Warsaw Requiem Page 19

  Lucy knew it. Maybe everyone knew it by now. Peter Wallich had run off to Warsaw, but it was only a matter of time.

  And in spite of their promises, England would remain on its side of the Channel. They might declare war, but they would not come to help Poland until the Requiem Mass was read over all the dead of Warsaw. France would sit behind the great concrete wall known as the Maginot Line, and they too would wait.

  It was not really a matter of language, Lucy thought as she walked through the bustling streets of Danzig. It was simply that one place on the Continent of Europe was no more safe than another. Just because there were no swastika flags replacing flower boxes in Warsaw did not mean that it would not soon be the case.

  Not Warsaw for Lucy. Given any choice in the matter, she preferred to be somewhere else when the final bells of the Requiem tolled.

  As if to reinforce her thoughts, the bells of Marienkirche boomed out over the city of Danzig. Lucy looked up toward the bell tower, remembering how she and Peter had climbed the steep stairs to watch the bell ringer on his wooden treadmill turning the green-tarnished gears that moved the bells. One strong man in that little squirrel cage caused all this commotion. Pigeons swirled skyward, people checked their watches and shuttered their shops for lunchtime. Danzig ordered its existence by the bells of Marienkirche.

  Lucy knew that those bells would soon be ringing a life-shattering event for the Danzigers. “One day,” Hitler had shouted, “the bells of Marienkirche will announce the reunification of German Danzig with the Reich!”

  When that day came, Lucy Strasburg hoped to be somewhere else. Not Warsaw. Not Paris. Not Brussels . . .

  Lucy carried two books in the deep pockets of her smock. One book was an English-German dictionary. The other was a thin green volume she had found on the table of a used-book seller in the open market. This book she studied as though it contained the secrets of eternal life. Her life. The life of her unborn baby.

  WAITING AT TABLE

  A Practical Guide

  Including

  PARLOURMAID’S WORK IN GENERAL

  By

  Mrs. C.S. PEEL, O.B.E.

  The bookseller did not know what the O.B.E. stood for after Mrs. Peel’s name. However, he guaranteed that the former owner of this precious green volume had studied its contents and obtained a British visa, traveling to London, England, as a domestic servant, Lucy had heard of other such miracles. England did not want doctors or lawyers or skilled workers, but they were still in need of domestics—parlor maids who knew how to carve a leg of lamb properly!

  Lucy had shelled out her few pennies and had purchased first the book, then the dictionary to help her decipher its secrets.

  When the first drone of Luftwaffe engines was heard over Danzig and Warsaw, Lucy hoped to be practicing the fine art of carving loin of lamb, neck of veal, knuckle of veal, breast of veal, ham, hare, or rabbit. This was as far as she had gotten in her studies, and it was all difficult to remember since she had none of these things to actually practice carving. It had been a long time since she had eaten anything but the cheapest sausage and cheese. Reading about real food often made her mouth water. Dishing up such delicacies had filled her dreams. At night she closed her eyes and recited the catechism of carving: chops should be cut off, beginning with the out chop, unless these are too large, then slices should be cut the whole length of the joint . . .

  As the baby kicked and thumped within her, she would drift off to mouth-watering dreams of heaps of lamb on a plate before her. Nightmares about Wolf had long since faded, and the practical issues of food had filled his place nicely.

  But in the clear light of day, when temptations beckoned her through the window of Haueisen Confectioners, she turned her face away from the eclair or heaping sandwich. Her fingers tightened around her coin purse. There were more important things to purchase than food. Diapers. A basket for the baby to sleep in. Two glass baby bottles and spare nipples.

  Not that Lucy expected to need bottles. She would nurse her baby, as her own mother had nursed Lucy and her brothers and sisters.

  Still, just in case, she bought canned milk. And it would be wonderful to find a christening robe with lace and little booties and a bonnet! The baby must be christened! Lucy had determined that this little one would be blessed by a priest, in spite of how it had come into being. Lucy was condemned, but she would not let that heartache touch this baby. She loved it, even unborn, and she yearned for it to have all the sweet little things a baby should have.

