Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant) Read online

Rachel followed him with her eyes. He was the most interesting of the new refugees. He was not much older than she was, yet he was alone. No family. No companion. So youthful and yet alone. Such a visage spoke of tragedy and ill fortune.

  In his free hand, he held a crumpled piece of paper—probably with an address or a name written on it. Had his family sent him out of Germany to the safety of relatives in Warsaw? Was his father in prison, perhaps, or his mother too sick to flee the Nazi regime with him?

  He looked from the paper to the street sign on the corner and then back again at the paper. His face puckered in thought. His eyes narrowed as he mopped his brow with the sleeve of his elegant coat. A fine coat, a man’s coat, not originally cut for him. Rachel wondered who had owned the coat before this red-headed young man. Perhaps his father? Or his uncle? Maybe someone dragged off in the terrible pogrom of November?

  Beyond them, the trains of the Umschlagplatz whistled their farewell to Warsaw. On the departing trains were Jews of Polish origin who knew Warsaw too well to consider it safe to remain. Rachel knew that they would soon be playing out this same scene on the other end of the rail line. Straggling into a city square, checking their scribbled addresses against unfamiliar street signs, shifting luggage from one weary arm to the other . . . .

  By the time they realized that every place in Europe was the same for a Jew, the homes and flats they had vacated in Warsaw would be filled by these.

  Rachel looked up at the slate roofs of the buildings of Muranow Square. Like the set on a theater stage, everything appeared the same. The parts were simply to be played by different actors.

  She turned away and examined the facade of her home. Big and yellow, it was a bright flower among lesser blooms in the garden. She had been born here; it was the only home she had ever known. Happy times and sad times had been played out within the safety of those walls. She had gazed out her window and seen the first snowfall, the first bud on the great elm trees in the square. And yet now her mother and father dreamed of leaving this place forever—boarding a train that would carry them far away from Muranow, far away from Warsaw and Poland! But were not all places the same when the tracks finally ended and the last whistle blew?

  Such thoughts filled Rachel’s young heart with despair. In his fevered dreams Papa moaned about sending them away to Palestine. “Leave me Etta!” he cried to Mama. “Take the little ones before it is too late!”

  Then Mama soaked a cool cloth and dabbed his forehead, assuring him that there was still lots of time for him to get well.

  Rachel traced the path of the red-haired young man, the solitary stranger with no one to walk with on the crowded street. The sight of him made her shudder, as though his visage carried some portent of her own future. Oh, Eternal! Her heart cried out with pity for him and pity for herself. I do not ever want to be like him! Please! Never alone! Alone in a strange land!

  It was better to stay, she decided that afternoon. Better to sit at Papa’s bedside, to know the fate of every member of her beloved family! If she were ever given the chance to flee for her life or stay in Muranow Square with her mama and papa and little brothers, Rachel knew what she would do!

  She watched the young wanderer until he dodged behind a clanging train and disappeared up Niska Street past the young couple with the two small sons. Only then did she retreat to the safety of the big yellow house on Muranow.

  ***

  There were only thirty-six men in the meeting room of Albert Forster, Danzig’s top Nazi official. Wolf stood before them with Gautleiter Forster at his side. He considered the expression on the face of each man. Age and features were all different, and yet the hardness of the eyes, the nodding, the sense that each man was a coiled spring gave the group an almost identical look.

  “You are the core of all that will come to Danzig,” Foster cried as though he were speaking to thousands. “Only thirty-six men, and yet you are chosen to represent a thousand! You thirty-six will change the history of Danzig and so the history of the world as we know it forever!”

  Forster paused, just as Wolf had heard the Führer pause for his audience to fire themselves further with applause and cheers. Albert Forster is good, Wolf thought. Berlin had made the right choice in this man. He had mastery over his officers. He lit a fire in their hearts with the promises he echoed from faraway Berlin. They would make a difference! They would rid their world of Untermenschen. Danzig—and indeed all the East—must be scraped clean and purified by fire for the New World!

