Warsaw Requiem

  Murphy raised his hand and inched toward them as a stranger brushed by and remarked, “Hey, we got Krauts back there now. Whole place is being taken over by the Nazis, wouldn’t you know?”

  Murphy ignored him and pushed on. Now he could see that Anna was smiling broadly. It was an expression Murphy had not seen on her face for a long time.

  “What’s up?” he asked as they slid into the booth.

  “Good news!” Theo proclaimed. “Or . . . maybe you have already heard?”

  “I’m the last to hear anything. You know that.” It was clear from the smug expression on Elisa’s face that she also knew the news but had waited until now to share.

  “I know,” Charles giggled.

  Murphy feigned unhappiness. “Everybody knows but me, then. Not a good recommendation for the chief of a news bureau, is it?” He had already guessed that the news concerned Helen Ibsen’s attempt to contact her children. Smiles all around could mean only one thing.

  “Tell him, Helen,” Anna urged her sister.

  Helen opened her mouth to speak, but tears of joy and gratitude choked off her words. “Anna?” she asked.

  “All right them.” Murphy put on his best newsman scowl. “We’ve got a deadline, you know. An hour for lunch. Somebody tell me.”

  Charles raised his hand as Doc Grogan had taught him when he had the answer. Louis’ hand went up higher.

  “Okay, Charles.”

  The news exploded from him. “The kids!”

  Louis followed. “In Danzig!”

  “They was on the telephone!”

  “All the way from Danzig.”

  Suddenly everyone was talking at once. They were all fine. Not hungry or ragged. They lived in a two-room apartment in the older district of the city. Terribly homesick for Helen, they wanted only to get to England as quickly as possible. Theo had already wired funds through American Express to take care of steamer tickets the minute their papers were in order.

  Helen finished the story softly. “I know Karl has been praying for them.” Her hands trembled as she fingered her soup spoon. “He has prayed, and soon our children will be home.”

  8

  By Dying I Conquer

  Before today, Sam Orde had not realized how many prized possessions he had accumulated in three years of service in Jerusalem. Now each precious item he had purchased in the souks or unearthed on Mount Zion posed a problem for him. How could he take them all with him to England?

  Two packing crates were allotted to him. Two were not enough. They sat open and empty on the stone floor of his quarters in the Old City barracks. His cot was cluttered with an assortment of notebooks and rare volumes, ancient maps and parchments gleaned from the antique shops. The smaller things were of no concern. Arrow tips from the archers of Rome. Half a dozen coins from the time of Christ. A stone inkwell discovered near the ruins of an ancient synagogue. Orde stuffed these items into his empty boots.

  But how to carry the two rare Persian prayer rugs? And the shofar in the inlaid mahogany box? And the silver menorah candlestick cast in the shape of an oak tree by a long-forgotten Jewish silversmith? His carved desk?

  He sat down heavily and sighed. His gaze lingered on a square hand-hewn block of Jerusalem stone against his wall. Long ago marking the resting place of some fallen Crusader, the stone was carved with a cross and bore the chiseled Latin inscription, BY DYING I CONQUER LIFE. Orde had found it facedown among the boulder-strewn rubble at the foot of the Mount of Olives. With the permission of Mother Superior at the Russian convent, he had carried the stone away, cleaned it, and spent many long hours wondering about the man who had lain beneath it. This odd reminder of his own mortality had become his most cherished possession. At one hundred pounds, its weight alone exceeded the limits imposed on personal shipping for the military. His Majesty’s government could not be expected, after all, to make room for personal goods on military shipping. Otherwise, every retiring staff sergeant and major would be returning home with enough goods to open an antique store in Bloomsbury.

  Somehow Orde had not imagined that the stone would ever be a problem. He remained in Jerusalem with the feeling that he would be buried here one day, that the ancient Crusader stone would mark his grave as well.

  “By dying I conquer life,” he whispered, feeling the sting of being singled out as the example of British military folly for the Arab Council. Indeed, at this moment he considered how much easier it might have been to have died with honor, to conquer unjust life by falling in this undeclared war. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped brown hair and looked around the small room that had been his home for three years. Nobody ever said that life was fair. Better a captain than a colonel, after all. And banishment back to England and the end of a military career was not the absolute end of everything.

