expecting to see the one who had just spoken. The room was still empty, yet now Anna hurried to dress. There were so many! She measured each room of the house with her eyes as she gauged how many could comfortably share the space.
One family in each room. Eight families. We will organize a staff for cooking right here and set up a soup kitchen for as many as we can.

Within days, Anna had filled her house with grateful mothers and bevies of children. By the end of the week, two thousand from the square came twice a day for soup and bread, offered in the name of Jesus.

“The Lord bless you.” Soup was ladled into cups.

“Jesus is with us.” The bread was given.

“God has not forgotten.” Milk to the children. Coffee for the adults.

Twice a week the grand piano was moved outside and Anna played joyfully for those who packed the street from one side to the other.

From this act of kindness, other Christians around Prague banded together until a dozen soup kitchens had sprung up and the multitudes were fed.

***

There was no one onboard the
Darien
who did not have a story to tell. Each had arrived at this desperate moment by a different route. Some had paid larger bribes and some smaller. Some had been among the first five hundred to purchase passage; others had come later through some miracle.

These different tales sparked a subtle resentment among the refugees. Those who had paid larger bribes resented those who had paid less. Those who had bought passage among the first five hundred resented those who had been squeezed in after the limit of five hundred had been passed.

“Why should we be sleeping on the deck? We were promised a cot!”

“Everything we owned to purchase passage, and they only paid . . .”

“We were the first, and now we are forced to give up our comfort so more can come!”

“Will the food hold out?”

“We were told . . .”

“There would have been enough for five hundred! But this!”

Complaint committees were formed.

“They might have allowed us to dock in London if there were not so many schleppers onboard.”

“Do you know what I paid for this? I demand a cot!”

The rabbi of Nuremberg finally summed up the situation. “What did it cost us to get here?
Everything!
Once, some of us were rich. Once, some were not so rich,
nu
? Now we are all the same—poor. Early or late, we are all on the same ship. We are all passengers on the
Darien
. Neighbors. Family. Friends and enemies. Together now we are from
Darien
.” He shrugged. “Only God knows who was rich and who was poor. And to Him it makes no difference. Such a sense of humor He has,
nu
?”

Captain Burton, however, finally settled the matter. Elusive and mysterious behind the grimy glass of the bridge, he issued orders that overruled the protests of the Complaint Committee. Belowdecks—from one end of the beam to the other—five hundred canvas hammocks had been hung. Women and children and the elderly would sleep in the hammocks. Young healthy males would sleep on the open deck. Tarps would be rigged to shield against the weather.

This was the law of the sea. This was tyranny.

“This is fair,” declared the rabbi of Nuremberg. Every man on the Complaint Committee was assigned the task of helping women and children and the elderly to the hammocks below. After that, rich and poor, early and late, they worked together to rig the tarps that were to be their homes.

***

“I will see you in the morning.” Klaus bent to kiss each of his girls good night. Two children to each hammock, they festooned the compartment like living bunting. Little Ada-Marie shared her mother’s hammock. Trudy and Gretchen slept feet to feet, while Katrina and Louise swung in the hammock above them.

“When will we see you, Papa?” Gretchen looked worried and Ada-Marie lifted her chubby arms for one last embrace.

“When the breakfast bell rings we will eat our porridge together,” Klaus promised. Gretchen made a face at the thought of the porridge served in the ship’s galley. “Until then,” Klaus continued, “I will think of my little caterpillars snug in their cocoons beneath the deck.”

He turned to Maria and kissed her. A look passed between them. Klaus would have lain down beneath his wife’s hammock if it had been permitted. But it was better this way. The rabbi of Nuremberg was right. It was fair for the men to camp beneath the stars while the women and children were snug belowdecks.

“At least we got in the stern,” Maria said. “In the bow the hammocks swing every time we hit a swell. It is nice here.” She felt tearful having to give up Klaus for all these suspended strangers. Many were seasick, and the hold smelled of vomit and sweat. It was not really so nice, but she would not form her own complaint committee.

“You will be warm here.” Klaus bent very close to her face and touched her cheek with one hand and her swollen belly with the other. “Better for the children. Even this little one, eh?”