Munich Signature (61 page)

“But . . . he told me . . . General Halder opposes a move against the Czechs.”

“General Halder is under Hitler’s authority. As are the other members of the High Command. Our own PM is presented with documents a hundred times a week that state opinions about this or that. Hitler may very well disregard such a document and march anyway, you see.”

“But they won’t let him ignore it.”

“They
who
?” he smiled skeptically.

“The generals.”

“Oh? You have information that they—the generals—are planning a coup? They will assassinate Hitler, or arrest him? What?”

“No. Not in so many words.”

“Well, then.” Tedrick had lost all patience. “Have you so thrown yourself into this work you detest that you have become a prophetess?”

“No. But there was something else. I could hear it in his voice. I know him so well—”

“We are aware of how
well
you know von Kleistmann, but unless you can give us more to go on than this document that will somehow make Hitler change his mind, then I am repeating to you what the whole world already knows. Herr Hitler is traveling from Berlin at this moment to meet with Chamberlain and Daladier of France and Mussolini. There they will attempt to settle the Czech problem between them.” He struck a match and sat back. “You and the generals have not been invited to the conference. Neither have the Czechs. They will accept whatever peaceful decision is made, I am certain.”

Elisa felt like crying. Had she ever been so angry? “You will pass this information on to Chamberlain?”

“When he gets back from Munich.”

She sat in anguished silence. Hitler, leaving Berlin. Drawn away from Berlin by this meeting. Would the document still be presented? she wondered. Or would the High Command simply submit to the Führer once again?

“Are you finished with me, then?”

“Finished?”

“What has been the use of this if you won’t listen?”

“My dear girl, the government listens. And the government makes decisions based on many different factors. Our ambassador in Berlin is the one who was personally requested to relay the Führer’s willingness to negotiate a solution. You are only a messenger. A courier. One of hundreds, I might add.”

“Then you are finished with me.”

“We would like you to return one more time to Paris. To set up von Kleistmann with a new contact. A meeting time. Recognition signal. But, yes. I’m sure you’re relieved. Your part is over.”

She simply stared at Tedrick. He was discharging her without a word of thanks, like the dismissal of an incompetent secretary.

“You mean, I can—”

“Go where you like.” He smiled. Was there something behind that smile? Some knowledge? He opened a drawer and tossed her a key. “The Savoy Hotel tonight? We’ve kept your room for you.”

“And the need for Shelby? For my protection?”

“Nothing at all to worry about. You can once again be Elisa Murphy.”

“Just like that?”

He puffed his pipe. The smoke rose up before his face. “Just like that.”

Elisa nodded and extended her hand for the final message she was to relay to Thomas. A name. A date. A time. She would remember. She gave the paper back to Tedrick, who touched it to his tobacco and let it burn.

***

From Argentina to Venezuela, Murphy checked off the lists of Western Hemisphere nations. A few, rumor had it, were already involved in under-the-table transactions to take in a paltry few refugees. But no one was interested in the
Darien
. Too high profile. Too much interest. People might start asking questions, like
How much was paid, and to whom?

There were other shiploads of refugees. One had been anchored in Istanbul for two months. Two others had been blockaded by the British from entering Palestine. The refugees onboard those ships had been taken by the British to Mauritania where they were now held behind barbed wire and watched by guards in machine-gun towers. A leaky barge filled with Jewish children destined for Palestine had sunk in the Adriatic. A handful of others had set sail and never been heard from since.
A pity. But one cannot save everyone.

With all of this a matter of records, these delegates whom Murphy approached one by one simply looked at him with the same pitying smile he had seen on the face of Cabrillo.
Why buy these little birds when there are so many?

Each morning Murphy asked himself that question. He tried to harden himself against the disappointment as each delegate shook his head and answered, “No, we cannot change our laws for a few, or we will find our country overrun by many.”

So. In the interest of fairness to all of the persecuted, was it more just to let everyone perish?

