Munich Signature (58 page)

“Bubbe! Bubbe!” shouted the children, jumping up and down.

Bubbe called their names as she climbed. Above her the passengers still cheered as their voices bore her up. Arms reached out to pull her up—familiar arms. The loving arms of Maria and Klaus and Trudy and Katrina and Gretchen and Louis. Only Ada-Marie was not here.

Bubbe did not let them see the momentary pain that knifed through her heart. She had not really believed it. Not until now. And then Klaus took the basket, and Maria lay the new little Holbein in her arms. She let her tears fall on him. Tears for joy and yet for loss. Tears for the realization that this reunion was only for one hour, and yet . . .

Baby Israel squalled his hello. So much noise! So much commotion! Had he not yet learned the difference between happiness and grief? Maria clung to her, laying her head on Bubbe’s shoulder.

“Oh,
my kinderlach
!” cried Bubbe, touching every face and then touching again. To lay a hand on each sunburned cheek, to feel the fine soft braids; to hold the baby—it was like breathing again after being underwater for a long time. She filled her lungs with them.
My family! My family!

The Cuban gunboats were forgotten. The arrogant American officer with his inhuman idea of duty to his country was forgotten. No one noticed the endless clicking of cameras or the flashes of light that blinked against the scarred hull of the freighter. This was the hour of joy; this hour was all they had hoped it would be.

And so began the berith milah of little Israel. Carried in the arms of Bubbe Rosenfelt, he was placed before the rabbi of Nuremberg, and all the men onboard the
Darien
stood and cried with one voice: “Blessed is he that cometh!”

Although Mr. Trump knew those words were meant for the infant Israel, he still could not help but smile when he heard them.
Blessed is he that cometh . . .

***

All noise and confusion subsided when Shimon stood before his orchestra of voices and began to conduct Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony
. The voices blended together, singing the instrumental parts with a precision no one, not even Shimon, truly expected. The
Darien
Symphony Orchestra, in perfect harmony and counterpoint, was fulfilling the rabbi’s prophecy of a miracle.

But beyond the decks of the
Darien
, a greater miracle was happening. On the decks of the Cuban gunboats, armed men lowered their rifles to their sides and stood transfixed as the music swelled to a crescendo, enhanced by the percussion of the waves slapping against the hull of the ship. Coast Guard officers—even Commander Deming—stood still and listened. The press corps stopped their picture-taking and waited, awestruck, as the music reached its end.

No one had ever heard anything like it—a boatload of refugees, wandering the seas in a coffin ship, produced the most beautiful music imaginable. This was no coffin—it was an opera house, a symphony hall, a place where life and love and creativity still flourished in the most adverse circumstances. And not a few among the listeners wondered who was truly alive—the occupants of the coffin ship, or those who refused them sanctuary. One thing was certain: No prince of Israel ever had such a circumcision ceremony.

As the foreskin of the child was cut and the blessing recited, baby Israel howled; all the men onboard the
Darien
grimaced and the ladies closed their eyes. Maria felt faint. Klaus was grateful that his son would not remember this moment. Trudy, Gretchen, Katrina, and Louise felt very sorry for their baby brother, and very glad they had not been born sons! And if there was any reminder of grief on that day, it was the stained canvas prayer shawl worn by the rabbi of Nuremberg.

The steady voice of the rabbi intoned the final blessing, “May the lad grow in vigor of mind and body to a love of the Torah, to the marriage canopy, and to a life of good works.” A single cup of wine was held up and blessed before the congregation and the name of Israel Burton Holbein was pronounced. Captain Burton flushed slightly at the surprise. He smiled and nodded as a drop of wine was placed on the baby’s lips.

And so it was accomplished. Beautiful and hopeful, another little life was sealed in the covenant. Heads raised and
mazel tovs
filled the air as Captain Burton led the little family off to his private quarters for what short time remained of the visit of Bubbe Rosenfelt.

38

Running Before the Winds

A wind stirred the sea from the southeast. Choppy waves battered the hull of the smaller craft against the
Darien
.