  The cheering died reluctantly, and Foster introduced Wolf as the personal emissary of the leaders of the Reich. More cheering erupted. The thirty-six hooted as if they were thirty-six thousand strong! Wolf let them yell, let them break into the “Horst Wessel” song and scrape back their chairs to stand at proud attention. He sang with them. He raised his arm to the swastika flag on the standard at the front of the room. Among these men he was not the quiet wine merchant on business in Danzig. He was the personal representative of the Führer. Wolf enjoyed the heady feeling of his own power.

  The song ended. The thirty-six Brownshirts took their seats and waited in utter silence to hear what the spirit of Hitler would say through the mouth of Major Wolfgang von Fritschauer. Wolf let them wait . . .

  “In the name of Adolf Hitler, I greet you. You, who have been waiting here in Danzig for this final release! You, who have watched from afar the slow progression of the Reich across the land. I tell you now that you now are given the key of all power to unlock the door for the German race and their leader!”

  The silence was profound, as though a holy rite were taking place.

  Wolf began again. His Prussian accent was closer to the dialect of these men than to that of the party leaders in Berlin. Wolf recognized the profound effect this had on the thirty-six.

  “The Führer has declared that Danzig must be united with Germany. Poland and England and France now say that such an event will result in war.” Again he paused, letting the word war take effect. Stronger than love, stronger than hate, war stirred the passion and imagination of young men like nothing else, just as the idea of motherhood for the state had captured the hearts of the young men as their rite of passage. Bad music and bad reasons all sounded good and righteous and able beneath the banner of race and blood-brotherhood! To savor the bread broken with comrades made the values of war not only acceptable, but desirable. The Führer knew the hearts of his people well.

  “For the sake of the German folk and German culture, the Führer sends you this promise: There will be war! War against the enemies of the Aryan people! It is inevitable, comrades. And it will begin here. With you! In Danzig!”

  And so it was said. The Port of Danzig was not negotiable. Poland and England and France had thrown down the gauntlet. They had finally drawn a line, faint and uncertain though it was. The Führer had determined to step over it, and soon. These thirty-six, and thousands behind them, would provide the frontline division when the moment arrived.

  The certainty of it was a relief. All the youth of Germany had been impregnated by the great god of war. And now, here in Danzig, the bloody child of Death was about to be born.

  Like apostles, the few gathered in the little room had been chosen to stir the hearts of their young soldiers to follow the crusade! There was no man in attendance who did not feel blessed by some vast force at that moment, filled by some unexplained power, lifted by the dark glory of blood and death!

  “You have heard the words of the Führer. If there is to be a war, then let it begin on this issue . . . Danzig! Even as he meets the challenge of our enemies, he looks to you, depends on your loyalty and dedication!”

  The rest of the meeting drifted into the practical mechanics of beginning a war. Demonstrations must increase within the Free City of Danzig. The summer must be marred by wave after wave of boycotts and strikes by dockworkers and transit employees. Those who did not cooperate must be dealt with severely. German deaths must be attributed to the Polish government and, abov
e all, violence must be pushed to such a degree that Poland would be required to act with force against these leaders and their men.

  Yes, they would face death. They themselves might be martyrs to the cause of “One Reich, One Folk, One Führer!” In that they would find a kind of eternal life, eternal memory.

  Planned demonstrations must appear spontaneous and widely separated throughout the territory. When Poland stepped in, the German battleships would be standing ready in the gulf of Danzig.

  ***

  Once again the wine merchant, Wolf slipped out the back door of Albert Forster’s offices. The long, low bellow of a foghorn sounded in the dark harbor. The port was quiet, but Wolf knew that even now an entire fleet of U-boats prowled beneath the Baltic Sea just outside of Danzig.

