Munich Signature (31 page)

Other passengers swept by him, barely noticing him. He moved back in the shallow alcove of the service corridor. From this vantage point he searched passing faces. Where was Murphy? Would he be angry? Would he make him go back to the terrible playroom?

Stubbornly Charles wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. He was angry that the woman in white had taken the flyer’s scarf Elisa had purchased for him.

Twice, Charles thought he saw Murphy. He leaned forward and squinted his eyes to see. But he was always disappointed. Surely Murphy must know that he had run away.

Charles was tired. He was scared. Closing his eyes, he slid down to sit against the wall. He hoped no one would take him until Murphy came.

19

Wall of Ice

From the vantage point of their summit perch, Leah could plainly see that the awesome mountain they had just ascended was nothing more than a mere foothill in the spine of the Kitzbühel Alps. To the north, the Kaisergebirge Alps loomed up. Beyond those serrated, forbidding peaks lay Germany. Like the jagged teeth of a hungry animal, the mountains to the north were a formidable sentry for the Third Reich and an obstacle to be feared by those who longed to leave that country. The thought made Leah shudder. Perhaps Shimon was locked behind that cold stone wall.

To the southeast loomed the equally forbidding Hohe Tauern where the Grossglockner reared up twelve thousand feet above the valley floor. Its peak was always white and unchanged regardless of the season.

Franz followed Leah’s gaze as they stood on a rocky outcropping. As if reading her fear at the thought of crossing such obstacles, he pointed to the southwest.

“You will leave through the Zillertal Alps.” His voice was kind, even gentle.

“I cannot tell one from another,” she whispered. “All are so vast.”

“Do not look toward the most frightening of the mountains. Gustav will lead you safely through the Zillertal, just to the east of the Brenner Pass.” He took her arm and turned her to face those peaks. Yes, they seemed much smaller than their brothers to the north and to the east. “Have you ever been to Italy through the Brenner Pass?” he asked.

She nodded. Hadn’t every Austrian traveled that miracle road at least once? There were Nazi troops there now. They had returned a week ago like a sudden storm and the pass was closed again. “We cannot get through there. You said so yourself.”

“Yes. True. But, you see, there are a hundred ways over the Zillertal if you have legs to carry you. There are secret, remote paths.”

“Dangerous?” She could not help but ask the question.

“Without a guide? Of course. But you and the boy have a guide who will avoid every farmhouse and shepherd’s hut. You needn’t be frightened.”

“I am only a cellist. He is only a boy.”

“And the Germans who pursue you are only Germans. They do not know the way through these mountains.” He smiled almost smugly through his thick beard. “They prefer the road through the Brenner Pass,” he added disdainfully. “You will be a real Tyrolean before you are finished, Leah Feldstein! What an accomplishment you will have!”

She smiled doubtfully at his challenge. “I would prefer a warm compartment on a train.”

“Dull. Too dull. Besides, several thousand who have tried to leave that way have found themselves locked in a cattle car instead and shipped . . . elsewhere.”

Leah did not reply. Those were facts she knew all too well. As Franz busied himself with the horses again, she stood facing the Zillertal. True, these peaks were not so awesome as the bare stone fangs of the Kaisergebirge, or so high as Grossglockner, but they stretched on and on in endless layers like ranks of soldiers in line. The most distant mountains receded into pastel hues of mist until their details became obscured in the haze. They would meet those details soon enough, she imagined. And after her, Shimon would come.

She studied every aspect of the scenery and determined that as she waited for Shimon to join her, she would think of him coming here to Funnel Lake. She would leave her thoughts here for him to find as he hiked to safety. Every place her foot touched, she would imagine herself breaking a trail for her dear Shimon! Whatever lay ahead, that thought would make her journey easier. For the sake of Shimon perhaps she could walk and not grow weary.
Soon, Shimon, you will put your feet where I have walked, and our paths will lead us home.