The commander of the cutter blasted his horn impatiently.
Time enough; the visit is at an end.
The Cuban gunboats imitated his impatience, also letting go with shrill whistles.

The newsmen, who had shouted questions up to the refugees and scribbled down the answers, were surprised when exactly one hour passed and Mrs. Rosenfelt appeared at the top of the steep steps. Her veil now once again covered her face. The little girls clung tightly to her. They were crying. They did not want to let go, and Mrs. Rosenfelt held them as long as she could. Maria had not come to the deck with her. Was such a parting too painful to be made in public? With a drawn face, Klaus Holbein embraced her and then placed the picnic basket back over her arm. Mrs. Rosenfelt reached out for him again. She held him tightly and at last he took her arms in his hands and gently stepped back.

There were tears beneath that veil. Anyone with eyes could see that there had never been a more painful parting. One hour. Only one. Such a tiny fragment of time to crowd in such joy and such sorrow.

Mrs. Rosenfelt descended the steps slowly—with infinitely more care than she had gone up to meet her loved ones. At the bottom, Mr. Trump stood with one foot on his little boat and the other on the metal mesh landing. He reached up to take the hand of Bubbe Rosenfelt to help her off the
Darien
. She looked back over her shoulder and waved up to the sobbing children. She held the basket and stepped away.

Trump heard her weeping from behind the veil.

“Mrs. Rosenfelt? Can I get you anything?” he asked as the engines sputtered and the boat drifted from the freighter. He hurt for her. Perhaps this had been more painful; perhaps it would have been easier for her not to have seen them.

Bubbe Rosenfelt shook her head. She did not speak; she looked back one more time and raised a hand to Klaus, who was also weeping. Then she descended the steps and retreated to her cabin, closing the door behind her.

***

It was astonishing to Murphy as he walked through the lobby of Hotel Royale this morning—none of the expressions on the faces of the conference participants seemed changed. Still vague and pleasant, they had spoken their first round of sympathetic platitudes last night, and then proceeded to explain why they would
DO NOTHING
!

It was the League of Nations all over again.
Oh my, how sad. Perfectly dreadful situation, these refugees; but you can see how our hands are tied.

The
Darien
and her passengers were not even mentioned. They were so small in the horrible scope of desperation, why should anyone think of them? There were, Murphy learned, dozens more ships just like the old freighter, leaving Germany any way possible. How could these busy, important men think of eight hundred when there were millions at stake? And how could they consider millions . . . so many . . . too many! And so the conference of Evian was lost to the thumb-twiddlers and the sleep-talkers, after all.

A bellboy in a round gray cap and gray uniform walked past the restaurant. “Paging John Murphy! Cable for Mr. John Murphy!”

On an etched silver tray lay a telegram from Havana, Cuba. Murphy tore it open, hoping for some word of good news from Trump.

Murphy read the cable; then he read it again. Good news, bad news, huh? The
Darien
is turned away and the food confiscated; however, certain officials told Trump that the right amount in the right pocket of a Cuban immigration official at Evian would at least buy a little time! A Cuban landing certificate!

Amanda was long gone, but she had essentially told Murphy the same thing. There were ways to get around the reluctance of men to do the right thing. Money might stir hearts to action on behalf of the downtrodden much sooner than lofty words and ideals.

“Welcome back to the real world, Murphy,” he muttered to himself as he strode quickly to the desk. He had plenty of money in the account Theo had set up in New York. Hadn’t this been the very sort of thing he had intended the funds to be used for? He would talk to Theo about that some other time. Now he had people to meet.

He rang the bell on the lobby counter. “I would like the room number of Cuban representative Cabrillo, please.” He spelled the name for the French clerk. “C-A-B-R-I-L-L-O. He’s Cuban.”

***

Anna made her way back through the crowded kitchen. “What did he say?”

“Did he agree?”

“Was he insulted, or angry with you?”

There were a thousand questions that seemed to need answers at the same moment.

Anna answered hopefully. “He says you should come and see.” And that answer was passed from one to another in the house and down the food line.

In the midst of the noon meal a harried-looking messenger boy arrived on a bicycle in front of the heavy-laden tables. He had a telegram for Anna Linder marked urgent.

Women exchanged glances. Could this mean that Theo or her sons had been injured or killed? A small boy went to fetch her from the kitchen.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Anna hurried down the steps to where the messenger stood guarding his bicycle. She paid him the charge; then with trembling hands she tore open the envelope.

The whole street seemed silent as they watched her. Tears filled her eyes, and she smiled. “They are being called home to Prague,” she said at last. “Theo, Wilhelm, and Dieter are to be stationed here at the airfield.
Sunday!
God is good to me! They are coming home!”

***

“So Señor Murphy.” Manuello Cabrillo studied Murphy from across the table. “You are buying time for these people, no?” He toyed thoughtfully with the silver knife at the edge of his plate. “Time is a very expensive thing. I have spoken to my superiors. In this case . . . time will cost one million dollars.”

Murphy simply blinked at him in disbelief.
One million!
“Nobody has that kind of money,” he replied unhappily.

Cabrillo shrugged as the waiter in the tea room poured their glasses full of the famous Evian water. “You see those two men over there?” Cabrillo now leaned in to whisper as he jerked a thumb toward two iron-jawed Germans across the room at a window table.

“What about them?” Murphy had a distinct distaste for this unctuous little Latin with his slick hair and Italian silk suit and two-toned shoes. He looked like a casino manager and displayed the greed of a Chicago bank robber.

“These men are Germans, Señor.” He shared a fact that Murphy had easily guessed. Evian was packed with members of Hitler’s tribe this week.

“So what?”

“They are here to
sell Jews
, Señor Murphy!” Cabrillo grinned and sat back in amazement at the thought. “Yes! They are
selling
their Jews for two hundred and fifty dollars a head! And you know what?” He paused for effect. “Nobody wants to buy their Jews, Señor! No one at all is in the market for Jews. Have you not noticed? No country wants Jews! Even when Hitler offers them free, no one will take the German Jews!” He spread his hands in a broad gesture. These were the facts. “Since no one will even take free Jews, like your Jews, well then, it only makes sense that maybe Hitler will have to pay to get rid of them, no? Or maybe you—the company you represent—maybe you will pay such a little amount to the government of Cuba to keep your Jews on the Isle of Pines for six months? Such a little amount considering our risk.”

“What risk?” Murphy was inwardly fuming but did not show it.

“What if after six months you still cannot get them on the quota list? What if the U.S. government will not take them then? What will we do with them? Tow them out to sea and let them sink?”

“One million is . . . impossible.” Murphy glanced toward the Nazi flesh peddlers who lunched on quiche washed down with white wine. They accepted their failure as Jew salesmen rather pragmatically. They looked totally carefree. Perhaps they had found another use for their unwanted merchandise.
So this was Evian. Council of the great and merciful nations.

Murphy cleared his throat in an effort to hold down the sudden revulsion he felt. He considered the account Theo had set up in New York. He estimated what might be raised from other sources. “We are prepared to offer you two hundred dollars for each Cuban landing certificate for the people onboard the
Darien
.”

Cabrillo smiled a wide-mouthed, incredulous smile. He shook his head at such a ridiculous offer. “We all know that the rich Jews can pay much more than that. Sears and Roebuck, Loeb and Kuhn—they say, ‘I’ll give you fifty thousand for this or that. One hundred, two hundred thousand.’ We all know about these rich bankers. These Jews! They can come up with a million dollars in one hour!”

“There are no rich bankers onboard the
Darien
. These people paid passage with their last cent.” Murphy controlled his outrage. “This might be their last hope.”

“Ah, well. Pity them. But they do have rich relatives in the United States, do they not, Señor? Everyone knows the Jews control the press. All the banks in America. Such a small amount will be simple for them to arrange, no, Señor? That is our final offer. We can give you twenty-four hours to consider it. That is all we can do.”