The stalls were mostly empty. He chose the one at the end of the row and locked the door behind him. Within moments the pipe bomb was placed on the water tank of the toilet. Allan fumbled in the handbag, taking out cigarette and matches and a spool of thread. He placed the matches against the cigarette, binding them to it with the thread. Once lit, the tobacco would burn down toward the match heads slowly enough for him to get away. Three minutes later, when the flame reached the matches, they would flare and ignite the contents of the pipe bomb. The result would be devastation.
One minute had passed since he entered the stall. He lit the cigarette fuse, blew on it until it glowed hot, and then placed it in position against the end of the pipe bomb.
With that, he dropped a towel into the toilet bowl and flushed. Instantly, the water filled and overflowed onto the floor, soaking his shoes and spreading rapidly as the ladies in the room squealed and grumbled and clamored to get out of the path of the flood.
“A toilet has broken! Everyone out! Hurry!” He had done his best. He could not think about those women who did not move fast enough to escape what followed. Those who did not care about wet shoes would soon never have a care again.
Five women went out the door with him. Two remained inside. they would die, Allan knew. He did not look back. He resisted the urge to run back and pull them from harm’s way. Fixing his eyes on the telephone booth, he hurried toward it. One minute remained until the device exploded. He looked over his shoulder as one more disgusted-looking woman emerged.
With trembling hands he picked up the telephone and dialed the number he had memorized. He wanted to be certain the world knew . . .
“Hullo, Trump European News Service. How many I direct your—” Fifteen seconds.
“Shut up and listen. I am at Victoria Station. The explosion you are about to hear is courtesy of the IRA. Got it? IRA . . .”
He let the receiver fall. It was dangling there when the explosion rocked Victoria Station. When the shrieks and shouts of terror filled the chasm of the terminal, TENS was on the line. By the time the first wails of ambulances filled the streets, Allan Farrell was long gone. But they heard it all over the telephone at TENS. They heard everything from the name IRA until the moment the first reporters crowded through the police barriers.
Allan read about the incident in his morning issue of the Times as he sunned himself in Parliament Square and waited for his contact.
***
Visiting hours at the City of London Maternity Hospital were not long enough to suit Murphy. He stood for an hour in front of the glass partition of the nursery, tapping on the glass, talking to the little bundle named Katie who slept peacefully in her bassinet between two stout, bawling baby boys.
“An angel,” Theo said to his granddaughter. He leaned his forehead against the glass, smiled and waved a tiny wave with the same adoration on his face as Murphy expressed.
“She looks like Elisa.” Anna was anxious to hold her granddaughter, but it would be days before that was allowed. “Don’t you think so, Helen?”
Helen Ibsen could only nod. The baby also looked like her own baby Lori had looked. She could not see anything behind the glass but the image of tiny Lori as she had been in her crib.
It was already seven o’clock according to the clock inside the nursery. Only one hour left to visit Elisa and then sneak back here for a final peek at Katie.
“Gotta git.” Murphy kissed Anna lightly on the cheek. “Thanks,” he said as he pumped Theo’s hand. He wanted to thank them both for Elisa; their lives had resulted in his life being full to overflowing. But there were no words—just emotion enough to power the lights like a generator. And the sweeping second hand of that clock kept moving.
“Give her a kiss for me,” Anna said.
“Kiss my baby girl and tell her I’m proud, ja?” Theo added.
Elisa was sitting up reading her Bible when Murphy walked in. A radio at the end of the ward played a Glenn Miller tune, but something in Elisa’s eyes told him clearly that she had also heard the news about the bombing at Victoria Station.
He kissed her three times. “Once for your mom. Once for Theo. And once for me.” He grinned down at her, ignoring the worry in her eyes. “That’s just for starters. We have an hour.”
“She is so beautiful, isn’t she, Murph?” There was more than pride in Elisa’s voice; there was an edge of worry that they had brought something so perfect into an imperfect world. How could they shield this little one from the same terrible heartache they were seeing again and again among the children from the Reich?