  Orde glanced over his things and considered his alternatives. The Army might rob him of his occupation, but he would not be forced to leave his belongings behind. He would travel by private freighter rather than military transport. Tomorrow he would buy a steamer trunk and purchase his own passage. By the time he reached England, his commission would be up. He would step onto the soil of his homeland as an ordinary citizen. No use spending another two weeks saluting and yes-sirring!

  The decision made, Orde relaxed a bit. He fixed himself a cup of tea on a camp stove, then set to work packing his books.

  An hour passed, and a timid knocking sounded at his door.

  “Cap’n, sar,” called the melancholy voice of the Irish Corporal Hobbs. “Thar’s an ol’ rabbi here t’ see y’, sar!”

  Since hearing the news about Orde’s misfortune, Corporal Hobbs had gone about his duties with a catch in his voice and a tear in his baleful eye. This overdone sympathy irritated Orde, so he fixed a broad smile on his face before throwing open the door. Hobbs towered over the diminutive form of Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz. The old rabbi peered past Orde to the cluttered mess and the packing crates behind him. Hobbs shrugged, half saluted, and left the rabbi and Orde alone.

  “Come in, Rebbe Lebowitz. I cannot offer you a place to sit, but perhaps a cup of tea?” At the sight of the old man, Orde was filled again with a sense of regret. How he had grown to love these peculiar people of the covenant!

  The rabbi’s face registered dismay. “You are going someplace, Captain Orde?” He stepped into the cubicle and again swept his eyes over the disarray.

  “Home to England,” Orde managed to say lightly.

  The rabbi was silent for a long, awkward moment. “We heard. Hermann Sachar was notified by the British high commissioner’s office that the investigation proves you are at fault in some way for the death of his son Eli. A good boy. But noodles for brains to go to the Temple Mount on such a day, God rest his soul.” The rabbi extended a crooked hand in sympathy. “The boy was meshugge. Herbert does not blame you. We in the Old City do not blame you. A letter has been sent to the high commissioner telling him so. You have been a good man here, Samuel Orde.”

  All pretense melted away. Orde stood grim but grateful before the old man. “You sent a letter?” he said quietly.

  “And such a letter! You should unpack! They would not send you away after such a letter!”

  Orde paused. “Yes, Rebbe Lebowitz. I fear they have made up their minds. It’s England for the likes of me.”

  “But how can they—” the old rabbi sputtered indignantly.

  “It is not for the sake of the Jewish community that I am blamed. The Arab Council, you see. They cannot carry all the fault for the riots. It is not politically wise.”

  Rabbi Lebowitz let his breath out slowly. He tugged his beard. “I thought the Englishmen were above such things.”

  Now Orde smiled. “Why ever did you think that?”

  The rabbi tapped his temple. “I am crazy also, nu?”

  “Well, I appreciate your craziness. And your support. I shall ask for a copy of your letter. Perhaps it will help me feel better, at any rate.” Orde lit the camp stove and place
d the kettle on to boil. Then he cleared a place on his cot for the old man he had come to consider a friend.

  Rabbi Lebowitz sat stiffly on the edge of the cot and frowned at the packing crate.”What will you do? More soldiering? Somewhere else?”

  “I’m afraid that option is not open to me.”

  The old man’s eyes flashed with anger. British injustice was full-blown, indeed. “Well then. The Lord and Master must have something else in mind for you.” He pressed his lips together. “Yesterday I was coming here to ask you for help when I heard what they had done to you. Such a man should not be treated so badly, I said. But what is right is often forgotten by what is convenient.”

  “Well spoken, Rebbe.” Orde poured the tea and set a bowl of sugar on the crate before his guest.

  “So the English are not in the mood for mercy or justice, eh?”

  Orde noticed that the rabbi’s hands trembled as he spoke. No doubt the old man had also heard of the decision of the Woodhead Commission to limit Jewish immigration to a mere handful each year until 1945, when immigration was scheduled to stop entirely. Had the judgment affected the old man’s hope of bringing his family to Palestine?