***

The horses picked their way carefully down a narrow path that followed the outflow from the lake. High above them, the white ice of a glacier threatened to tumble down on them.

“Not a word from you,” Franz had warned. “It will not take more than an echo to let this loose.” He jerked his head toward the wall of ice. “Avalanche.” He finished the warning with the dreaded word and then said nothing more. He did not need to say more.

The thought of such a cold and violent death made Leah want to muffle the sound of hard hooves against the stone path. She determined she would not look at the cap of ice at the top of the sheer stone wall. They surely had not come through so much to die in an avalanche. Nazis were a far more evil threat, and hadn’t she and Louis survived them thus far?

Here and there among the cracks in the boulders that towered above them, flowers bloomed in fragile contrast to the mountain’s stern immutability. Such fragments of color seemed out of place in the midst of hard granite. Yet they blossomed happily in the path of countless tons of rock and snow and ice.

On these small miracles Leah fixed her eyes as they moved through the gorge. Bits of red and blue and yellow bowed and bobbed on short stems protruding from the gray wall. There was not even enough soil for the horses to leave a track, and yet these flowers dared to bloom here. She determined to think of such things as they passed beneath the shadow of white death. She would think of what was just beyond this gorge—of the old guide named Gustav Stroh, of the young Austrian who would lead them across the border into Italy, and the priest who would help them into France from there.

Louis coughed, and the sound penetrated Leah’s heart with a knife of renewed fear. Franz whirled in his saddle and glared at the child who looked fearfully upward. Could a noise as small as a child’s cough bring the mountain down on them? Leah stared hard at a little blue flower. It would not take much to crush it.

She wanted to ask how much longer they would ride before they emerged from the gorge. Only a short ride to the hut of Gustav, Franz had told them. Until now he had not explained that this was the most dangerous part of the journey. To travel this pass in summer when the sun had warmed the glaciers was unheard of—until the German Army had closed all the passes into Italy except these death traps. Whatever ground could not be covered by the border guards of the Nazi forces, the Germans reasoned, would also be too dangerous for Jews and Socialists to escape over. Nature would eliminate the fools who dared attempt the crossing. And if a few stragglers happened to pass through nature’s gauntlet, the men and dogs of the border patrol would snag them before they crossed to safety.

But some had made it. Leah and Louis were the last of the little band to leave the Wattenbarger farm, and all the others had made it, hadn’t they? Franz and Gustav Stroh and the other guide and then the priest had led each group to safety. What had been done before would be done again—and then once again when Shimon came!

Leah comforted herself with those thoughts. She stared hard at the fragile little blossoms in the crevices and prayed silently that she might be as brave as they seemed to be. Even so, she thought that she had never heard any sound so loud as the hooves of the horses against the stones.

***

Murphy inserted another sheet of clean white paper into the typewriter he had borrowed from the purser. The table was cluttered with open books from the ship’s library. The floor was littered with wadded-up paper. In two hours, Murphy had managed to fill up four typed pages.

Perspiring with emotion, he told the story of the American grandmother forced to put her German family on a rusted refugee boat while she sailed alone to New York. As he described the near-ramming of the
Darien
, Murphy pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples in frustration. How could he relate in black and white print the agony etched on the face of the old woman? How could he relate endless months of red tape as the family had attempted to obtain visas to the United States?

The ship’s library held an entire shelf of books dealing with immigration. Figures were easy to obtain. Immigration quotas were cut 80 percent in 1929. More than half the available spaces had been allocated to Great Britain and Ireland. The year 1933 brought only 1,798 Germans to the country. As Nazi persecution increased in 1934, only 4,716 Germans entered the United States. The number increased in 1935 to 5,117, but only one-third of the number accepted were of Jewish heritage.

But these were only numbers, not faces filled with grief and fear and longing for their families. Yes, the numbers told the brutal truth that the United States had slammed the door shut in the face of literally hundreds of thousands of persecuted Jews. But numbers were cold and unfeeling. Those onboard the
Darien
and a dozen other ships were real men and women who were crying for refuge and finding instead this wall known as The Quota. How many hundreds, maybe thousands, would perish because of this law?