Murphy felt it too, but he did not speak of it. Instead he took her hands. “You done good, kid. Real good. I called my mom. Good connection too. I told her about the name, and she cried. Imagine! Calling all the way to Pennsylvania and then to have her bawl like that. Pop was pretty happy too. He says we need to bring you all home soon, to teach Katie to ride a horse and milk cows.” He was babbling, trying to pretend that he did not see what was in Elisa’s eyes. He had heard the old saying before: “Any man with a baby in the cradle longs for peace in the world.” He had never understood it with his heart as he did now. “Anna and Theo says she looks just like you.”
Elisa’s brow furrowed with emotion. “And Aunt Helen? What does she say? I held Katie and thought how much she looks like little Lori looked. And then I remembered Lori and Jamie. Murphy, I haven’t even asked you about them. Are they coming to London, Murphy? Did they make it through the paper mine field?”
Murphy patted her hand and nodded. She lay her head back on the pillows and sighed with relief. So much to think about . . . so many others to think about when this should be the happiest day of their lives. Murphy did not tell Elisa about Jacob Kalner except to explain that Jacob would be staying behind to work as the assistant of Samuel Orde in the new Warsaw branch of TENS. Putting the news in that light made it seem not at all terrible or threatening for the young man.
The second hand swept too swiftly around the clock face. Murphy did not say much about the Victoria Station bombing except that one toilet had blown up and an unfortunate woman was killed. He avoided mentioning that the woman had been only twenty-seven years old, or that she left behind two toddlers and a husband. Tonight the world should have been a perfect place in which to raise someone as precious as little Katie. Mothers should not have to worry about pipe bombs exploding in train stations or Nazis sweeping over half the world.
16
Kyrie
Along with the ordinary mail, two special letters whisked through the mail slot of the Lubetkin home in Warsaw, Poland. Rachel picked them up and scrutinized the postmarks and handwriting to see who had written, when the letters were mailed, and from where.
Mama had told Rachel a thousand times that she must not be so nosy. The mail was almost always addressed to Papa, and so it was not supposed to be any of Rachel’s business who was writing.
But Rachel had gotten into the habit when Papa was in prison. No matter who had written, she and Mama had opened the letters and gone over them together. The experience made it difficult to wait patiently for Papa to scan his correspondence and decide which letter was for sharing with the family and which was for his eyes alone.
Rachel knew at a glance that one of the letters was for reading. Addressed to Papa in the spidery handwriting of Grandfather Lebowitz, the letter had been mailed from Jerusalem four weeks ago. This meant that it had arrived two weeks sooner than the usual time of six weeks. And so the news would be two weeks newer, provided Papa did not take his time about reading it!
The Jerusalem letters were always wonderfully long and entertaining, Grandfather wrote them on paper so thin that a person could see through it. He did this to save money on postage, Mama explained. And on this thin, practically transparent paper, he painted long and wonderful pictures of the Holy Land. He started with the weather, which was always six weeks out-of-date. He progressed to funny stories about the Old City neighborhood—what this yenta had said about that yenta
and who was squabbling with whom. Or getting married. Or graduating from Yeshiva. Sometimes who had died.
With all of this, Mama’s eyes were bright and her face happy or sad, as the occasion dictated. The best part was her running commentary about everything Grandfather wrote. She had grown up in the neighborhood, after all. So, shouldn’t she know all the little extra details that made the story more interesting? Of course she should. And she did.
Over the last two years the weather reports and personal news also included a lot about the Muslim uprisings. Mama also commented on this, since she had lived in the Old City before the British had taken over the place and all of the Arabs had moved in from the neighboring countries. Always when Grandfather mentioned the Mufti of Jerusalem, she became indignant. “So why did the British make the lunatic a Mufti, already? Haj Amin was born in Syria, and they make him Mufti in Jerusalem!”