The coldness of this civilized reasoning pushed Murphy to a raging frustration like nothing he had ever experienced before—not even in Spain, not even when German bombs had dropped with arbitrary brutality on schools and homes and churches. Until now he had not fully understood that apathy was the glove into which evil slipped its hand. Apathy protected the fist of evil from skinning its knuckles as it slammed babies against a wall. The searing of a man’s conscience was, in the end, just as deadly as a machine gun fired into a classroom of children, just as final in the end as the sinking of a ship.

The horrible weight of this knowledge did not lift from Murphy’s heart. It was dusk. The end of another day in Evian. The room was dim, but Murphy did not turn on the light. He picked up the list of
Darien
names and sank down onto the sofa.

Skimming his finger over the list, he began to pray. Each name was a person, a face, an individual with hopes and fears and a certain number of years to live on this earth, and then an eternity to face. These were not numbers or statistics—they were living, breathing, hurting, hoping souls.

Why these birds when there are so many others?
“Why, Lord?” Murphy asked aloud. He waited, expecting an answer.

And in his heart the answer came to him.
Everyone is on the
Darien,
Murphy. Every man. Every woman. Every child. They wait. They hope for a word that will give them life, and no one speaks. No one reaches out. “Not now! No time! No room!” In the end it will be the same for everyone, and I will judge apathy and evil side by side. They will hear My words and remember! I was hungry and you did not feed me; I was thirsty and you gave me no drink. I was a stranger and you did not take me in; naked and you did not clothe me; sick and in prison and you did not visit me. Inasmuch as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me!

So, this was the answer.
Emmanuel, God with us
. Was Jesus also on the
Darien
? Was He among the lost sheep of Israel? By this, did He weigh the nations and the hearts of men?

Such thoughts were too great for John Murphy. He bowed his head and wept with grief—not just for the people on the
Darien
anymore, but for everyone.

After a time he switched on the light. The list of names still lay on his lap. His eyes focused on one name in the center of the list:
SHIMON FELDSTEIN, AGE 29, ORIGIN VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

Murphy gasped and touched the name. Why had he not seen it before now? He jumped up and ran to the telephone. He had to call Elisa. She had to know! But where should he call? The Savoy? She seemed to get her messages from there. Yes. He would call London. Savoy Hotel.

He closed his eyes and prayed that she would be there.

***

Rough hands shook Shimon where he lay on the deck below. The storm had not abated. How had he slept? How had anyone slept? He raised his head, and Tucker put his mouth against his ear and shouted over the roaring of the storm.

“CAPTAIN NEEDS YOU! WHEELHOUSE!”

Shimon nodded and struggled after Tucker, who seemed somehow to be able to walk upright in rhythm with the bucking ship. Up the metal steps. The force of the winds was deafening. Tucker turned to Shimon as if to warn him he was about to open the hatch. They would have to fight the water, cling to the lifelines.

“READY?” Tucker shouted.

One nod. Shimon was not certain he was ready. Up until now he had only heard the force of the gale and felt the rolling of the ship. Was it day or night? He did not know anymore. The hatch opened; the screaming winds jerked it out of Tucker’s hands, sucking him out onto the deck. There was a wail of anguish from below as the fury increased and penetrated the belly of the ship. Shimon ducked and followed, grasping the metal of the hatch and helping Tucker slam it back and secure it.

The
Darien
was a toy boat among mountains of moving gray water. Shimon could see only the water. Walls of water. Sprays of water stinging him until he felt blind as he held desperately to the slippery lifelines. Inch by inch Tucker pulled himself forward. Shimon followed hand over hand. His legs did not matter any longer. They offered barely any support on the slippery, churning foam that covered the planks.

There was a dim light in the wheelhouse. The two men strained against the force that pushed against them, threatening them to make even one false step. A slip. One instant of error and the waters that towered over the hull of the
Darien
would suck them in forever. At the sight of such force and fury, Shimon wondered how they had stayed afloat so long.

