Munich Signature Page 23

  “But I cannot ride a horse,” Leah had protested feebly.

  At that, Marta had patted her cheek. “Sit quietly, Leah. She knows the path. She has traveled it a hundred times, and she will not slip.”

  As Leah glanced fearfully back toward the valley from the dizzying height, she clung to Marta’s reassurances. She prayed. She had not been so frightened since the night Otto had taken them out of Vienna.

  Five-year-old Louis, tied securely to a large, shaggy horse, was totally unafraid as Franz led him up the trail. Twice the child had nodded off to sleep, and Franz turned to Leah with the explanation. “It’s the altitude. Lack of air makes the little ones sleepy. Every child I have guided out of here has dozed off. I learned early to tie them onto the saddle. Almost lost the first one. He fell off—lucky it was a wide spot in the trail!”

  Leah was sore and exhausted, but not the least bit drowsy. She was not tied onto the saddle, and the thought of nodding off and tumbling from her mount kept her wide awake. Inches from the hooves of the sure-footed horse, the world disappeared. Leah kept her eyes plastered to the rump of the horse ahead of her. She imagined the Herrgottseck of the farmhouse. She could almost smell the fresh-baked roggenbrot on the cold alpine wind. She could feel the warmth of the fire and visualize Karl and Marta as they bowed their heads over supper and prayed for the safety of the travelers as they had done for each expedition that Franz had led to freedom over the weeks.

  Leah could not help but wish she was back at the table with the old couple. How much longer would they have to ride before they reached the first hut and Franz would turn them over to the capable hands of yet another guide who would lead them farther toward the border?

  “How much longer, Franz?” The question escaped Leah’s lips the instant she thought it.

  In reply, he pointed to a jagged outcropping two hundred feet above them where the sunlight struck the rock with a blinding light. The trail led up and around the rocky point and disappeared into a snow band. “The summit,” Franz said with a jerk of his head. “There is a lake at the top where we will rest the horses and stretch. From there you can just see the hut. It is down a bit. Another mile.”

  The thought of a short rest beside an alpine lake caused Leah to want to kick the horse and urge her to hurry up the dangerous slope. As if reading her mind, the lead horse strained forward and quickened his pace as he clambered up the path. Leah’s mount followed, crowding its nose against the rump of the gelding that carried Louis. The horses, too, seemed in a hurry to rest.

  ***

  A bank of clouds rolled through a mountain pass far below the little band of travelers. Leah looked downward at the small square of green in the valley that marked the peaceful farm. One last look. A final farewell. There had been so many of those farewells, and she could not help but wonder, as the clouds covered the valley floor, if she would ever again see her beloved Austria. It was as if God had closed a curtain, blocking that last nostalgic view from her. Now the world was the treeless, boulder-strewn mountain peaks above and tall, ever-changing pillars of clouds below. The rush of the wind blended with the roar of tumbling waters escaping from the cold grip of a glacier. Her breath and that of the horse drifted up on the cold air in a steamy vapor as they topped the rise and emerged at the summit.

  There was no hint of green here, but a rocky shore led gently down to a small lake. Years of glaciers had deposited rocks and boulders everywhere. The horses picked their way carefully toward the water’s edge.

  At first glance, Leah noticed that the water was almost milky in color. The lake seemed to be a mere shallow depression on the stone slab. As they neared the water, however, she could see that her first impression had been wrong. The bottom of the lake dropped off to an unmeasurable depth, to burst out from the face of the mountain in gushing waterfalls and mere trickles that scarred the granite cliff.

  Franz dismounted and then, as if to prove some unspoken theory, he picked up a stone and heaved it toward the center of the lake. It landed with a heavy plop and Leah watched it descend until it finally disappeared into the black depths.

  Franz smiled slightly. “Welcome to Funnel Lake. It has a dozen other names. A hundred other names over the centuries, but this is the name I call the place.” He pointed across what would have been a valley, only the space was filled with an enormous glacier. “What the glacier does not want it pours into this funnel. Perhaps the entire mountain is a cone to hold the water.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we can rest here a while. Not a very pretty place, but interesting.”

