Danzig Passage Page 7

  “Well now, babies, then D’ Fat Lady gonna sing you what my mama use to sing me ’fo I went to bed.” She winked at Elisa, who nodded with approval. It was nine o’clock—bedtime. Perhaps this moment had been prearranged between the two women.

  The Fat Lady stood up straight and tall in her glittery red dress. She filled her lungs and opened her mouth to sing.

  “Hush! Lit-tle baaaaby! Don’ you cry! . . .

  Mama’s gon’ sing you a lul-la-by!”

  The first bar was sung without accompaniment—very slowly, almost like a love song, Murphy thought. But it did not take D’ Fat Lady long to get wound up. The trumpeter joined in, and then the piano as the lullaby turned into a full-fledged attack of Cotton-club jazz. Heads bobbed. Sweat flew. Feet tapped.

  She pulled Charles and Louis up and began to dance with them while the trumpet player wailed. Never had there been a moment to equal this one in the boys’ lives. To dance! They had never danced. To laugh! They had never been anywhere where the very air was bursting with laughter! They danced and mimicked the movements of the tap-dancing piano man. And when the trumpet wailed its last, D’ Fat Lady took their hands in hers and made them bow with her and bow again while everyone applauded wildly.

  ***

  “But I want to go!” insisted Artur Bader, the fiancé of Sharon Zalmon. “I will kill them with my bare hands!” His face was contorted with rage. Tears streamed from his eyes as he spoke.

  “You will get us all killed.” Orde roughly brushed away the man’s tears. “Go and sit shivah. Cry for her for seven days. Cry until you have no more tears, because if you wish to beat the Arab gangs, you must not cry again.” He turned slowly, looking over the group of determined faces who stared back at him. In the end he chose six who showed no sign that they had mourned. “Those who come with me tonight—or any night—must not sniffle or cough or slip on a stone.”

  “I will avenge her!” cried Artur. Others joined in angry agreement. “They will find the bodies of their women and children when they return from here!”

  Without thinking, Orde slapped the man across the face. The room grew suddenly silent, as though he had slapped them all. He stared back at each one with a withering look. His eyes demanded that they listen and learn from him.

  At last he spoke. “We are not making war on the Arab nation, but on Arab gangs. Toward the ordinary Arabs, we will refrain from cruelty and brutality. A coarse and savage man motivated by revenge makes a bad soldier. And after you are through with your grief”—he looked at Artur Bader—“then you will behave with respect toward Arab wives and children and innocent individuals.” He gave a slow, knowing smile. “But you will not let a single culprit escape.” He addressed the others. “Do not imitate the British Tommy. Learn his calmness and his discipline, but not his stupidity, brutality, and vengefulness.”

  This was lesson one, words spoken to the grieving men of Hanita over the still-warm bodies of their loved ones. To Moshe, this Captain Samuel Orde seemed a strange man, yet a man to be admired as well. Weariness seemed to vanish when he spoke. The meaning of Haganah, or “self-defense,” took on a thousand nuances.

  The others, the ones with runny noses or coughs or tears in their eyes, simply listened to the instructions Orde issued to the six who would leave the compound tonight. They would bring back a few checked keffiyehs, the Englishman promised. Tonight they would see what could be done with the help of Almighty God!

  Then the English Zionist insisted they stop and pray, the strangest instruction of all. Orde would not take them unless they knew how to pray, and pray silently.

  As Orde made his entreaty to the Almighty for the safety and success of tonight’s mission, he kept his eyes open and watched the men, noting those who did not bow their heads. From this group, two more men were eliminated from the patrol. They, like men with sniffles, were placed on the sideline. The mission was too dangerous for atheists, Orde insisted, and this eliminated Moshe from the group.

  He was about to argue when a knock sounded at the door of the infirmary. Zach opened it, revealing a middle-aged Arab in traditional dress flanked by two other members of the settlement. Bowing in salaam, he looked first at Zach and then at the bloody sheet. His eyes were wide as he explained the purpose for his visit.