Tucker kept one hand on the lifeline as he reached to open the door of the wheelhouse. Lightning flashed, illuminating the face of Captain Burton. He strained to hold the wheel in control, his face contorted with the effort. Tucker lunged forward to help him hold it, and Shimon jumped after him, falling to the floor and kicking the door shut with his feet as a twenty-foot wave crested and broke against the portside.

There was no need for explanation. Burton could not hold the wheel alone. Shimon struggled to stand and grasped the wheel with the other two men.

Shimon could see the face of a wall of water ahead of them. Gray, undulating force. In a corner of the wheelhouse, a middle-aged man continued to tap urgently on the telegraph. Was anyone listening? And was there any way of helping even if a message might penetrate the storm?

“FIFTY MILES!” shouted Burton. “FIFTY MILES TO SHORE! IF WE CAN—” His words were lost to them, but there was hope in his voice. And he had brought them so far already.

***

Murphy left his message for Elisa with the operator at the Savoy; then he hurried downstairs to grab a sandwich before she called.

Luggage belonging to the Evian delegates was piled everywhere in the lobby. The conference had ended so hopelessly, yet the faces of the men looked rested and pleasant as they chatted in little groups. Murphy was the last journalist remaining in Evian. Everyone else had rushed off to Munich or Prague or London or Paris. Tomorrow Murphy would leave.

An overcoat on his arm, the representative from Holland stood beside a marble column as he waited for his luggage to be brought down. Murphy had tried half a dozen times to contact Pietr Vander without success or response. The small portly Dutchman raised a hand to hail him.

Murphy changed his course, trying to suppress some small light of hope.

“Ah, Mr. Murphy,” Vander said warmly. “Have you found a Latin port for that ship of yours?”

“No,” Murphy replied. “And I have been hoping to talk to you about the possibility of—”

“Temporary haven?” Vander nodded. “I thought perhaps you might. Are these people on a quota list? Have they been issued quota numbers by the American State Department yet?”

“We are working on that now. Nothing yet. A few stirrings.”

Vander nodded as the bellman approached with his trunk. “We are only a country of temporary sojourn. But if there is proof that these people will be moving toward immigration in another country, perhaps we can discuss a short period for them to come to Holland. It is all hinged on those quota numbers, however.” He smiled and handed Murphy his card. “When that happens, you will call me?”

Murphy nodded. It wasn’t much, but this was at least a small glimmer of hope.

***

The ornate spires of the Houses of Parliament reflected in the water of the broad Thames River. If Elisa had not seen the trenches in Hyde Park and St. James, if it were not for the sandbags now around Buckingham Palace, it would be difficult to believe the sense of freedom she felt walking out of his offices for the final time. Only one duty left. One more short lunch with Thomas and then pass him along to someone else. Poor Thomas. Caught between generals and Gestapo agents. She hoped for his sake that his generals won. She hoped that for everyone.

A train steamed across Charing Bridge to the station. There were telephones there; she would call Murphy and tell him she was finished forever with the BBC. No more British broadcasts. She could meet him in Paris after she saw Thomas, and they could go somewhere together. Anywhere. A place like New Forest, where there were no radios, and the only reminder of civilization was an occasional airplane buzzing overhead or the distant whistle of a train—like the one now lumbering into Charing Cross Station.

Inside the vast hall of the old Victorian station, newsboys were hawking their papers—competing with one another as they shouted the latest news about the Munich conference:

“Big Four Powers in Munich to Settle Fate of Czech Nation! Chamberlain Hopeful for Peace! Deadline Looms!”

“Munich Conference Promises Peace for Our Time!”

A strange contrast to such cries were the men and women carrying gas masks at their sides. Until the peace treaty was signed, they would take no chances.

Elisa waited in line for a telephone. Conversations buzzed around her.

“Personally, if the Germans drop gas, I’m just going to walk outside and take a deep breath.”

“Ah, it won’t come t’ that, now! This will settle it. Chamberlain’s not going t’ get us into a war over a little territory in Czechoslovakia. He’ll give it t’ Hitler.”