  “Any word about your daughter in Warsaw?” Orde asked gently.

  The old man nodded once. He placed his cup back on the crate and took a long white envelope from his coat pocket.

  “The quotas are filled. Imagine.” He shook his head slowly.

  Orde’s situation was momentarily forgotten. There were other matters of justice to discuss.

  The rabbi’s face was pained. “My son-in-law was accused of plotting. He was in prison in Warsaw. He is just a rabbi, but they call him a threat to the community. He was released because of illness. England will not have him here in the Mandate. It seems . . .” His voice fell. “There is no appeal. Like for you, nu? Somebody always has to be accused. Otherwise the guilty will be discovered.”

  The old man absently opened the envelope and removed the useless passport photos of his daughter and her family. He held them reverently in his hand for a minute, then placed them one by one on the crate beside his teacup. He sighed as he gazed at them.

  Orde sensed that he was witnessing a private moment of longing in the old rabbi’s eyes.

  “My Etta.” Rabbi Lebowitz tapped the photograph of his daughter. “Of course you cannot see how blue her eyes are in a picture, but I tell you . . . such blue.”

  Orde smiled in agreement. “She is lovely.” There was no exaggeration in the statement. Orde did not need to agree out of mere politeness. Even with the austerity of a black-and-white photo, Orde could see how beautiful Etta was. Her slender neck and finely sculpted face were framed with raven black hair. Her skin was pale and smooth.

  The depth within the clear gaze of her eyes made him think that in an instant her lips would form a word and she would nod and smile at him. He touched the corner of the photograph with his finger. “She is a real person,” he muttered, amazed at the thought that this same woman was indeed flesh.

  The rabbi smiled. The Jewishness of Orde’s statement amused him. “Yes,” he agreed, “Etta is a person. A mensh, my Etta is.” He tapped the other faces in turn. “And these are also little persons. Here is Rachel, the oldest. Samuel. David. And our youngest, little Yacov. Yani, they call him. Here is the papa, Aaron. Before his arrest. Even a rabbi they make to shave his beard in Polish prisons, I am told.” He shook his head. “Ah, well. The Poles may tear out our beards, but they cannot steal what is in here!” He thumped his chest defiantly. “There must have been many Jews in prison who need a rabbi, nu? Even one without a beard.” He was not speaking to Orde but to himself and to Etta and her children. He fell silent. His eyes were moist. “I would like to hold the little one while he is still a baby,” he finished. “But maybe these days they are safer in Poland than in Palestine.” He managed a who-knows shrug and reached to gather up his little family.

  Orde put a hand on the old man’s arm to stop him. It was an impulse, probably foolish, but Orde did not want to see the matter fade away in the dusty archives of British immigration files. “I know some people in England.” He paused, checking the impulse, not wanting to raise the hopes of the old man unless there was a possibility. “Perhaps I could put in a word for your daughter’s case. After all, she was born here. Your son-in-law was educated in British Palestine. They have some claim, some right, it seems to me.”

  Rebbe Lubetkin raised his chin as if in thought. He smiled from behind his beard. “This was the very matter I was coming to discuss with you yesterday. We should not let this matter die, I said to the Eternal! Maybe Captain Samuel Orde could help to find a way! After all, he is an Englishman and can navigate the hidden tracks of the English mind! So! I was hoping for this. Praying for your help.” He reinserted the photographs into the envelope and then pulled out a thicker envelope from his pocket. “All the pockets are here, you see. I brought them . . . just in case.”

  ***

  The day was warm in Warsaw. Etta Lubetkin opened the windows wide and let the scents and sounds of summer into the house on Muranow Square.

  Rachel looked out at the green leaves on the trees that lined the square. She had not noticed when the trees had bloomed or when the leaves covered the branches. It was as though Mama had opened the window and suddenly it was summer. Had spring ever come this year?

  Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the cobbles like light dancing on the waters of the Vistula River. Trams and autos moved like ships. People skipped along like little sailboats scudding through the traffic. Suddenly Rachel wished she was out among the bustle.

