Munich Signature (62 page)

Elisa wanted to put her hands to her ears. Was the whole world filled with noise just a few steps from the Thames? She was sorry she had not waited to call Murphy. She stepped into the phone booth, then realized she had no change.

Leaving Charing Cross Station, she walked briskly toward the Savoy. How long would it be until Tedrick canceled the reservation held in her name? How would the staff feel after so many weeks of Shelby’s charade to have another Elisa Murphy appear on the scene?

But no one seemed to notice that this Elisa had short hair—blond once more, but still cut short, like Myrna Loy. She ran a hand self-consciously down the nape of her neck. “Any messages?” she asked the clerk.

A message from Murphy was handed to her:

Call Evian at once.

She thought no more of the fact that not one curious look had been given to her. She hurried to the gleaming copper elevators and returned to her room.

It was nearly half an hour before Elisa heard Murphy on the other end of the line.

“I was about to give up on you!”

“I’m in London,” she said, nearly forgetting that Murphy had never known she was anywhere else. “I’m all through. I want to meet you, Murphy. Can you come to Paris?”

“I got a ray of hope from Holland!” he cried. “They’ll consider giving the
Darien
temporary refuge! And Elisa, get this—the list of passengers? Shimon Feldstein is among them!” He was laughing with relief and exhaustion. “
Shimon is on the
DARIEN
!
You bet I’ll meet you in Paris! Name the time and place.”

Time and place. She must still meet Thomas. But after that she was free. “Leah is performing at L’Opera tomorrow night at eight-thirty! I’ll meet you there, darling. We can tell her together about Shimon!”

41

The Sacrament

The winds had swung around now, driving the
Darien
away from land. Up the wall of water, then like a bobsled down the other side into the trough. Never forward, only shoved back by the next wave.

As a wave creased and broke over the bow, Shimon could see the white casket of Ada-Marie Holbein still tied there. The symbol of the coffin ship
Darien
!

For an instant Shimon thought the ship would be lifted up and flipped over backward, but then the swell abated and the
Darien
slid forward again.

“ANY MESSAGES?” shouted Burton to the frantic-looking radio operator.

A wide shake of the head answered him. No word. Eighteen hours since the last message. Probably no one was receiving, either. They were alone, and moving out to sea.

***

The assignment of trailing John Murphy twice across the Atlantic and now to Evian had been pleasant for Hans Erb. He had experienced three days of recrimination from Himmler after he lost Murphy in England, but his performance in Evian had more than made up for it. He had tapped every phone call. Had followed every attempt of Mr. Murphy to unload his Jews somewhere—anywhere. And then he had presented Himmler with the trump card.

“He is meeting his wife in Paris.”

“Georg Wand is quite certain he is near to finding her in Paris. He has made contact with her friend, and—”

“Yes, Reichsführer Himmler, her friend Leah Feldstein. And the Feldstein woman’s husband, it seems, is one of the Jewish swine aboard that ship that has caused so much uproar. Elisa Murphy will meet with John Murphy at L’Opera tomorrow night at eight-thirty. I heard it plainly. No attempt to conceal it. They both sounded quite relieved. She says her duties with the BBC are complete, and she will meet him.”

There was silence on the line as Heinrich Himmler considered the words of his agent. “Well, then. This simplifies things. I will call Georg at the embassy. He will be pleased to have this handed to him so easily.”

“Would you like me to continue following?”

Another silence. “No, Hans. You have done well. But it would not hurt to let him know we have not been asleep. Don’t harm him. He is a fool and a nuisance, but she is the one we are after. We do not want to drive her underground again. Step back, and we will present this to Georg as nearly completed,
ja
?”

***

Murphy recognized the German who walked toward him on the quay where the steamboat back to Geneva waited. He was one of the men Cabrillo told him was there to sell the Jews of Germany for two hundred fifty a head.

The man was big. Close-cropped blond hair, a thick neck, and hands like a football player. He was smiling at Murphy.

“Hi,” he said. Just like an American!

“You talking to me?” Murphy instinctively ran a finger against the side of his slightly crooked nose. This was the kind of man who might have been on the docks with the Nazis in New York. He looked as if he could do damage if he wanted to.

“Yes. You are John Murphy, aren’t you?” American. No doubt. From Chicago maybe? Or Detroit? What was he doing selling for the Nazis?

“So what?”

“My name is Hans Erb,” he said brightly. Friendly.

“Like I said, so what?” Murphy spurned the man’s hand and started to walk past him.

“I just wanted to let you know we’re watching. Found a place for those Jews of yours yet? They can always come back to Hamburg!” he called as Murphy kept walking.

The
EVIAN
sign on the dock was plainly reflected in the polished brass of the steamer door. Murphy frowned as he read the mirror-image of the name in the brass:
NAIVE
the name now cried. Evian spelled backward read
naive
. The German stepped beneath the sign. Murphy could see him grinning at his back.

The Evian council for the aid of refugees had come to an end.

***

It must be daylight by now
, Maria thought. They had been enclosed in this metal coffin for so many hours. The rolling of the
Darien
seemed to have eased some.

No one had eaten since the onset of the storm. The children who had been sick through the night now put their hands to their empty bellies. There would be no way to eat until they were out of danger, if they did manage to pass through this sea.

The rabbi of Nuremberg sat cloaked in his canvas tallith near the door to the infirmary. His lips moved in silent prayer. Had he ever stopped praying through this long and terrible ordeal?

Little Israel still had not opened his mouth to cry. He cooed and now turned his mouth toward Maria’s breast. At least he would be able to eat. He alone would be fed.