  Lucy looked through the display window of the children’s shop. Tiny shirts and gowns and little caps were draped over stuffed bears and a soft pink rabbit. Ruffled blankets and matching sheets adorned a hand-carved rosewood cradle.

  She pulled out her list and studied it. Diapers. Bottles. Alcohol for umbilical cord. Aspirin. Sanitary pads. Disinfectant.

  Lucy had attended two of her mother’s deliveries. She had watched the milk cows give birth; seen kittens born. There was no money for a doctor. But the baby of Lucy Strasburg would have a christening gown. Silk and white lace. And matching booties. A bonnet over the velvety head.

  This much, Lucy determined, she would do for her baby.

  ***

  The prow of the White Star Line freighter rose and fell in a steady rhythm against the six-foot swells beyond the Tel Aviv seawall.

  Sam Orde did not look back toward the receding shoreline of Palestine. He stood braced in the windy bow of the ship and fixed his gaze on the gun-metal gray wall of clouds on the horizon. There was a squall up ahead, unusual for this time of year on the Mediterranean.

  The cargo hold was filled with enormous flats of citrus fruit. Crates of oranges, lemons, limes, and grapefruits had been loaded by cranes. Fruit was placed in porcelain bowls in the otherwise sparsely provisioned passenger cabins. Fresh orange juice was promised for every breakfast. Lemonade was on hand at any hour. Limes were sliced and readily available for those passengers who preferred gin and tonic in the ship’s salon. Orde was grateful the cargo was not onions or garlic.

  Eleven other passengers traveled on board the Lady of Avon. Orde had boarded before any of them and had slept through their boarding and initial introductions. He dreaded polite conversation and inane questions that inevitably accompanied a small passenger list and a long voyage. The weight of the past few weeks was heavy on him. He hoped only to pass the voyage to England by long hours of sleep and as little human interaction as possible.

  A number of the other passengers gathered on the stern of the ship. They strained their eyes for the last glimpse of the Holy Land. When Orde heard them pass by the porthole of his cabin, he emerged to stroll to the opposite end of the freighter. He braced himself in the bow and closed his eyes as he inhaled the cold, salty mist. A seagull circled above his head, crying, and then wheeled away, back toward the land.

  “Captain Orde, is it?” The voice of a young Englishman startled Orde.

  No ship was large enough for anonymity, it seemed. He barely glanced at the smiling face of a man he had never met before. How did the fellow know his name?

  “Yes. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure . . .”

  The fellow laughed. “Oh dear me, no. You don’t know me. But I saw your picture in the newspaper. Right after that dreadful incident on the Temple Mount. An interview about the chap who was killed. Dreadful. Hard to forget such a thing. And I never forget a face.”

  “I see.” Orde turned back to face the wind. He was being rude, but then so was this fellow, intruding on Orde’s privacy.

  “We heard you had resigned. Good heavens. A pity. A chap puts his whole life into the Army and then something like this happens.” Perhaps the words were meant to be sympathetic, but an alarm bell sounded in Orde’s brain.

  Whitecaps topped the swells. The wind was cold, penetrating Orde’s heavy cable-knit sweater and corduroy trousers. But he had claimed this spot in the bow and felt strangely unwilling to give up its solitude to anyone. Perhaps if he wai
ted, the young man would grow bored and wander back with the other passengers.

  The intruder buttoned his heavy coat and remained in place. He seemed unaware of Orde’s melancholy reverie. Or if he knew, he was still determined to stand at the rail.

  “Going back home to your wife and family, then are you?” The man was oblivious to his own bad manners.

  “No. Just going home to Mother England,” Orde replied, unwilling to admit that a raw nerve had been struck.

  “Well, what will you do with yourself?” The man gripped the rail beside Orde. Uninvited. Unwelcome. “I mean, do you have some kind of job?”

  Orde turned to face him with the same withering stare he might give a recruit whose gun was not properly cleaned. He raised his chin, exuding his military authority. He did not speak until the young man’s exuberant curiosity wilted beneath the glare of rank. “You are just the sort of chap I enjoy getting under my command. A bit of cleaning up and discipline, and you might polish out half decent.” Orde rose slightly on his toes with satisfaction at the horrified expression on the stunned face. “However, since I will not have opportunity to teach you manners, and I detest rudeness, I will retreat and leave you to the forward position.”

  With a cold smile, Orde nodded and left the fellow staring after him.

  Perhaps it was best not to mingle at all with the other passengers, Orde reasoned as he closed the door of his cabin. He could pay a bit more and take his meals in his room. Wife and famil y . . . Mother England . . . His wife was dead, and Mother England was angry with him. What did that leave him? What was he to do now?

  Questions and self-doubt led to a wave of self-pity that threatened to drown him. He told himself that his faith in God had not wavered, only his faith that God had any use for him. This was the most devastating doubt of all. Orde had suffered losses before in his life. Katie had died in an auto accident near their home in Surrey. With her had perished their unborn child and all of Orde’s hopes to live the normal life of a husband and father. He had raised his head and asked himself, What now? In that moment he found total dedication to the military was the only way to fill the empty hours. He embraced Mother England and believed that in fulfilling his duty to the English government in Palestine, he was also serving God. For years he had lived only for that purpose, that fulfillment.

  Tonight the chasm of uselessness opened before him. For the first time since she had gone, Orde allowed himself the luxury of longing for Katie once again. Yes, he had often thought of her, wondered what she would say about this event or that. He had imagined her tenderly in a thousand different ways. But tonight he longed for her, ached for her, desired her once again.

  He closed his eyes against the starlight that glistened through the porthole. Breathing in, he remembered the sweet fragrance of her skin. He reached his hand up into the emptiness above him as if to touch her face, to brush a finger across her lips and pull her down to kiss him.

  He swallowed hard and opened his eyes again when the longing became unbearable. So this is loneliness. His eyes were moist, and now he questioned not himself, not England, but the God who had taken Katie from him and had cast him adrift.

  He sat up and held his head in his hands in despair. Then he switched on the light and rummaged through his duffle bag for the well-worn Bible Katie had given him on their fourth anniversary. Almost desperate for comfort, he flipped open the cover to her delicate handwriting.

  My Dearest Husband,

  Four years of joy with you on earth makes me long for an eternity of joy with you. We will stand together before the Lord, and may He say to each of us, “Well done.” Until then, it is your duty to serve Him in faraway and dangerous lands. It is mine to stay behind and bravely watch you go. To pray and believe that He goes with you always, even as He always stays by me in lonely times. Even when we do not see the answers we must pray and believe that our Lord knows all. This faith is all that He asks of us. It is the only real battle we fight. In the end this is why He will say, “Well done.”

  Your loving wife,

  Katie

  Orde read her words as if seeing them for the first time. He wiped away tears with the back of his hand and whispered thanks to her. He had not dreamed that she would one day leave him behind. Nor had he imagined that he would ever face a time so bleak in his life that he would be forced to say, “I do not understand, and yet I trust in You, Lord!”

  Tonight Orde said those words aloud. And for the first time he understood that the biggest battle was not fought against Muslim terrorists on the slopes of Zion, but against the doubt and despair that threatened to destroy true faith in God’s love.

  In the dark hours as the ship steadily moved away from Palestine, Orde won that battle. Just as Jesus prayed in Gethsemane, Orde bowed his head and said, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

  ***

  The purple glow of dawn shone through the window of Karl Ibsen’s cell. A single morning star was framed between the center bars to wink in at the sleeping prisoner. If he had opened his eyes, he would have felt the nearness of heaven by the light of that star. He would have smiled and imagined that the star was really an angel watching over him. But Karl did not awaken until the sky had ripened into morning and a beam of light penetrated his consciousness.

  Far away he heard the songs of birds in the forest that ringed Nameless camp, and then he heard the flutter of feathered wings above him. An angel? He did not open his eyes to see. Again the gentle rustle sounded, followed by an unmelodious chirp.

  The lady sparrow had returned to the window ledge. Karl opened his eyes but did not move as he watched her peck curiously at the bread he had placed in the center of the bars.

  Peck . . . peck . . . peck . . . and then a resounding cheep! With this exultant cry, she called another to join her at the feast. A darker-feathered sparrow whirred to her side. She deferred to him, hopping back a step and waiting politely until he plunged his orange beak first into one piece of bread and then into the next. Lady Sparrow cocked an eye toward Karl as if to remark that she knew where the bread had come from and how much she appreciated such an exorbitant gift in a place where starvation was so common. Karl nodded almost imperceptibly.

  The big male sparrow hefted a morsel in his beak and then flew out of sight. Lady Sparrow waited a moment longer before she turned her attention away from Karl and likewise wrestled with a piece of bread, grasping it in her beak and hopping off the ledge.

  One small square of Karl’s offering remained. He knew the sparrows would come back for it. And if they came once, they would come back a thousand times. They would return for as long as Karl continued to feed them. “Company,” Karl whispered. “Thank you. Thank you. Jesus, for caring about sparrows. About me. About Lori and Jamie.”

  ***

  Father Kopecky arrived at the door of the Lubetkin home with a paper sack of plums and a package of fresh trout from the fish market. Unlike other friends and neighbors of the Lubetkin family, the priest did not bring food prepared in his own unkosher kitchen. For this sensitivity to the ways of a Jewish household, Etta was quietly grateful.

  She led him down the hallway to Papa’s room. “You see how well he looks!” Papa sat up in bed, waiting impatiently for Rachel to set up the chessboard for their game, which was fast becoming a thrice weekly event.

  “He looks like a scarecrow,” Father Kopecky said with a grin on his impish face. “Today he will not beat me at chess like he did two days ago.”

  “Man looks at the outside,” Papa declared, “while the Eternal knows what is in the mind of an accomplished chess player.”

  The priest took his seat beside Rachel. “Then God should tell me a few of your chess moves just to be fair about it.” He winked at Rachel, which made her blush.

  Sometimes she liked the priest. Other times he made her uncomfortable.

  “Give it up, my friend,” Papa said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “You do battle against a son of the covenant.” He held up t
he black king in a threatening way. “Have you forgotten the words of the prophet Balaam? ‘He has blessed, and I cannot change it . . . The shout of their King is among them . . . Their king will be greater than Agag.’” He coughed as his own joke made him laugh. “Besides, you are a lousy chess player.” He set his king back in place.

  “Etta,” cried the priest, “have I come here to be insulted?”

  Mama smiled and shrugged. “Don’t insult him, Aaron,” she chided Papa. “He has brought us fresh plums and trout from the market. Let him win for once.”

  Then Mama jerked her head for Rachel to come out with her and leave the two friends to their game.

  “He is good for your father,” Mama said to Rachel as she unwrapped the fish.

  “I like him,” Rachel agreed. “But I do not trust him always.” The headlines of the newspaper caught her attention. It was a Polish newspaper. A publication for the Saturday people who did not like Jews. In the house of Aaron Lubetkin, only Yiddish papers were read and studied. This newspaper was something quite different. It contained advertisements directed at Polish women for fashions from Paris. It held theatre and cabaret listings. And today it displayed a banner headline announcing that German Culture Week had been declared in Danzig! Smaller articles explained that for the occasion, a German battleship was scheduled to come into the port, and that Poland had forbidden such a thing. One thousand Gestapo and two thousand members of the SA were reported to be in Danzig. Jewish harassment there was being stepped up. Polish reservists had been called up, and German troops were playing war games across the border where Czechoslovakia used to be.

  Etta noticed that even though she was talking to Rachel, her daughter had not heard a word for the last several minutes. She stood at Rachel’s shoulder and read the news as seen through the eyes of an outraged Polish government. She looked from the newspaper to the fish and wondered out loud if the priest had wrapped his gift in this edition for any particular reason. Then she gathered it up just as Rachel was getting to the most frightening part of the story: