Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant) Page 18
Lori simply savored the moment. She felt the nearness of the old story and wished that Papa were here to tell her over again. She had not been heartsick for him for a long time, but the memory of his laughter and his warning about this very spot made her miss him fiercely!
She stepped off the tram and stood transfixed before the very door where Papa had entered as a young man. Before he had even met Mama, he said! She walked toward it, wishing very much to see this wilderness of sin where Papa had been tempted.
Suddenly Jacob spoke her name. “Are you coming, Lori?” He smiled at her. “Or do you want to see the casino?”
Her eyes widened. Did they dare go in?” Do you think . . . ?”
Jacob took her arm, propelling her past the red-coated doorman. “You know our fathers were here together.” He hurried through the revolving door. “When they were at University.”
“You mean your father?” The reek of stale tobacco greeted her. The clear voice of the croupier called out that bets must be placed. Then the whirl and the tick . . . tick . . . tick of the spinning roulette wheel.
“Yes. Our fathers.” Jacob was grinning as he took in all the opulent splendor of this enormous gaming hall. “My father said a woman could walk through one of these casinos stark naked and probably nobody would look up . . . too busy losing their own shirts. Father lost all his money, he and the other fellows with him. Only Pastor Ibsen—except your father was not a pastor then, but quite a man about town—well, he was the only one who would not gamble. So everyone else lost their money and would have starved if Pastor Ibsen had not . . .”
Tears came to Lori’s eyes. It was foolish of her. Embarrassing. But here she was, hearing the other side of a story that was an Ibsen legend! And now . . . where were those two young men who had strolled through the Kurhaus? Where were the fathers of Jacob and Lori now?
A heavy foreboding for her own future came over Lori with that thought. And what was to become of them. . . . the Danzig Gang? If there was a war? If their British visas did not come through? They were having such a lovely day, but all those worries came crashing down on her in the middle of it.
Jacob put his arm around her. “I . . . I’m sorry. I did not mean to. I thought you would think it was funny.”
She nodded. “It is . . . or it was . . . but . . .” The thought that their fathers were both in a Nazi prison—or worse—after so many wonderful years of friendship, somehow stole the laughter even from old memories. “I am, really, all right. I just . . . don’t want to ever look back and wish for . . . all the good times we have had. All of us together, I mean. To be apart or . . .”
They inched their way through a crowd gathered around the roulette wheel. There was no need to say more. There were ghosts even here, in the laughter of the young men of Kurhaus. Jacob heard them too. The laughter of their fathers at age twenty, when they could not have known what the future held for them. Their wives. Their children.
“Stupid of me,” Jacob said as they emerged again into the bright clean air. “This is our day,” he said gently. “We should make our own memories today, yes? And maybe one day tell our children?” He wiped away her only tear with his calloused thumb as yet another tram arrived behind him and disgorged its passengers—some to the devil and some toward the deep blue sea.
***
Jacob sat beside Lori on the beach, but he never looked at her, never noticed the new swimsuit or the new Lori. His eyes were everywhere but on her—on the three boys splashing in the surf; on the little girl building sand castles; on the old couple walking their dog just out of reach of the waves. He studied the clouds that drifted across the sun, cutting off its warmth and then letting it loose again. But he did not notice the goose bumps on Lori’s bare arms when the wind came up. He did not know why she did not at least wear her blouse over the swimsuit when bursts of cold breeze blew in from the Baltic.
Lori sighed. Could he really think she was enjoying this ordeal? Why did he not look at her once and notice that she was quite grown now? A woman! A half-frozen woman forcing a pleasant look on her face as she waited for him to glance her way just once! After that, she reasoned, she would ask to borrow his sweater like Garbo had done in . . . what was the name of that film?
Never mind. Jacob looked at the pier when she talked to him. When she asked him to rub suntan oil on her back, he said, “No thank you. I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not. I could burn!”
He looked over her head at the heated swimming pool. “Then put your shirt on. Or go inside.”