  Did Mama hear her thoughts?

  “Rachel, your papa has said he would like a sugared roll from Menkes’ Bakery. Nothing else will do for him at all, he says.”

  This was a good sign. Papa’s favorite treat had always been the sugared sweet rolls from Menkes’. He had not even asked for one since his release from prison. When Mama had put one on his tray, he had not touched it or commented on it. But now his appetite had blossomed like the trees, without any explanation. Just like that! A sweet roll from Menkes’!

  Rachel sailed out into the sun, watching her own cheerful shadow with pleasure. Up ahead two Hasidim chatted as they strolled together, their black coats flapping like the wings of birds. When Rachel looked at their shadows, she could imagine that the coats were a dozen bright colors, like the cloaks of patriarchs. Like Joseph’s coat of many colors.

  And what color should she paint her shadow? Maybe her skirt was bright red instead of dull and somber blue. Or maybe yellow with orange flowers on it? Such thoughts were not fitting, perhaps, but they seemed to match the brightness of the day.

  Here and there mothers pushed their babies in prams, while other children clung to their mothers’ skirts and sucked their thumbs. Two bent old men shuffled past a group of young boys on their way home from Torah school who stopped to pet the milk-cart horse.

  David and Samuel would be returning from school to Frau Groshenki’s house soon. Rachel fingered the coins in her pocket. Mama had instructed her to purchase and drop off enough sweet rolls for the boys, in honor of the return of Papa’s appetite.

  Every few paces someone called her name, asking how her papa was and if anything was needed.

  “I’m going for sweet rolls at Menkes’!”

  “The rabbi is feeling better then!” Everyone knew what Papa’s favorite treat was.

  Rachel pushed through the door of the yeasty-smelling bakery. His hands full of a flat tray filled with warm bread, the baker looked up, surprised to see her. “Sholem aleichem, Rachel.” He slid the tray onto a rack, then wiped his flour-coated hands on his likewise floured apron.

  “Aleichem sholem.” Rachel felt like laughing. Baker Menkes had flour even on his bald head. His big ears stuck out like wings. Had she ever noticed that he resembled more a prize-fighter than a baker? She had decided that she had never noticed anything at all before today. She had been asleep her
entire life, but now it was almost summer after a terrible winter.

  “Did you forget something?”

  She had been here only yesterday afternoon. Had she noticed how good it smelled then? “No,” she answered, looking at the buns stacked in neat rows along the top rack. Their tops were thick with a crust of glistening sugar and cinnamon. “Papa is better,” she said, and his eyes followed her gaze to the rabbi’s favorite treat.

  Baker Menkes clapped his powdered hands together. He had sent home a sugared roll free with every purchase each time Rachel had come for bread. It had always been untouched by Papa, and so Rachel and Mama had shared it. But today!

  “The Eternal be praised!” Baker exclaimed. “A dozen for the good Rebbe Lubetkin! No, no! Put away your money! This is for your papa with my blessing!”

  Mama would not like it if Rachel did not also buy something from Baker Menkes after such a generous gift. She studied the rows of cookies. The eclairs. The strudels. She would buy something wonderful to take to David and Samuel.

  Baker Menkes’ eyes flitted up and out the window. His pleasant gaze clouded slightly; the smile faltered, vanished, and when he looked back at Rachel, a preoccupied expression remained on his face. “Anything else/”

  She glanced over her shoulder as a freight wagon loaded with expensive furniture rumbled past. Muranow Square was filled with such wagons these days. People moving away. People moving in from all over. Why had Baker made such a face?

  The wagon passed like a curtain. On the other side stood the young man in his heavy camel-hair coat. In this weather? His red hair stuck up wildly. His face was thin—too thin for the broad shoulders of the coat he wore. In his hands he carried a scuffed valise. He was staring hard through the window of the bakery. That was why Baker Menkes had frowned. Hunger was standing on the sidewalk across from this house of plenty. It was common but disquieting all the same. The young man was not dressed in the fashion of Poland. He certainly did not fit the pattern of a Warsaw Jew. Maybe German? There were plenty of them streaming into Warsaw these days.