Things had been different when she was growing up, she said. Arab and Jew got along wonderfully well. Lately Papa had been saying that he was sure the British would work it all out, and wouldn’t it be good to go back there?
Rachel was certain that Grandfather’s letter would end on the same note. He would tell them that everything was wonderful and that they should come home as soon as the little details about their papers got sorted out. Grandfather said they all could live with him. Mama said he would have to rent a bigger flat, and then she always looked around wistfully at the pale yellow walls and the fine walnut furniture and the beveled-glass transom windows that made the sunlight into rainbows on the polished wood floor. Before this year, they had all thought it would be impossible to leave the wonderful house on Muranow Square. Rachel still considered the idea unthinkable. But something had changed in the way Mama and Papa talked about Jerusalem. Now there was something wistful in Mama’s voice when she mentioned the shops on Julian’s Way and the merchants in their stalls along David Street and the covered souks and ancient sites.
Rachel held the envelope up to a rainbow from the window. It was full of colors, sights, sounds, and even smells that Mama would describe for her. But Rachel did not want to go to Jerusalem to see it in person. A letter on onionskin paper to be recited lovingly in the house on Muranow Square was good enough for her. She did not want to end up like the vagabonds who stood in long lines for free soup. She did not want to leave her bedroom furniture for some other girl. Better to lie on her bed and dream about exotic places than to leave her bed behind and go there.
Mama called to her from the kitchen, “Rachel? Are you snooping through the mail again?”
“No, Mama.” Rachel furtively examined the postmark on the second faraway correspondence. She gasped at what she saw. “Mama!” she cried. “A letter from Czechoslovakia! From Turnau!” She had given herself away. She had been snooping, but at this news about a letter from Uncle Maurice in what was now Nazi-controlled territory was something that drew Mama out from the kitchen in an instant. She did not even scold Rachel as she hurried the letter in to Papa.
“Aaron! Darling!” Mama never called him that if she thought anyone was listening. This was indeed an occasion. “Look, Aaron! A letter from Turnau! Maybe news about your brother!”
Rachel helped her father to sit. She plumped the pillows behind his back as he waited patiently for Mama to open the envelope. A letter from Czechoslovakia! They had been hoping for news from Uncle Maurice ever since the Germans had marched in and taken over. They had been waiting as stories had poured across the border like the desperate refugees. Papa had said a prayer each night for his older brother. He had hoped that Maurice and his sons would show up, unharmed, on the doorstep of the Muranow house.
“Well?” Papa asked as Mama looked at the signature.
“It is not from Maurice. It is from a friend,” she answered, and Rachel could hear her voice tremble when she said the words. “Be patient,” she said to Papa. Then she read on. Her face grew pale. Her eyes filled up with terrible visions that she would not read aloud. Then she looked at Rachel and said softly, “Leave the room, Rachel . . .”
“But—”
Nor harsh, but firm. “Leave us.”
By this and the weary look on the face of her father, Rachel knew that something terrible indeed had happened in the little town of Turnau, Czechoslovakia. Uncle Maurice was prominent there. He was a Jew. The Nazi invaders no doubt found both of those factors to be distasteful.
***
The facts concerning the deaths of Maurice Lubetkin and his three sons had been written out in meticulous detail by a friend who had witnessed it all. The friend had taken his own life in his hands by recording their executions and sending the account to Aaron Lubetkin.
Distilled down to simple details, Aaron’s brother and his teenaged boys had been chosen at random, lined up against a wall, and shot in retaliation for the killing of a German policeman. In this way, according to German reasoning, the innocent learned an important lesson. Everyone paid for the rash act of one person. That same lesson had been taught during Kristal Nacht.
Aaron Lubetkin was too ill to be allowed traditional mourning and fasting for the dead members of his family. So Etta and Rachel donned their black clothes. They tore the hems of their dresses. They fasted and mourned in silence except for prayers and the few words necessary for daily existence.