Murphy thumbed through a thick, black-bound book entitled
The United States in World Affairs—1937.

It was not because of unwillingness of the oppressed groups to immigrate that the United States quotas remained unfilled. Prospective immigrants were required to satisfy the American consular authorities that they would not become public charges in their new homes. The Nazi government made this impossible, since they restricted all removal of money or assets from Germany.

Murphy frowned as he read the passage. Such bizarre restriction made little sense, yet it was these very laws that now prevented the quotas from being filled by the desperate German Jews.

Such madness placed these people between the rock and the hard place, Murphy mused. “Between the devil and the deep blue Danube,” he said aloud.

There was one additional requirement the United States placed on those who wanted to immigrate—a clean police record for the previous five years. The very thought of a Jew entering his local Gestapo office for a clean police record was absurd. But the consular authorities dealing with passports and visas were following the law to the letter.

Facts like these were only facts. Americans would no doubt read such statistics and then wrap the garbage in the newspaper and toss it away. But Murphy had more than facts now. He had names and faces of five little girls onboard that coffin ship: Trudy, Katrina, Louise, Gretchen, Ada-Marie.

***

A fire blazed in the marble fireplace at the back of the enormous first-class lounge. Eddie Cantor sat alone in a blue overstuffed chair. Reading the morning newspaper, he was the picture of a man who did not wish to be disturbed. Murphy studied the gold-leaf mural of battling unicorns on the wall above the mantel as he tried to think of a gracious way to interrupt the bug-eyed comedian.

A heavyset matron in a fox coat beat Murphy to it. Tapping Cantor on the shoulder she giggled and cooed as she produced an autograph book and a pen. “I go to all your movie pictures. And I don’t drive a Ford—I drive a Packard!”

“Good for you.” Cantor was polite but obviously irritated when the woman sat down in the chair opposite him.

Stammering her name through a series of awed chuckles, she then proceeded to tell Cantor the story of her life, complete with the names of three former Wall-Street husbands, all of whom had left her well off enough that she could cruise everywhere in spite of the Depression.

Cantor looked pained as he smiled and feigned interest. Murphy saw his chance. He straightened his tie and walked deliberately between the two. He extended his hand to Cantor. “John Murphy, Trump Publications. Sorry I’m late for the interview, Mr. Cantor.”

Behind him, Murphy could hear the woman sputtering. He winked conspiratorially at Cantor, who joined instantly in the ruse.

“Fine, fine! Perfectly fine! Mrs . . . . the lady here was keeping me company.”

The woman’s voice rose an octave with delight. “Keeping him company!”

“So sorry we have to rush off!” Cantor bowed gallantly and took Murphy by the arm, escorting him quickly out to the promenade deck. “Thanks, old man,” Cantor said with a wide grin. “I owe you one. Care for a drink? The old frumps rarely follow me into the smoking room. What do you say?”

***

Half an hour later Murphy had explained the plight of the Jewish refugees as he had heard it from Bubbe Rosenfelt. Cantor’s wide brown eyes brimmed with emotion at her story and that of Charles Kronenberger. “I’m just a newsman.” Murphy spread his hands at the frustration he felt. “I report the news as it happens. These people—like Charles and Mrs. Rosenfelt—they need something a little stronger. A voice, someone with enough popularity to move public opinion to action.”

“How can I help?” Cantor considered the dismal immigration laws Murphy had explained to him.

“I don’t know, but I’ve been in Europe. This is just the beginning. There are millions more where they come from, and there is no place for them to go. Not even the States. So many kids . . .”

Cantor exhaled loudly. “I’ve met a few senators in my time. Sung at the White House a time or two. Franklin and Eleanor will hear about this.” He rested his chin in his hand. “If I do the talking, you’ll make sure it hits the papers?”