Instead she turned over and let the sun beat down on her beet-red face. Even a sunburn could not outdo the flush of her embarrassment at his rebuff. She closed her eyes so he would not see how near to tears she was. A cool breeze swept across her skin, but suddenly she was very warm. She wished he would go swim with Alfie and the boys. She was sorry she ever bought this swimsuit, ashamed that she had thought of Jacob when she looked at her own reflection in the mirror.
Minutes passes. The dull crash of waves mingled with happy shrieks and dozens of voices. Lori could hear Alfie’s deep, pleasant chuckle as he stammered some challenge to Mark and Jamie.
“Bet I. . . . I. . . . . can hold my. . . . . breath longest . . .”
Jacob heard Alfie too, and now he spoke. “You were right, you know,” Jacob said softly. “We could not have left Alfie in Berlin, and —”
She opened her eyes, certain of what he would say next. “We are all going together,” she said almost angrily.
“But if they don’t let him—”
“We have to believe! Papa would say . . . and I say now, God is in charge of even little sparrows. Why would He forsake Alfie?” She sat up and watched as big Alfie, fifteen-year-old Alfie, played contentedly with the little boys.
“But if . . . you know, Lori, I would have to stay with him. Find some way to get him out of here. He said it. They are here, the Nazis are. It’s a matter of time. And—”
It was instinct. She rammed him hard in the ribs with her elbow and then drew back, as horrified by the blow as he was.
His breath came out with an oof!
“What?” He finally looked at her. “Why did you—?”
“Because. Shut up! Our one day at the beach, and you find gloom to talk about! And here I have been all day, wearing this . . . .”
At last! At last his eyes swept over her! She wanted to cheer! He looked at her for a moment, at least! Then he glanced away quickly, back toward the boys.
“You didn’t even notice,” she finished quietly.
Jacob drew a deep breath, like a man inhaling the healthy sea air. He drew another breath and exhaled loudly. His eyes seemed glazed. His jaw muscle flexed.
“Are you . . . all right?” Now Lori thought perhaps she had hurt him with the jab to his ribs.
He sighed slowly, then put his head in his hands. “Oh,” he moaned, “this is not doing any good at all!”
Now she knew she had hurt him! “Oh, Jacob! I’m so sorry!”
He stood, scattering sand on the blanket and on her. Stretching his neck, he squinted at the pier, the sea, the sky, the dog, the bathhouse. Then, as if he struggled against some powerful force, his face jerked around and he locked his gaze on her. Helpless resignation filled his eyes as he drank her in. Her eyes. Her throat. Shoulder. Arm. Please, please, not the breasts . . . too late. Even as he battled himself, he took in every inch of her beautiful, incredible, too-perfect body.
“There!” He ran a hand through his hair. “All day I have been trying not to look—not to notice. And now look!”
It was the wrong thing to do, but Lori smiled up at him in his misery. “You have been the perfect gentleman,” she said softly. “But I have not been a lady.” She reached for her blouse.
Jacob knelt down beside her and put his hand on her arm. He shook his head slowly and moved nearer, his eyes never leaving hers. Too late, Lori. Too late. You are beautiful; I knew that anyway, and now you are going to be kissed.
11
The Prodigal Sister
Wolf had left nothing to chance when he prepared for his first meeting with the priest at Marienkirche. He had called ahead and made an appointment, giving a brief summary of the situation. Posing as the worried and grief-stricken brother of Lucy, he had spoken of her as any brother might speak of a sister who had been deceived and abandoned by her lover.
Naturally the priest had been most sympathetic and eager to help in any way.