  The streets of the city seemed deserted as well, and yet Wolf felt the presence of something . . . someone . . . watching him from the shadows. British agents? French? Polish? It did not matter. Let them watch and speculate on the late-night meeting of the German wine merchant with Albert Forster. Let them put whatever meaning they desired on it. If it stirred them to action against the ever-growing Nazi party in Danzig, then that act would only speed the beginning of the war. So much the better. Wolf was impatient. All of Germany was impatient. The baying of hounds had gone on too long for the liking of any hunter. It was time for blood to color the landscape. Let it come quickly.

  ***

  All that was left was the title page. Orde stared at the blank sheet of paper and then printed in block letters the title of his magnum opus:

  MILITARY TRAINING MANUAL

  JEWISH DEFENSE FORCES

  OF THE NATION OF ISRAEL

  Compiled by

  CAPT. SAMUEL ORDE, In service to his King

  Never mind that there was no nation of Israel. Never mind that British Parliament had gone back on every promise it had ever made to the Jewish people since 1917. Parliament was not the last word, and the King whom Orde served was not the king of England.

  No training manual for any army had ever been written quite like this one. Not only was it filled with practical, firsthand knowledge about the art of desert warfare, it was reinforced with passages of Scripture, reminders of ancient battles in this same land and the covenant an unchanging God had made with His chosen people.

  Now it was finished. Orde laid down his pen and wrapped the two hundred hand-written pages in butcher paper from the Hanita kibbutz kitchen. He tied up the precious package with twine and scrawled across the front: For my brothers and sisters, my adopted family by the great blessing of our one Lord and King. He signed his Hebrew name: Hayedid. “The Friend.”

  Orde took one last look around the tent he had made his headquarters. He had known what was coming. His heart had warned him, although his mind had resisted. Every additional day he had spent with his men had been a gift. But now the gift of time had run out. Orde felt somehow that all his life had been spent in preparing him for these few months with what he believed was the foundation of an army for a nation yet to be reborn. This was the beginning for them. But what was it for him? What purpose would his life hold now?

  He tucked the manuscript under his arm as though it contained orders from the highest general. Perhaps it did, he thought, tugging his beret into its proper angle.

  At any rate, the manual was his legacy—his gift of every minute scrap of knowledge he had gleaned from his career as a fighting man. He closed his eyes and prayed that it would be enough to sustain these men he loved, as well as those who followed after them and fought for the survival of the Jewish people. In his prayer, Sam Orde offered back to God what had been given to him. He asked no further blessing on his own life. He felt that he had been set aside by his King; now his life had no further purpose except to float and spin away the time he had left to live.

  The skies above Galilee were bright, but Orde felt only darkness above him as he passed down the long line of his troops. They stood proudly at attention as he had taught them the first day he was with them. Now, instead of ragged work clothes, they wore clean pressed khakis for the occasion of their farewell. On their heads were the jaunty Australian bush hats that Orde had demanded from British ordinance and gotten after months of badgering.

  Zach Zabinski called for the troops to salute Hayedid a final time. Orde returned the honor and then passed the manuscript into Zabinski’s hands as one dying soldier might pass a standard to another.

  “It is all there, Zach,” he said in a low voice. “God willing, I will come back someday and review the troops of a proper nation.” He managed a smile. “Baruch Hashem.”

  Zach saluted again, then tucked the manual beneath his arm as Orde had carried it. How everything had changed because of this one man! They had survived the most terrible of all winters and then a bloody spring because of Samuel Orde.

  “Baruch Hashem, dear Hayedid. Shalom to you.’

  ***

  Charles carried Elisa’s violin case into the TENS office. Murphy had told her not to carry anything but the baby, and so the boys had enthusiastically taken their chief at his word. They fetched glasses of water, cleared the supper table of dishes, swept the steps and, today, took turns cradling the cherished violin on their way to meet Murphy for lunch.

  Murphy’s face looked “growly,” as Elisa described it. Charles could clearly see him through the glass partition of his office as they moved through the bustling desks of the journalists.

  “Lousy news from Palestine, Mrs. Murphy,” one of the younger men called.

  “What’s with you, Jack?” chided another. “You always have to be the first with the bad news? That’s sick!”