  “We are not here for the sights,” Leah answered as she stiffly climbed from the back of her horse. She felt instantly shaky and short, as if she had lost inches in her height. She held to the stirrup as though she might fall down. “And may I never ride another horse,” she muttered.

  Franz laughed at her. “You will find your legs again,” he quipped. “You will have to. Tomorrow you and the boy will be guided across that glacier.” He jerked his head toward the white mass of ice again. “You will wish you had a horse to ride then, I am thinking.”

  Securing the reins beneath a stone, Franz moved to untie the sleeping child from his horse. At his touch, little Louis yawned sleepily and blinked in confusion at Franz. “Are we here yet?” he asked.

  “We are here,” Franz replied, embracing Louis and swinging him to the ground. “But we are not yet there.”

  As Franz and Leah shared the provisions Marta had sent, Louis entertained himself by tossing stones into the lake and watching them vanish.

  “And how long will it be until we are there?” Leah asked, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf.

  “If we were eagles, the flight from the farm would be like that.” Franz snapped his fingers. “Twenty-five miles across the sky into Italy. I myself have flown a glider from Innsbruk through the passes into Switzerland. But there is no hope of that now with the Nazis at every airfield, large and small. And so, since God has ordained that we will not mount up with wings as eagles, you must content yourself with being able to walk and not grow weary.”

  “I have not walked yet, and I am already weary.” Leah leaned her head back and looked longingly into the darkening sky. “How long will we walk?”

  “The best passes are closed by the Wehrmacht now. When they were all on the Czech border we took out seven through the Brenner Pass into Italy. Now I’m afraid it will be more complicated.” He sighed and thoughtfully chewed a sausage. “There are ways. Tonight we will sleep in the hut of Gustav Stroh. He is the finest alpine guide in the South Tyrol. Tomorrow he will take you and the boy across the glacier, and then two or three days to the hut of another guide. From there it is a long hike until you come to a small village and the railway line. Then you may rest your weary feet and give thanks as you remember my little horses.” He leaned back on the hard stone as though it were a feather bed. “By next month you will be happily in France and this will all be an adventure. A dream.”

  Leah was silent as she considered the long trek before them. Would Louis make it? He would have to. Perhaps the time spent at the farm had strengthened his legs and his lungs. He would probably do better than she would, she thought with a grim amusement. Then she remembered Shimon for the thousandth time. If Otto was somehow able to find him and help him escape, would Shimon be in any condition to hike out through these forbidding mountains?

  “My husband,” she said quietly. “If . . . will Otto bring him to the farm?”

  A brief shadow of pain crossed the face of Franz when Otto’s name was mentioned. After all, he had not seen Otto when he had come home that night. He had not had the chance to tell his brother anything. And now that he knew the truth and the reason for Otto’s actions was explained, there was much Franz longed to say, but he could not.

  “I hope Otto will bring your husband to us,” Franz replied. He was not thinking of Shimon Feldstein, however. He simply hoped that Otto would return once more and that they might have a chance to speak, to embrace as
brothers once again. “But I cannot say what Otto will do. He surprises me . . . always.”

  “If Otto brings Shimon to you, will you bring him out this way too? Over this same trail and to this lake and over the glacier?”

  “There is no other way that is not ringed by the Nazis. No way out at all, unless you are an eagle.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Leah. She looked at her surroundings with a new interest. Shimon will be here soon. She tried to imagine the big man sitting beside her, listening to the hushed whisper of the wind. You see, Shimon, we will be safe soon. Together soon. These fellows know the way through the mountains. They know the way better than the Nazis, who do not know the way at all. They hate the Nazis, and so these Tyroleans will help us.

  For a moment that thought was comforting, and then as lightning flashed in the clouds below them, Leah shuddered again at the thought of walking out of these mountains. She raised her eyes to the spectacle that surrounded them.