Wolf had additional photos of Lucy copied. Along with the photograph of her on the steps of St. Stephan’s, he included one with her in a red low-cut gown. In her raised hand was a glass of champagne. In this one, her face reflected the seductive look that was much more familiar to Wolf than what the doctor had described as Lucy’s “innocence.” In the mental script Wolf prepared for this interview, he labeled the two photos “before-he-seduced-her” and “after-he-took-her-from-her-family.” Wolf had dealt with these ecclesiastical types before; he was certain that he had only to say these words with the right touch of bitterness and sorrow, and the priest would move heaven and earth to help him locate his “prodigal sister.” Even if he had not personally seen Lucy in his great cathedral, this priest would know who Wolf should contact within other Danzig parishes. Coupled with his own personal performance of sorrow, Wolf would offer a reward to the Catholic diocese in Danzig. A charitable contribution from his wealthy Prussian family in exchange for the return of his sister and her illegitimate child to the fold.
Well armed with this story, Wolf took a taxi to the massive Gothic cathedral that dominated the skyline of Danzig. Wolf considered the building not as one might look on a holy site, but as an example of pure German culture. Founded in the fourteenth century by Teutonic knights, Marienkirche was the mightiest example of German architecture in the Baltic. The massive west bell tower consisted of ancient brick rising to a summit 248 feet above the cobblestone street. Ten slender turrets reached heavenward from the gables. Inside, the beautiful grained vaulting was supported by twenty-eight pillars. The aisles and transepts were flanked with private chapels dedicated to German merchant burgomasters and their families. In the walls and floors between the buttresses, the proud and the rich descendants of those first Teutonic knights waited for eternity.
For Wolfgang von Fritschauer, the glory of Marienkirche had nothing to do with the Lord it claimed to glorify. In the glided high altar, the woodcarvings, and stained-glass images of the apostles and Christ, Wolf did not see the Spirit of the living God—he saw the spirit of Aryan culture. He deified the stone carvers and the ancient painters, the builders of this place. They were his ancestors; those workers of this wonder—German, one and all. If the painted scene was not the image of Christ—if, instead, it were the face of Thor hurling thunderbolts to earth, it would have had equal meaning to Wolf. The great altarpiece depicting The Last Judgment, with its swirling smoke and rising flame and the angry face of a vengeful God, could just as easily have been made in the image of the Führer. The judgment of the German people was soon coming on the earth. The victory of German culture would be celebrated with new significance in this place. A new inferno was planned for those unworthy to enter the paradise of national socialism. And worthiness was, of course, determined by German law.
All of these things flashed through Wolf’s mind as he genuflected before the crucifix and extended his hand to the priest. He felt no awareness of blasphemy in his thoughts. His beliefs were as natural to him as breathing. The fact that he himself was worthy to be called pure of blood was owed to the wisdom of his ancestors. They had known the value of untainted race, and practiced it long before the bricks of Marienkirche had risen as their monument.
The priest was short and swarthy—obviously of some mixed Slavic blood. He invited Wolf to follow him through a labyrinth of hallways to his office where they might speak privately about the man’s sister. The priest could not guess the revulsion and disdain Wolf felt as he stared at the back of his too-round head and sloping shoulders.
“Won’t you be seated, Herr von Fritschauer?” The priest kindly indicated a large tooled-leather chair beside his desk.
“Thank you, Father.” Wolf opened his briefcase, displaying a stack of Lucy’s photographs among his business papers. The priest sat opposite him and listened sympathetically to the story of Lucy Strasburg before and Lucy after. Not an unusual story these days in Germany. Young women in the Bund Deutscher Madel, the “League of German Girls,” were encouraged to have illegitimate children for the Reich.
Wolf brushed over the priest’s obvious disapproval of the Nazi policies of rewarding immorality. He held fast to his story: “I am prepared to offer a reward to benefit the charity of your choice if you might help bring Lucy home.” He fanned a dozen pictures out on the scarred desk. “Perhaps if you could make some phone calls on behalf of my family, put her picture into the hands of any who might have seen her here in Danzig.”
And so it was as simple as that. A model of charity and kindness, the good Father promised to do all he could to return this wayward girl to her family.
The great bells of Marienkirche tolled high noon as Wolf strode confidently from the building.