  “That’s why he’s a journalist!”

  “Ah, you’re all sick!”

  Smiling through the barrage of American banter, Elisa guided the boys past hands that reached out to muss their hair and toss sticks of gum their way.

  She knocked timidly on the glass door. Murphy was talking angrily to Harvey Terrill and waving a slip of paper in the air.

  “So get hold of Mike Tracy in Cairo, that’s all!” Murphy said, and then he motioned Elisa and the boys to enter as Harvey slipped out past them with a pained look on his face.

  “What’s all this about?” Elisa asked, giving him a kiss as he hefted the boys onto the desk.

  “Nothing. Well, something, but we’ll manage.”

  “Palestine? Jerusalem?” Elisa asked anxiously as Charles searched Murphy’s face for a clue. Leah and Shimon Feldstein were in Palestine. There was a war in Palestine. Just this morning Elisa had read them some parts of a letter from Leah. She had skipped others, in spite of the fact that Charles and Louis had begged for every word to be read. And now the men in the newsroom had mentioned Palestine.

  “First the good news. There’s a truce. Temporary to be sure, but the fighting has stopped. The bad news is strictly business. We’ve just lost our best correspondence in Palestine.”

  “You only have one.”

  “Right. Samuel Orde.”

  “Dead?” Elisa gasped.

  “Not killed. Just reprimanded and posted out of Palestine by the British Army. He’ll be on his way back to England at the strong insistence of the Arab Higher Committee.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Elisa did not sound very sorry, Charles thought. She sounded more relieved than anything. She was smiling again, talking about a BBC concert rehearsal and ordinary things like how she and Anna and Helen found perfect wallpaper for the baby’s room. But Charles and Louis knew the big secret!

  Murphy took his coat and hat from the rack and herded them out to the maze of desks where Freddie waited beneath the awning while a steady rain pelted the slick cobbles.

  “Will y’ be long, sar?” Freddie shook drops of rain from the shoulders of his slicker. “The missus has a few things for me to pick up.”

  Murphy gladly released their toothless giant to the task of running errands. Freddie’s wife, Hildy, had taken up the additional duties as cook for them
for the last few weeks, while Freddie had provided an imposing wall of protection for Elisa, Anna, and the boys. This arrangement seemed ideal.

  “Take the rest of the afternoon if you like. I’ll see Elisa home.”

  Freddie was granted use of the automobile, and the hungry foursome hugged the facades of the buildings on Threadneedle Street as they hurried through the pouring rain. It was a short walk to the one pub in London where nearly every patron spoke American and thought American and was, in fact, American. Murphy liked the place because of its familiarity to his homeland. Elisa and the boys liked it because it was quite different from any other atmosphere in London.

  The publican was an Irishman who had multiple cousins in America, and so was forever up-to-date on the latest stateside news. He had letters from nearly every major U.S. metropolis and could pull them from under the counter at will to recite the home-front news to homesick Americans.

  As the foursome entered the close-packed room, the publican was reading the latest news about the IRA bombing. He looked up and spotted Murphy, then hailed him as one Irishman to another. “The British hate us, y’know, brother Murphy!”

  “Can you blame them?” Murphy called back cheerfully.

  At that, a dozen greetings were shouted out from various booths that lined the dark paneled wall, separated by wood partitions inset with beveled glass. Brass gas lamps had been converted to electricity and illuminated each table with poor light and shadows that concealed the faces of the diners. The whole place buzzed like a Waterloo railway station, and the smells of smoke mingled with the aroma of fish and chips and warm ale.

  Everyone towered over Charles and Louis. People whom they had never met before greeted them as if they were related. Elisa explained that this was not bad manners, but simply an American eccentricity. It was okay with Charles. He had decided long before that he liked Americans a lot. He just gave a gap-toothed smile and shouted, “Hi’ya” right back at them. Helen, Theo, and Anna sat in the back corner booth. Their faces were in shadow, so it was hard to see them until Theo shifted in his seat, and the light brushed over his amused features.