  ***

  The very waves that pitched the tiny Darien unmercifully were hardly felt at all by those passengers onboard the Queen Mary. A giant, floating island, a city encompassed by steel, the superliner cut through the water with an untroubled ease. It would take the Queen a mere four days to cross the Atlantic, while a ship like the Darien might cover the same distance in twelve days—unless a steam line ruptured.

  Guests onboard the Queen could take a leisurely stroll through dozens of shops that were a showcase for the finest goods produced in Europe. Barbers, hair stylists, shoeshine boys, and tailors—all made patrons look their best for an evening at the movies or dancing in the ballroom, for listening to a classical pianist or playing poker in the gaming room. For a while, it was said, men from many nations could sail beneath one flag in peace. At least that was how the advertising copy read.

  The comment from the table of the automobile tycoon was loud enough that Murphy could hear it. It was a woman’s voice, shrill with bitter amusement. “I hear they’re playing an old Eddie Cantor film tonight. I’m sure I’m not interested in seeing a Jew put on a black face to sing about his mammy!”

  “No, Vera, that’s Al Jolson!”

  “Well, I declare! They all look alike to me!”

  The comment was greeted by gales of laughter. A nervous silence fell on the other diners. Eddie Cantor raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly. A pronouncement was coming. “Can’t tell Al Jolson from Eddie Cantor, eh?” He stood and belted out a chorus of “I’d walk a million miles for one of your smiles. My Mammy!” His voice rang throughout the entire dining room and turned every head in his direction. A thunderous burst of applause followed as Cantor stood and bowed slightly. Ford’s table was silent and still.

  Cantor saluted the lady who had made the acidic comment, then addressed her gallantly. “That, my dear lady, was Al Jolson’s song!” Much laughter. “Just wait until you hear Eddie Cantor sing!” More laughter and applause. “But then, I can’t blame you for not recognizing the difference. I certainly cannot tell one Ford automobile from another!”

  The laughter was a bit strained as the Detroit magnate reddened and glared at the boisterous woman who had begun the confrontation. Eddie Cantor then dealt the final blow. “I, for one, simply would not drive an automobile endorsed by the Führer of Germany.”

  Cantor bowed slightly and sat down again as fists thumped the table in approval and chants of “Bravo! Well said!” echoed around the room.

  Upstaged and put in her place, the humiliated woman fled the room, while the automobile king remained rooted in his seat. After a moment, the string quartet began to play a very tame piece by Chopin, and conversation returned to an excited murmur.

  Murphy took out a notepad and scribbled the incident exactly as it had happened. One quick wire sent from the ship to Trump Publications, and the story might even make the evening papers!

  Murphy had just leaned over to ask Mrs. Rosenfelt if she would mind if Charles sat with her for a few moments when a terrible bellow of the ship’s horn drowned out his voice!

  Three short blasts and then a long blast sounded. Then total silence as the passengers stared at one another in concern. Once again the danger signal cracked the tranquility of the morning. Three short and then one long.

  Men and women rose from the tables to crowd the windows of the dining room. Charles grasped the hand of Mrs. Rosenfelt as the rush pushed them toward the portside.

  The fog was thick, blending into the gray of the Atlantic. The horns bellowed again.

  “There! Look there in the water!”

  “It’s a ship!”

  “Have we rammed it?”

  “What’s happening?”

  Dwarfed by the massive hull of the Queen Mary, the Darien bobbed like a toy boat in the wake of the great Queen. The rust-streaked coffin ship seemed like some ghostly apparition, barely visible twenty yards from where the liner now passed. Terror-stricken faces stared up from the jumble of tarpaulins and rope coils. Men and women clutched their pale children. So close. So near to disaster on this foggy morning on the North Atlantic. Black shawls, black eyes, and white faces were more distinct than the hull of the Darien itself.