***
With its bright yellow sides and lime-green roof, the Danzig tram No. 5 glided to a stop like a giant banana on rails. Danzig trams and taxis were the only things that seemed out of character in the medieval city.
Lucy considered the queue of passengers for only one moment of temptation. She fingered the few coins she carried in the deep pocket of her sweater. She had brought along these precious savings today for a special purpose. Although her ankles were swollen and her back ached terribly, she would not squander what little she had left on a tram ride out to shop.
Raising her chin slightly, she pretended that she simply preferred to walk. After all, walking was the best exercise for pregnant women. Women in this condition had been walking to market in Danzig long before these miracles of transportation were ever imagined!
Peter had given up riding on the tram as well, but for a different reason. One day near the synagogue on Hunde Strasse the sign above the tram stop had been painted:
HUNDE STRASSE—HOUND STREET
DOGS ALLOWED—NO JEWS.
Lucy had told him that she would not ride the public tram, either, if such signs were allowed to remain. It was a matter of honor.
But Peter was gone to Warsaw now, and if Lucy had only had money enough, she knew that today she would have gladly traded a bit of her newfound principle for even a few minutes of luxury.
Never mind that, she told herself. Hadn’t Mama always gone out to milk the cows when she was expecting, even on the days the babies came? It was good for her, Mama said. Good for me, too.
Lucy found herself thinking a lot about her mother these days—missing her, longing to ask her a thousand questions. But there was no use trying to contact her parents. No doubt Wolf would have them watched. He wanted the child Lucy carried, and she did not doubt that her mother and father had already been questioned and warned. Probably once they learned of Lucy’s condition they had gone to the priest and had the Mass read for her. They had mentally buried her in the plot reserved for sinners. She would not have been welcome in her father’s house even if there had been some way to get home without being discovered by Wolf.
So there is no use thinking of Mama, except to remember what she did before each baby came.
She struck out along the waterfront known as Speicher-Insel. Here the ancient stucco and half-timbered grain elevators unloaded their freight onto cargo ships as they had done for centuries. Peter had found work here. Now that he was gone, there were a hundred men in line to take his job. The place was teeming with dockwork
ers who would have stopped in their tracks to take a look at her only a few months before. Now not one head turned, Lucy noted in amusement. For the first time since she had turned thirteen, men were not gawking at her, raising their eyebrows or winking.
She was just another pregnant Frau on her way to the green gate that led to Langer Market. Pregnancy had blessed her with a cloak of anonymity. She bore little resemblance to the stylish woman who had attended the opera in Vienna with the Nazi party officials. Nothing about her suggested that she had once sat beside the Führer and been admired by the most powerful men in the German Reich. All that was gone. With swollen ankles, swollen belly, and a puffy, weary face. Lucy Strasburg was far from radiant. Perhaps that was the reason the Aryan mothers at the SS maternity homes were kept in strict confinement. No doubt the Nazi hierarchy did not wish to disillusion those potential mothers for the Reich who believed that carrying a child for the Führer gave young mothers the status and looks of a goddess.
Some goddess, Lucy thought as she caught her reflection in a shop window. She wondered what Wolf would say if he could see her now. Then she wondered what he would do to her if he ever found her here in Danzig.
Still, even with that remote possibility, she did not regret her decision not to go to Warsaw with Peter.
Lucy Strasburg saw the future of Danzig quite as clearly as Peter saw it. The howling threats of the Führer of Germany against Danzig and Poland were unmistakable. But the certainty of what was about to come made her adamant that she would never go to Warsaw. She had heard the German generals with her own ears as they spoke of the devastation their Air Force and tanks could bring to that place. All of Poland could not stand for a week against the divisions of the Reich. Cavalry units and flashing sabers and suicide charges across the open fields would mean nothing against airplanes and panzer units. And now the giant Skoda armament factories of Czechoslovakia were in German control. Coal and steel mills and great deposits of iron had come into the orbit of Mein Kampf.