Like the rabbi of Nuremberg, Israel had lain untroubled in the midst of the night’s terror. Maria lifted her blouse and let him nurse. To eat; to sleep an untroubled sleep; to wake and never know the dark fear of death that surrounded them. Maria smiled. It seemed strange that she could smile now, but Israel nursed and looked at her with eyes so trusting and content that she had to smile back at him.

***

The blackness of night moved into deep gray as the sun rose somewhere. Captain Burton and Shimon were still at the helm, still pointed west, although they had not moved forward more than one or two miles throughout the long night.

The radioman was asleep. As the wheelhouse brightened, Burton kicked him awake. The winds that had seemed to be abating shifted again to roar in from the southeast. Waves broke against the stern, pushing the ailing freighter forward toward the Cape. The seas had tamed from fifty-foot swells to twenty-five and thirty-five feet.

With the dawn, some hope was renewed in the wheelhouse. They had survived the worst! There was more storm racing in behind them, but if the
Darien
could make it to shore . . .

***

A long line of young airmen stood at attention as Theo took his leave of them. There had been no official explanation why Theo and his sons were being transferred to the Prague defenses. Most believed that it was because the name Theo Linder had undoubtedly been placed on the list of criminals Hitler wished returned to Germany for justice.

Wilhelm and Dieter both resented the fact that they would not be at the front with the units they had trained for. Whatever the reason for this transfer, Theo did not question it. The seal of President Beneš himself marked the document.

With a final salute, Theo strode from the field. These were good men. They had learned quickly, and they would give the Luftwaffe something to contend with.

All of the Sudetenland seemed deserted now. Entire families had fled their homes, leaving food on the tables and livestock untended in the fields. The train into Prague was crowded with remnants of the Czechs who had waited until the last possible moment to leave. Word that France had placed one and a half million men along the Maginot Line from the English Channel to the Swiss frontier had finally convinced most of them that this was indeed the end of peace.

Theo breathed a sigh of gratitude when he heard of the French move. Then he, like others, had felt a twinge of resentment at the news that Prime Minister Chamberlain was flying once more to meet with Hitler—this time in Munich; this time with French leaders as well as Mussolini and Hitler to discuss the possibility of a peaceful solution to the Czech crisis. Why had President Beneš been excluded from the conference that was to decide the fate of his own country? The possibility of a betrayal of Czechoslovakia by France and England seemed very real at this moment, in spite of the French Army along the Maginot Line.

The train rumbled past a tiny farming village. The onion-domed church spire soared in the clear air. Now Theo remembered. It was Sunday.
Is anyone in church this morning?
he wondered.
Or has everyone stayed home to pray in solitude for peace?

Anna, breathless and beautiful on the platform, answered his question. Gathering husband and sons into her arms, she whispered through her tears, “Our Lord has not forgotten us. You are home! You are home!” And then she checked her watch and gasped that they must hurry or they would miss church this morning.

Stomachs rumbling with hunger, the three airmen followed meekly after her. Wilhelm and Dieter rolled their eyes. They had never enjoyed the services at the Anglican church Anna had chosen to attend. Week after week they had sat in the half-empty sanctuary and worked very hard to understand the English words. They read the Scripture in English. Sang hymns in English. Theo joked that they might as well get used to the language, but he still would pray in German.

The worshipers were usually diplomats or visiting politicians and businessmen. A handful of tourists sometimes joined the sparse crowd, but there had been fewer of them as the threat of Nazi invasion increased.

This morning, there was something different about the church. Every pew was crowded. Men and women waited outside the huge bronze doors in a line that stretched clear out to the street. Heads nodded in greeting to Anna. She smiled back familiarly.

Had the fear of German bombs brought these newcomers to a sense of their own mortality? In searching the skies above Prague for bombers, had men caught a glimpse of the Almighty?

Theo took his place at the end of the queue.

“What is all this?” Wilhelm asked as the men in front of them removed their hats to enter the church. “I thought all the tourists had gone home.”

Anna shrugged and then a peculiar smile touched her lips. “Listen,” she whispered, not willing to explain that these were the men and women who had come to the soup kitchen.

Theo, Wilhelm and Dieter fell silent as the church bells chimed; then a murmur of conversation caught their attention. All the words spoken by the strangers were spoken in German. Theo recognized the soft accent of the Viennese.

“German?” asked Dieter.

“Austrian,” explained Theo. Then he laughed a short laugh. “Family members from Austria, Anna? First you ask them to dinner, and then to church?”

Wilhelm’s eyes widened as he scanned the line of worshipers. Not only were these strangers from Austria—they were Jews!

Snatches of Yiddish were heard here and there, but most of those who entered the Anglican church this morning spoke in the language of the cultured and educated. “
Guten Morgen
, Frau Anna!” Again and again the greeting echoed as they entered the building.

The pews were packed. Worshipers stood along the aisles and three deep against the back wall. The massive Church of England had been built to house eight hundred. This Sunday over one thousand crowded beneath the dark wood arches.

Anna, Theo, and the boys stood in the back and gazed in wonder at the sea of heads. Above them was a small choir loft where a dozen puzzled Englishmen filed into place. The rector, a small, gray-haired man, emerged onto the platform. He adjusted his spectacles as though he could not believe that he had at last been sent a congregation in this backwater outpost of the great Church of England.

He tugged the sleeves of his clerical robe and then in a flourish he directed the thousand to stand and sing. “Page 342 in the hymnal, please!”

The organ blared the opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” This was a Lutheran hymn, to be sure, but the congregation recognized the tune immediately—the melody found in Mendelssohn’s
Symphony No.5
, “The Reformation.” Many had heard the symphony played at the Musikverein in Vienna over the years. With such a familiar melody, nearly everyone made an attempt to sing the words of Martin Luther’s famous hymn. A mixture of accents rose up to echo the phrase: