Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant) Read online

  “And so your mother and sister simply vanished?” Papa asked.

  “They never came to the Danziger Hof. Never sent word.”

  Papa considered what that meant and searched for some hope that might penetrate the bitterness in Peter’s voice. “Your father was a prominent political prisoner. Your mother was also a suspect?”

  “Yes. That is why we remained in hiding.”

  “Ah, well then.” Papa’s brown eyes flashed with confidence. “You know the Nazis announce the arrest of everyone they consider to be a prominent criminal. Did you ever see the name of your mother in the newspaper in Danzig?”

  Something flickered in Peter’s eyes. For an instant the shadow of despair lifted. Here was some beam of hope! He slowly considered the question. “No, I did not. And I read the papers. I even read the Nazi edition of Der Angriff so I could have some idea of what they were up to.”

  Papa’s voice was gentle. “They certainly would have made a great announcement about the apprehension of your mother. Don’t you think so, Freund Wallich?”

  Peter nodded. He stared at his hands, frowning as if he was afraid to look into the hopeful face of the rabbi. “I think so.”

  “Well then . . . nu?” By this, Papa meant that Peter had reason to be hopeful. Why should his eyes hold such despair when there was no evidence that the worst had indeed fallen upon his mother and sister?

  “But . . . where?”

  “They are somewhere,” Papa said confidently. “We will try and find these people . . . the address on your paper. Just because the letters are washed away, this does not mean that the people are washed away. They too are somewhere, nu? Here in Warsaw, even. And since the fellow who fought beside your father against the Nazis in Vienna is a son of Warsaw, then we will find this fellow’s family here. But it will take time.” Papa raised his chin to instruct the young man. “And it will take hope on legs to find them. Do you understand?”

  Peter shrugged; he tried to pretend that the rabbi had not glimpsed the depth of his sadness.

  Rachel watched her father’s eyes fill with compassion as he studied the boy’s stony expression. She could see Peter resisting the tenderness, lest it once again allow him to feel hope.

  “Maybe they are there. Maybe they are somewhere . . . maybe they are not.” He was leaning toward the latter. It was easier to live with despair than with disappointed hopes.

  “The Eternal knows such answers,” Papa replied.

  “I do not believe in the Eternal,” Peter snapped. “This is not a religious call.”

  Papa smiled, unmoved by this new display of bitterness. “It does not matter if you believe, Peter. The Eternal does not need your belief in order to exist. That is why He is Eternal. And if your mother and sister are alive, they do not need your belief in order to remain alive. They eat and sleep and speak to each other. They certainly miss you.” Papa paused as emotion filled Peter’s hard eyes.

  “It is better to expect the worst,” Peter reasoned. “Then I will not be disappointed.”

  Papa shook his head from side to side. “No. Then you live in disappointment all the time. Then you are a slave to bitterness. Then, when good things happen, you are only surprised by them. Much better to live on the other side of that mirror, nu? Hope in the survival of your mother and sister. Think of them laughing and talking; looking for you.”

  “But what if that is not true?”

  “Then you can be surprised when you find out. There will be plenty of time then to grieve.”

  Ah, Rachel thought, such a rabbi Papa is! So full of life, even thin and frail and weak from his own encounter with misery! How proud she was of her father as he did battle on his sickbed with the very demon Rachel had seen in Peter’s eyes and run from!

  “Yes, I see,” Peter said, and then he stiffened. “But I will not hope . . . believe in this Jewish God of yours.”

  “Much better in the end to find out you were wrong for believing, I always say. If I am wrong . . .” Papa shrugged. “Well then?” He lowered his chin. “But if you are wrong, Peter?”

  “I did not come here to be made a religious Jew.” Peter was stubborn. He would not be moved. “I came for advice. For help to find . . . if they are alive . . . my mother and sister.”

  “So.” Papa rummaged through his papers on the bedside table. “Here is my letter of introduction. Everyone newly come to Warsaw needs something. This may move your case to the front of the queue. Here is also a list of people to speak with.”

  He passed the two letters to Peter, who took them in trembling hands and skimmed the contents as if he at last found something to nourish his famished soul.

  And then Rachel smiled, for she saw, in the eyes of the mirthless clown, hope alive again!

  ***

  The Cliffs of Dover gleamed like a clean white wall off the starboard side of the freighter. Orde felt no joy at this view of England. While others among the group of passengers chatted excitedly about home, Orde turned from the rail and retreated to his cabin.

  Once there, he opened his scuffed leather letter case and pulled out the telegram from the London office of TENS. Correspondent for Poland. Beside that on his bunk, he placed the photographs of the Lubetkin family that old Rabbi Lebowitz had entrusted to his care.

  Etta Lubetkin’s clear blue eyes held a serene beauty even in the starkness of a black and white photo. Her eldest child, Rachel, was also lovely. She appeared much older to Orde than the birthdate on her certificate would indicate.

  Orde sighed as he placed the photograph of Aaron Lubetkin beside that of his wife. He pitied the young, stern-looking rabbi; pitied him and envied him as well. How much easier it was for Orde to face the coming cataclysm than it must be for a man with a beautiful wife and such handsome children as these. Photographs of three little boys followed. Orde knew them by name. David. Samuel. Baby Yacov, whom the family called Little Yani. Lovingly the old rabbi had repeated the names of his grandchildren. How hopeful he had been where he placed the envelope with their rejected immigration papers in Orde’s hands.

  Orde touched each face with the same tenderness he had seen in the old man. Then Orde once again picked up the telegram from John Murphy that expressed the hope that Samuel Orde would consider a position in Warsaw. Warsaw! Could such a thing be a coincidence? Orde wondered. Or is there a link between the job offer and something not yet understood about this family in Warsaw?

  “What is it You want of me?” Orde whispered. “What is it that You see, Lord, which I do not see?”

  Such questions, of course, held no tangible answers for Orde. And yet, he felt some link between this telegram and this family. Something . . . something . . . He would know in time.

  The shoreline of his homeland loomed outside the porthole, yet Orde could not take his eyes from the faces of the Jewish family. “It is Poland, isn’t it?” he questioned aloud. “Warsaw for me?”

  Before the ship bumped against the docks of Southampton, Orde was confident of the answer.

  13

  Prelude to New Life

  It was enormous, this unborn baby Murphy!

  Lying back in the bathtub, Elisa stared at the bulging mound where a once-slender abdomen used to be. There was no hope of submersing everything in the warm water at once. Dipping a washcloth, she spread the soapy water on top of her belly. Like a snowcap on Mont Blanc, she thought.

  Suddenly, without permission, the mound shifted to the right. Baby elbows and baby knees and baby rump hopped and gyrated to some unknown baby jazz tune.

  This one would never grow up to be a classical musician! He-she took after Daddy Murphy! Ha! No doubt this baby would be born snapping its little baby fingers and whistling a tune from D’Fat Lady Trio! And Murphy would break into song in his irritating off-key voice, “Yessir, dat’s my ba-by!”

  And it was his baby too. He ought to try carrying it for one night before he teased her so unmercifully! “Gee, Elisa, I don’t think this bed is big enough for the three of us anymor
e!”

  This comment had come last night because of soda crackers. She did not crunch the crackers but sucked on them very quietly while Murphy’s child stoked up the fires of indigestion and warmed its little hands with glee.

  “Then go sleep on the sofa!” Elisa had ordered through her tears.

  Murphy had rolled over and switched on the light, peering at her in astonished horror. “You’re crying!”

  “Insensitive! I . . . said . . . go . . .”

  Tousled and hurt, he had taken pillow and blanket and shuffled out to the sofa. It really was for the best. Elisa had cried a little more, crunched her crackers loudly, then sprawled out for her first real night’s sleep in a month.

  She awakened in the morning with the worried face of Murphy hovering over her. “Anytime now, hon.” There was sympathy in his voice. “Didn’t the doc say so? Anytime.” Then he kissed her, and she forgave him for a minute until he patted her bulge and added, “Gotta go now. Let me rub your belly for luck . . . .”

  This rubbing-her-belly-for-luck was the final indignity. Just the memory of it made her eyes narrow and her lower lip extend in an injured pout. How could he be so calloused? How could he, who had put her in this condition in the first place, not see how much it hurt her when he made sophomoric jokes about the fact that she was no longer slender . . . no longer desirable. Definitely resistible. Oversensitive. Edgy. He certainly had not attempted to stay in bed with her last night when she ordered him out!

  Not big enough for the three of us . . .

  Tears of self-pity stung her eyes once again. She was nearly two weeks past her due date. Two extra weeks in this purgatory of pregnancy, while the whole world flew by!

  This afternoon she had yet another appointment with Dr. Howarth. No doubt he would thump her like a melon, declare her still unripe, and send her back to incubate and expand a few months more. “So sorry, Mrs. Murphy. Sometimes in rare cases like yours, these things take several years to mature. Shall I call a freight truck to haul you home?”

  Elisa found herself unable to concentrate on anything but what was literally right in front of her. Like a hood ornament on a foggy day, baby Murphy was the clearest thing in sight.

  Even though the flat of Anna and Theo Lindheim was packed wall to wall with refugee children in transit to foster homes, Anna had asked to take Charles and Louis for a few days so Elisa could relax. Frankly, the boys had seemed happy to go.

  On top of that, Aunt Helen had gotten word from her children that they were safe in Danzig. But a battle was raging with immigration to have Lori and Jamie Ibsen and the others included on the last refugee transport ship scheduled to leave next week.

  Elisa thought of Lori and Jamie every day, yet she prayed for them with a strange sort of detachment. Every emotion, it seemed, was being expended on thinking about the day. Every prayer somehow started one place and made a big loop back to this baby; her child; its safe and healthy arrival.

  She had gratefully taken her leave from the orchestra. It was undignified to waddle across the stage to her music stand. Her hours had been filled with packaging clothes for the children arriving on the refugee transport ships, acting as interpreter and counselor to the volunteer families taking children.

  She casually mentioned her participation to Dr. Howarth, who had promptly hit the ceiling. He lectured her severely about exposing herself and her unborn child to possible communicable diseases brought to England by these children.

  That had been the worst visit. She was also ten pounds overweight and had been warned about that too. Ah, yes. The tears had flowed that day in Dr. Howarth’s little office!

  Elisa had busied herself with painting and papering the nursery. The church and the women of the orchestra had teas for her and provided enough baby things for several babies. It was very nice, but all the same, Elisa longed for the day when she would no longer feel as though she were wearing a kettledrum around her middle!

  Elisa hefted herself out of the tub and vowed to think about other things and people today. She braced herself against the sink and attempted to dry her legs as she whispered a guilty prayer for Aunt Helen and the arrival of Jamie and Lori and the others. And then, triggered by the thought of arriving children, she added a little something about baby Murphy once again. How long, oh, Lord?

  Involuntarily she imagined that Charles and Louis would probably be grown up before this stubborn baby arrived! If things happened on schedule, pregnancy would be endurable! But two weeks late and big as a barn?

  Elisa had nightmares that she would be crossing a busy intersection on Oxford Street or in church or shopping when her water broke. She had spent the day yesterday hiking up and down the apartment stairs in hopes of forcing the issue. No use. She would go to Dr. Howarth, and he would say, “So sorry!” And one of these weeks her water would break and wash away the shoppers at Liberty.

  She bent awkwardly to dry her right knee. It was down there somewhere. Maybe if she sat on the edge of the tub?

  As she bent down, Elisa’s water broke. Yes! There in the bathroom! Not shopping at Liberty as she had feared. Not out to tea with her mother. Not hiking up the stairs. But right here in her own bathroom.

  There was none of the anticipated pain. Just a warm rush and a lovely release of pressure in her lower abdomen. She laughed and clapped her hands. There was time to clean up and dress. Time to make the bed and do the dishes.

  And then those much-waited and longed-for contractions began with the syncopated rhythm of early labor. So much for vows of unselfish thoughts. It was a sure bet that today Elisa would be thinking of only one little person.

  ***

  This time Alfie had to leave Werner the cat at home. Each of the boys was dressed in his best Sunday suit and shoes. Jacob and Alfie wore trousers because they were older. Mark and Jamie wore knickers and long wool socks. Lori wore her prettiest dress, the one with pink and blue flowers that she had worn on Easter.

  “But Werner stays home,” Jacob warned. “The British Consulate would not take kindly to having Werner prowling over the desks of secretaries.”

  Once Alfie had managed to sneak Werner into church in his pocket when Jacob told him not to. That morning, during prayer time, Werner had skipped down the pew, then rushed past the legs of several old ladies and young ladies who screamed loudly one after the other. It had been very bad.

  Werner had jumped onto the altar where the communion plates were, and the whole service had been ruined. It did not matter that Alfie was very sorry and scolded his cat. Everyone was still angry at Alfie for bringing Werner. Except maybe Jesus, Alfie thought. He did not think that the Lord was angry. After all, it woke everyone up in what was a very dull church service.

  The pastor had whispered too loudly to the choir director that he wished the Dummkopf would be left home with the cat. Everyone heard what he said. Alfie heard it and felt very sad. Jacob and Lori heard it and were angry.

  After the service Jacob waited in the line to greet the pastor and his wife, and Jacob told them both that if the cat and Alfie were not welcome, then none of them would be back because it was the deadest church he had ever been to. But he said it in a nice way, and then he shook the pastor’s hand.

  All the way back to the flat that day Lori had talked about her own papa, Pastor Ibsen. “Remember what a sense of humor he had about such little disasters? Remember when Frau Meyer’s baby threw up all over that mean old Herr Speer, who had just fired his chauffeur in front of the church because he hadn’t cleaned the pigeon droppings off the car?”

  Everyone remembered that great day, of course. Pastor Ibsen had tucked his notes away and preached about true humbleness. This memory led to the next. “And remember when old Herr Speer died and the little dog fell into his grave sometime in the night and then started howling during the service?”

  These stories had made them all laugh again and forget how angry they felt about the preacher and his Dummkopf remark. Alfie had not been around when the dog started howlin
g from Herr Speer’s grave, but he liked the story a lot and laughed right along with everyone else. By the time they got home, Alfie did not feel like a Dummkopf anymore, and no one was angry that Werner had frightened the old ladies in the church.

  But today, going to the British Consulate was an entirely different matter. Jacob explained it again to Alfie. “They are the fellows who have our papers so we can go to England.”

  “Will they also have papers for Werner-cat to go to England?”

  “No, Alfie, and we must not mention Werner to them.”

  “But if Werner can’t go, I can’t go.”

  “I know that. We will smuggle him on board with us. You must not worry about it.” Jacob held up his finger. “But don’t say anything at all. Lori and I will do all the talking. If anyone asks you a question you just say yes or no. And if they ask your name, well, then tell them. But don’t say any more. Understand?”

  Alfie ran it all through his mind. In a very serious tone he answered the way Jacob told him to. One word. “Yes.”

  “Good. All right then.” Jacob appeared very nervous. He straightened Alfie’s blue bow tie. He double-checked Alfie’s suspenders and tugged at the crease in his trousers. Then he placed a brand-new fedora on Alfie’s had. He pulled the brim down, stepped back, and looked him over from top to toe.

  Lori came in and laughed when she saw Alfie all dressed up in his new suit. “Why, Alfie! You look so handsome and adult!”

  Alfie tried not to smile too big, tried to act as if it were really nothing at all. He turned to see his reflection in the mirror. It was very nice. He remembered his own papa wearing a hat like this one and a blue serge suit with suspenders. “I . . . look . . . like Father. Uh-huh.”

  “Yes! You look wonderful! The Englishmen will think you look like a bank officer! The hat is perfect.”

  Alfie scratched his ear and ducked his head with embarrassment. “Uh-huh. Englishmen don’t like Dummkopfs. They will think I look smart, won’t they?”