  The pale, frightened faces seemed to merge with the well-groomed reflections of those who gaped down at them from the Queen Mary. For only an instant, Murphy saw himself mirrored on the glass, and beside that image stood a tall, gaunt man with eyes full of anguish. That ragged misery pierced the elegance of the ship as someone muttered, “Refugees.”

  “Jews . . .”

  “We might have rammed them.”

  “Wouldn’t have even slowed the Queen down.”

  As the gray mist swirled around the Darien, finally concealing her from view, Murphy swallowed hard and stepped back from the window. Mrs. Rosenfelt remained with her forehead against the glass and her palm pressed against the pane. Tears streaked the old woman’s face. She had dropped her cane. Charles stooped to retrieve it. She did not notice him standing at her elbow. She was whispering something quietly. Names. The names she had spoken to Charles. “Trudy. Katrina. Louise. Gretchen. Ada-Marie. Trudy. Katrina. Louise. Gretchen. Ada-Marie.”

  Murphy took her arm. Gently he spoke her name. “Mrs. Rosenfelt. Mrs. Rosenfelt, come away from the window. Come now.”

  ***

  “I’ve got a story to write and file, kiddo,” Murphy explained to Charles as they hurried toward the first-class playroom. “You don’t want to hang around, do you?”

  Charles did want to stay with Murphy, but he sensed the need of the newsman to work alone. The thought of meeting other children in the playroom filled him with apprehension. It had been a long time since he had played with any little boys and girls. Louis had been his only friend and companion. Any other children he had met had found some way to be cruel to him.

  As Murphy led him past the gymnasium and the beauty salon, Charles felt his stomach turn over. He was trembling, but he did not attempt to protest to Murphy. He stopped only when they reached the door and the squeals of childish laughter drifted out. Charles could not even laugh like other children. What would he do if they expected him to speak?

  His hand rose to the muffler as Murphy pulled the door back to reveal a room filled with a dozen children. A huge slide was built into one corner. Beneath it was a painted cave where two boys played Indians. Two little girls held a tea party with an assortment of stuffed animals.

  “Look at me! Look at me!” cried an excited boy as he swept down the slide. His governess looked up from her knitting and nodded patiently.

  A woman dressed all in white and looking like a nurse greeted Murphy with a smile and a clipboard with a white paper for him to fill out. Name. Room number. Where Murphy could be reached. Expected time of return.

  Murphy patted Charles on the back. “A couple of hours or so and I’ll be back.”

  Charles could not make his legs move forward. Not to the slide. Not to the building blocks. Not to the replica of the ship or the stuffed rabbits. He wanted to r
un after Murphy in panic, but the door had clicked shut behind him and Murphy was already gone.

  The nurse studied the sheet, then leaned down and smiled into his face. She had gold-capped teeth and her face seemed very big. She tried to take his jacket. He held on to his lapels. The other children did not look at him; he was grateful for that. And then the nurse, in one swift movement, pulled the scarf from around Charles’s mouth.

  “It’s awfully hot—” Then she saw his mouth and gasped.

  Charles covered his mouth, but one of the little tea drinkers looked up and let out a cry. “Look at his mouth!”

  Heads swiveled toward him. He whirled around, and with a groan he lunged for the door, surprised to find that it opened easily.

  “Come back here! You! Come back!”

  Charles felt the hand of the nurse brush his collar as he escaped; the stares of the children followed him down the wide corridor.

  “Stop him! Oh, dear! This will cost me my job!”

  Charles darted in and out among the adults who had come to swim in the pool or work out in the gym. He kept his left hand over his mouth and with his right hand he pushed through any groups who barred his way.

  A kitchen worker emerged from a narrow stairway. Charles ran past him and dashed up the metal steps in headlong flight. The worker muttered something about kids who played games in the back corridors of the ship when they had a playroom fit for a prince of England!

  Charles did not stop. He was crying now. He was lost. He wanted only Murphy! He wanted the safety and the seclusion of their suite! But which way had they come? They had come down first. Which meant that their room was up—somewhere.