The priest came and expressed his dismay to Aaron. Rachel heard them speaking in low tones about the possibility of Nazis coming to Warsaw. And if they came, the priest told Aaron, all his children should be dispersed among Catholic families of his parish.
Aaron did not argue with this unthinkable proposition. Rachel shuddered at the idea of actually living with the Saturday people who beat Jews on the head with their crucifixes and called them Christ-killers!
She decided that she would never go among them! Rachel would let them put her against a wall and shoot her full of holes, but she would not leave with Father Kopecky and go live with the Saturday people!
Why did her father not tell the priest that he would never consent to such a thing? How could he sit silently on his bed, knowing that the goyim had just murdered his brother and his nephews in Turnau!
Rachel waited in the hallway until the priest was finished talking to Papa. She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed defiantly and her eyes staring at the floor.
She looked up as Father Kopecky emerged. He was surprised to see her there. He knew she had heard.
“Rachel?” he questioned gently.
“I will never go with your kind,” she said fiercely in a quiet voice. “Better to die than be with them.”
He put out a hand to soothe her. “We were speaking only of the worst case.“ He shrugged. “It will not come to that.”
“Papa would rather see us dead than live with the goyim.”
The priest shook his head in disagreement. “You are wrong, I think. Not because your father would ever want you to forsake your people. But he knows, as you do not, that we are not all heartless and brutal. There are a few who see clearly what is good and what is evil. In case of the worst, Rachel, your father would say as a rabbi, Baruch Hashem . . . For the sake of the Name of the Eternal, you must continue to live. It is easier sometimes to stand against the wall and let them shoot. But for the sake of the Name, we are called sometimes to suffer and go on living.”
Rachel pushed past him and ran up the stairs to her room. She did not want to hear what he had to say! She did not want to think about suffering!
She stood at her window and looked out over the homeless who had pitched their shanty tents in the square. Had they left behind nice furniture? Fine clothes? Family meals around a big table in the dining room? For what? Were they really alive down there, or were they ghosts who had drifted in before her eyes to show her some grim vision of her future?
Rachel was afraid. Cold, sick fear climbed down her spine and settled in her stomach. She did not fear dying against a wall with her family falling with her. No. She feared the words of the priest much mor
e . . . Baruch Hashem! Was God so cruel that He would require her to turn her back on everything just to go on suffering and living?
“Go away,” she said to the homeless specters in the square. But they did not go away. And there, on the fringes, she saw the sunlight glint on the red hair of Peter Wallich. Still lost. Still homeless. He was the most frightening ghost of all! “Go away!” she said again, and then she pulled the window shade and turned away.
***
Bracing herself against the wall, Lucy descended the steep stairs from her apartment very slowly. At the bottom, she turned to look up, wondering how many more days it would be before she carried the baby in its christening gown down those same steps.
The time was very near. She sensed it in the same way the heavy-bellied animals on her farm at home had known. Feeling the thrill of that reality had frightened her this morning as she gazed at the satin gown and wondered. The mix of excitement and dread had driven her from the little nest she had prepared. Never had she felt a more urgent need to walk the three winding blocks to Heilige Geist Church. She needed to close her eyes and listen to all the sounds that were so dear and familiar to her. She needed to pretend that she was home and her mother was close at hand, and that the priest would offer a prayer for her and for the child.
Maybe this was the last time she would carry the baby inside her to the Mass. Maybe next week his little head would turn to the sound of the great pipe organ and the voice of the choir. Not heaven, little bird, but as close as we can get on earth.
The morning sun beamed down through the canyon of crooked gables overhead. Lucy inhaled deeply. It was early enough that the stink of rotting fish from the fish market did not yet pollute the clean Baltic air. The street was still quiet. Drunks and prostitutes slept off their hangovers behind drawn shades. Secondhand shops and beer cellars were not yet open. It was a good time to get out. The usual squalor of the neighborhood had not yet flooded out over the street.