  “My friends,” he said in a voice thick with sympathy, “our village heard that you were raided tonight. That some had been killed. May Allah the great and merciful have compassion on you, our neighbors.”

  “And have you come to tell your neighbors this only?” Orde interrupted, looking sternly at the man.

  “No. We heard that an English officer came through the gates and now will go after the criminals who have done this thing.” He waved a hand toward the bodies. “Our village knows where these wicked members of the Mufti’s gang are hiding tonight, and I will lead you there.”

  “For a price?” Orde asked, staring hard at the man’s head covering.

  “For friendship.” The Arab spread his arms wide and smiled broadly. His glance involuntarily flicked to the bloody sheet, then back again to Orde.

  Orde did not return the smile. His eyes were hard and cold, dissolving the overly eager smile of the Arab. A muscle in the man’s cheek twitched as he struggled to maintain the illusion of grinning friendship. Orde stepped closer and, pushing the Arab with one finger, backed him out the door.

  “How do you know these details?” Orde queried, and the dozen members of the settlement followed Orde and the Arab out into the darkness.

  “We have spies who have seen them. A shepherd. The vile enemies of peace are hiding in a wadi not far from our village.”

  Again, Orde pushed the man back until they stood in a circle of light that came from the window of the little morgue. “How many raiders?” Orde asked in a flat tone.

  The Arab shrugged. He was nervous; he did not like the finger of the Englishman pointing at him. “Fifty, maybe.”

  Orde reached up and took the edge of the man’s head covering between his fingers. Then as beads of visible sweat formed on the Arab’s brow, Orde poked two fingers through a tear in the fabric. “How many men came through the barbed wire, friend?”

  At this question the Arab grew dark and sullen. His mouth turned down and his eyes were black with hatred of this Englishman. “How could I know that?”

  “Because you were there.” Orde jerked the keffiyeh from the Arab’s head and tossed it to Zach. “Take this to the cut in the wire. You will find the patch missing from this keffiyeh is still there.”

  Zach stared at the hole in the fabric and then, as an angry realization filled his face, he tossed it to a young man who ran into the darkness toward the fence.

  “No. Me? I was not there!” protested the Arab, backing out of the light.

  Orde jerked him back. “You are a liar.” He smiled coldly. “And a murderer of women.”

  “No!” Sweat poured from the accused. “Not me, Englishman! I did not . . . not my dagger!”

  “Were they killed with a dagger, then?” Orde pretended surprise. “How would you know that? Did you see the wounds?”

  The Arab laughed nervously. He looked from one angry face to the other. Friends. Neighbors. They had lived side by side a long time. “I did nothing wrong!” he protested. “Let me go. I see I am not welcome here among you anymore!” Once again he tried to back out of the light. This time hands from the circle pushed him inward.

  “You are the spy,” Orde said coolly, certain of the truth. “You have not come here to help, but to lead us into a trap.”

  “No! It is not so! I am a friend! They know me!”

  “They do not know you well enough.” Orde raised his head to the sound of footsteps running toward the group. The circle parted and the young man with the keffiyeh came into the light. He held up the head covering in one hand and then presented a small square of cloth to Orde.

  “It is not mine!” cried the Arab. “I borrowed—”

  Orde held up the torn keffiyeh and f
it the fragment of fabric into the hole for all to see. The match was perfect. An angry murmur circled the group. The Arab trembled as he stared at the evidence of his treachery.

  “You led them here to the weakest position in the line. You brought them to kill the woman.”

  “Not my dagger!” the Arab screamed.

  “You knew she was on duty tonight, didn’t you?”

  “I know nothing!” he begged.

  Orde slapped him hard on the cheek, sending him whirling to the ground. He lay there for a moment on his belly as Orde stood over him; then, in a voice dark with rage, the man muttered, “Allah ahkbar. You are all dead men.” In one swift movement he rolled over and pulled the trigger of a revolver pointed at Orde. The shot missed the side of Orde’s head by an inch, and he slammed his foot down on the wrist of the terrorist. In that same moment he drew his own gun and fired once, killing the man instantly.

  The circle leaned back in shocked disbelief. As the report of the second gun shot echoed in the distant wadis, they looked at the Arab, at one another, and then at the Englishman in astonishment.

  Orde did not speak for a moment. He did not lift his foot from the wrist of the dead man. Great sadness marked his face as he leaned down to pry the revolver from the fingers of the assassin. He held the weapon up for all to see, and his eyes met those of Artur Bader.

  “Tonight we prayed that we might bring to justice the enemies who murdered our brother and our sister.” The Jews were no longer surprised that the Englishman identified himself with their besieged community. In that moment he had become brother to Sharon and Lazlo. The grief of the family was his own. “We did not have to go out to find the enemy. He came here to us. And this is what will come of all who seek to destroy the chosen people of the Lord God of Israel!”

  He stepped away from the dead man and presented the weapon to Artur. “Believe it. This is your first lesson tonight. They are many and well armed. They would murder our women and drive us into the sea. They would trap us and lead us to destruction. But the Lord has not forgotten His covenant. He will bring all deception into the light. Learn this tonight, and remember it in the long struggle for survival that is ahead.” He searched each face and won each heart to loyalty to his leadership. “We will do what is in our power, and the Lord will do the rest.”

  ***

  Members of the press corps seemed drawn to Elisa, while Murphy was equally plagued by musicians from the Philharmonic.

  As D’ Fat Lady began to belt out another tune, a dozen latecomers pushed into the packed room. Murphy was uncertain who they were. He certainly did not know any of them, and they did not look like classical musicians.

  Three British members of the woodwind section had cornered Murphy and were simultaneously expressing their support for the appeasement policies of Prime Minister Chamberlain.

  “Saved us from another war, he did.”

  “A brave man to stand up to Hitler.”

  “I know what war is about. Toured the front in France during the Great War. Clarinet in one hand and gas mask in the other.”

  Murphy simply listened with steely silence. These were colleagues of Elisa’s, after all. There was no use arguing with such ignorance. They would find out soon enough what Chamberlain had traded for the illusion of “peace in our time.” For the moment, at least, Murphy would let them believe that things would go on as they always had. He might have said much after a day like today. Reports poured in that new waves of violence were heating up to a rolling boil, but he had not shared the news with Elisa. This was a joyful night after all, and he would not let one shadow cross the light in her eyes.

  For this reason he interrupted the clarinet player and stepped away when Harvey Terrill appeared in the room. Harvey had been left at the offices of Trump European News to man the clacking wire machines during the party.

  Harvey’s face showed lines of concern. His thinning hair was disheveled, and his suit was wrinkled, as if he had fallen asleep in it. But then Harvey always appeared as if he had been on a bender, even though he never touched a drop of liquor. Now he stood swaying beneath the arched doorway into the room as he scanned the smiling faces. He seemed not to notice the song of D’ Fat Lady. He was looking for Murphy. Something was up.

  Murphy inched through the crowd. Reaching through a dancing couple and avoiding the intoxicated embrace of Doc, the speech therapist who was slurring his words, he tapped Harvey Terrill on the arm. Harvey’s face showed relief, then worry.

  “Something’s up, Boss,” he said over the din.

  Murphy motioned toward the door of his study. He had kept the door locked in anticipation of the overflow crowd tonight. With Harvey at his heels he unlocked the door and slipped in, warding off a drunken journalist from the INS who assumed the door led to the men’s room.

  Harvey fought past the man and slammed the door. Murphy locked it behind them as the shunned newsman continued to knock and demand to be let in, too.

  The music, laughter, and the pounding fist on the door followed them into the study, but at least they were protected from the eyes of rival newsmen. Harvey had managed to slip in unseen by his wife, who attended the gathering without him.

  “Some party,” Harvey said glumly, then went to business.

  “Let me have it.”

  “Nazis are rioting in Germany. Timmons wired in from Berlin. But it’s not just Berlin. Everywhere, from Austria to the Sudentenland, the Gestapo has rounded up thousands of Jews. They’re arresting thousands, he said.” Harvey shrugged. “He was calling from a public phone booth near the Friedrichstrasse train depot. I could hear them shouting in the background. They got Timmons. The phone went dead.”

  Murphy crossed his arms and sat back against his rolltop desk. He would put in a call to the German Embassy. He had connections there. But first, there was something else Harvey wanted to tell him. “Is there more?” Murphy leveled his gaze at the little man.

  Harvey worked his mouth nervously. “And there was this guy—” He started his sentence in mid-thought, as if someone suddenly turned up the volume on a recording. “He came into the office tonight and brought this.” He produced a crumpled envelope. “Said it was something . . . about your father-in-law. Theo Lindheim.” Sweating, Harvey thrust the envelope into Murphy’s hand. “So here it is.”

  The envelope, addressed to Murphy, bore lettering in German script. Murphy did not open it, but instead thanked Harvey, who seemed frightened. “A German?” Murphy probed.

  Harvey nodded.

  “Tall and dark-haired?” Murphy considered his source at the German Embassy.

  “No. Short. Thinning gray hair. About fifty. Overweight, with thick spectacles.”

  It did not sound like anyone Murphy knew. “No name?”

  “The guy came in the back way. Through the alley door. Wouldn’t come clear inside. He just said you gotta have this tonight.” Harvey glanced toward the fireplace and then toward the window as if he sensed some danger. “He seemed so secretive. Scared, even. I didn’t know. I locked up and came right down here.”

  Murphy nodded and bit his lip. He was anxious to read the letter, but not with Harvey looking on. “Go on back to the office now, Harv. I’ll make a couple of phone calls, tell the German Embassy that a TENS Berlin reporter has apparently been illegally arrested. Where was he?”

  “Friedrichstrasse Bahnof.”

  “They won’t hold him. Don’t worry. I’ll wrap things up here and grab a couple of copywriters. With everything breaking this fast, it sounds like we’ll have the wires jammed with stories before long.”

  Harvey edged toward the door. “There was stuff coming in from Vienna when I left.”

  “Grab a sandwich on your way out.” Murphy pocketed the letter as if it were of little interest. In fact, it burned in his hand. The messenger must have been terrified to pass the letter along through the hands of an ordinary reporter like Harvey. Most likely he had been tailed by Gestapo in London.

  Murphy put an ar
m around Harvey’s shoulders. “Just don’t mention this to anybody, will you, Harvey? Especially not Elisa.”

  Harvey placed his hand over his heart in solemn oath.

  The intoxicated guest still banged on the study door. “Take this guy out with you,” Murphy instructed Harvey. Then, as he opened the door, his eyes caught Anna holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres and smiling. Instantly, her smile faded. Something to do with Theo, the look said as she stared at Murphy framed in the doorway.

  Murphy looked away and closed the door against her knowing glance.

  Beyond the heavy door, the Fat Lady crooned, “I’d rather be bluuuue!”

  Murphy tore open the letter and began to read. The message was written in all capital letters in English:

  THEO LINDHEIM TARGETED FOR ARREST BY GESTAPO IN BERLIN. YOU ARE ALL WATCHED VERY CLOSELY. BE WARNED. IT IS NOT FINISHED YET.

  No other word; no signature. Murphy felt the flood drain from his face as he read and reread the message. Theo in Berlin? He had told Murphy and Elisa that he was going on a business trip to Switzerland. Geneva. He would not go to Berlin! Somebody was way off on their information—unless . . .

  He jammed the letter into his pocket and burst out of the study to see Elisa. Just to see her! His heart was pounding as the implications of the warning raced through his mind. Suddenly the illusion of personal peace vanished for him. The towering form of Freddie Frutschy stood smiling over the assembly like an enormous bear in the corner. Then Freddie noticed the look on Murphy’s face. He moved toward him. With a jerk of his head Murphy indicated that the big man should keep a close watch on Elisa. There were so many people here tonight, people Murphy did not know.

  Anna worked her way toward him through the crowd. Her smile blinked on and off as she politely acknowledged those she passed. Her eyes betrayed her concern. Murphy could not shut her out again.