“Mazel tov,” the rabbi said wryly. His beard cheek twitched as if to suppress a smile. “You have gotten your letter of acceptance to this school of Gideon’s soldiers?”
“You are making fun of me, Rebbe Lubetkin. But I have come to tell you what I know.”
“What you think you know—“
“What I know about the mission of Captain Orde.” No arguments would stop Peter. He had thought it all through. “This great military genius, this brave and stalwart Englishman . . . he happens to be a friend of your father-in-law, Rabbi Lebowitz in Jerusalem. True?”
“True.”
“And he is coming here to take tea with you, I have heard.”
“I have never heard of an Englishman who will refuse tea if offered.”
“Well, then . . .” Peter paused. “Now that you know the real reason he is coming to Warsaw, I thought maybe it would be a good thing if you would ask him to help you get Rachel out.”
“Rachel? My little bird? Why, yes, the captain has offered to intervene with British authorities. We expect him to bring us good news from London. But, only Rachel?”
“If you cannot get your visas,” Peter pushed ahead, “here is the plan. She should join Hashomer Hatsoir today. Come with me to a Zionist Youth meeting. That way when Captain Orde selects his few, no one will deny that Rachel should come with us to Palestine. You see? They will not say the captain is playing favorites—that he has chosen her over another girl or boy because she is the daughter of Rebbe Lubetkin and the granddaughter of Rebbe Lebowitz.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “All fair, you see? Then over tea you can tell him she is a member, and that you wish her to go to Palestine.”
Rabbi Lubetkin held up his finger to stop the flood of youthful excitement. “How did you think of all this?”
“I was thinking of her last night—” Peter blushed. “I mean . . . she handled herself bravely in the altercation between David and Mordechai. She is brave. And . . . worthy.”
“And she has also taken an interest in your well-being.” The rabbi did not speak of the fact that something about Peter made his daughter want to turn and run. “We have hoped you would find your way to your mother and sister. But Rachel is not the sort of girl for Hashomer Hatsoir.” A soft smile. “She is betrothed to a young man named Reuven who lives in Lodz. The family would not—”
Peter leaped to his feet. “So what does it matter what his family thinks? Can’t you see that there is no other way for us to get out of here now?”
“I am still praying for the visas. My children will go to be with their grandfather. In an Orthodox home. Not in the Hashomer to live on a kibbutz. You see, your way does not fit.”
“You had better make my way fit, because pretty soon—” Peter picked up the Halevi book. “People who burn books, Rebbe Lubetkin, will also burn people. I have seen the wall of fire. It is not like the pillar of fire you say your God used against the Egyptians. No, this is a different kind of fire. It burns an impassable wall just at the border of Poland. I do not know what you will do with the rest of your children when it sweeps into Warsaw. But maybe you can help Rachel get out. Ask the captain about it!”
The boy’s anger had receded into a hopeless desperation. By his tone, the rabbi knew that Peter Wallich cared for Rachel. Hopeless. Perhaps this outburst had been motivated by love, but even love was inappropriate in this instance.
Aaron Lubetkin tried to be gentle in his reply. But he did not let the boy hope for something so impossible. He simply nodded. “A good idea. We will see. Perhaps the captain will bring our travel documents with him, and then the problem will be solved.”
24
Good-byes Are Never Good
It was very early in the morning in the Red Lion House. Through the ceiling. Charles heard the groaning boards as Murphy got out of bed. Then the new baby cried a bit, and a second groaning of boards filtered down as Elisa got out of bed.
Other than that little bit of activity, the house and the world of London seemed very still this morning. Last night the sirens had wailed on and on, very late. Charles and Louis had finally gone to sleep in spite of the terrible sounds. But now everything was like a drowsy summer morning should be.
The scent of flowers drifted in from the roof garden and mingled with the rich aroma of coffee. Murphy always made coffee for Elisa in the morning. Charles liked the smell of the dark brew much better than that of tea. It was an aroma that reminded Charles of the long-ago days in Hamburg. The images were very distant, like a dream, but coffee brewing in the morning was something Charles remembered from that time when he and Louis had been with their mother and father.
Elisa opened the door a crack and called in, “Big day today, boys. You awake?”
Charles sat up slowly. “Big day?” Then he remembered that the last refugee children’s ship was leaving Danzig this afternoon. There was shopping to do, Elisa had told them, and Charles and Louis could both help push baby Katie’s pram through the market.
They did not leave for market immediately, however, even though Elisa usually liked to get vegetables before the day warmed them in the farmer’s stalls.
This morning Charles and Louis pushed the new pram toward the little church at the opposite end of Red Lion Square. Murphy and Elisa held hands and walked slowly behind, as though they were just a family out for an early morning walk.
There was hardly any traffic. It was still too early for people to be going to work. This walk seemed unusual to Charles, but maybe babies, like vegetables, needed to be out in the early morning before the sun got high and wilted them.
The doors to the inside of the church were locked. But this did not seem to bother Murphy at all. He opened the gate of the churchyard and stepped aside, warning the boys that they must push the carriage carefully over the path between headstones, because it was rutted and they must not tip Katie out.
Then in a quiet voice, he said to Elisa, “The new area is over there.” He gestured toward the newest headstones—shining marble without cracks. They did not lean or look as though they might crumble to dust.
“It does not matter when the date of death occurred,” Elisa answered him. “”Date of birth is what matters. I would think that something between 1919 and 1922 would do for him.”
“That much range?”
“He was always such a big strapping child. His mother, Leona Kalner, said he outgrew his one-year clothes at six months.”
And so this conversation went on as the happy family of five strolled leisurely through the cemetery of St. John the Evangelist Church.
Charles and Louis resisted the urge to roar along the path with the pram. They maintained a sedate pace as Elisa and Murphy peered down at names and dates of birth. Here was a date that was correct, but the name was a girl’s name, so it would not work. But Elisa wrote down the information anyway because she said it could be used for the Lubetkin girl in Warsaw.
At last Murphy gave a happy exclamation. “Here it is! That Sam Orde is an absolute genius! Look! Look here! This is perfect.”
Elisa stood at his side and frowned down at the tiny headstone of a baby boy.
WILLIAM HOWARD JOHNSON
BELOVED SON OF
HOWARD AND SUSAN JOHNSON
b. July 20, 1920
d. August 19, 1920
“Yes. It will work,” Elisa said in a quiet voice. But her voice was not happy like Murphy’s. She was seeing something besides the dates, and it made her sad.
Murphy scribbled down the names and dates. They began to walk back much faster now. Birds chirped above their heads. Elisa picked Katie up from the carriage once they were outside the churchyard and nuzzled her gently. Elisa looked as if she might cry, which seemed very strange indeed.
“What do w do now?” she asked Murphy.
“There is nothing to it.” He tucked the paper into his pocket. He was smiling, scanning the square as the red omnibus stopped at the corner, then grumbled on its way. “I’ll stop in at the birth registrar
. . . No, better to just drop them a line, requesting a certified copy of the birth certificate. The department is down the hall from the death records. Beautiful. The right hand has no idea of what the left hand is doing. As far as birth records are concerned, William Howard Johnson is a big, healthy, nineteen-year-old Englishman. As far as passports are concerned, William Howard Johnson will be a big, healthy Englishman about to take his first trip abroad.”
“And Rachel Lubetkin?” Elisa looked at the name of the little girl who was about to lend her identity to someone in faraway Poland.
“Better have that birth certificate sent to your parents’ address.” Murphy frowned thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, we should set up a number of different post boxes. That way the registrar will not be sending birth certificates to the same address.” He grinned back over his shoulder toward the headstones in the sunlight. “A strange sort of resurrection, isn’t it? We’ll have to be careful, but I think it can work.”
***
Always before, Lori had acted the part of Mother to the Lost Boys. But this morning at the docks, Alfie could see that something had changed about her.
She made certain that each traveler had his identity tag properly tied to the center button of his shirt. Those tags matched the special travel permits and the luggage tags that were also properly attached. Very quietly she spoke the names of Mark and Jamie and Alfie and gave them strict instructions about which line to stand in and how they absolutely must stay together so they were not separated.
But her attention was not really with the boys, Alfie noticed. Even as she spoke, she was looking mostly at Jacob. Touching his hand, leaning her head against his arm in between sentences. It was plain to see that Lori was not ready to be here. Her skin was very pale. Her blue eyes were bright with loving Jacob, with missing him terribly even before they were apart.
Jacob stood tall and very adult-looking in the suit he was wearing for the second day in a row. His hat was pulled down lower than usual over his forehead, making a shadow over his eyes. But Alfie could see all the same that Jacob was not ready for the parting either.
Jacob looked at the ship. And then he looked so softly at Lori.
He looked at the teeming crowds of children. Eight hundred tagged and ready. And then he looked at Lori. Her hair. Her hands. Her cheek. Her neck.
His eyes wandered to a mother on the dock who cried and hugged her little girl good-bye. And then he looked back at Lori. He touched her hair without thinking about the fact that they were in the middle of hundreds of people. He breathed in so deeply that Alfie thought Jacob’s lungs could not hold any more air. His eyes beneath the hat brim were sadder than any eyes Alfie had ever seen, except for the boys at the hospital. They all had eyes like that. Eyes that looked on and wished while other boys ran and played, eyes that lived in helpless bodies while minds were bright and smart.
Alfie saw all of this. It made his heart hurt for Jacob and for Lori. People with sad eyes like theirs hardly ever got well from whatever it was that made them sad, Alfie knew. He remembered what Herr Frankenmuth of Fresh Fish Daily had told him: “Somebody is always being left behind these days.”
Only Werner-kitten seemed to be at peace in all this noise and confusion. Tucked into his secret compartment in the bottom of the valise, the kitten had not made even one peep since he had fallen asleep. Alfie thought it would have been easier if they had stuffed the Goldwasser down Lori and packed her away to sleep until England. As it was, she was barely holding on to her emotions. Everything was right there, on the edge, ready to break her into little pieces.
“John Murphy says you mustn’t worry,” Lori said above the din. “The fellow you are working for is here in Danzig right now. And do you remember where you are to meet him?”
Jacob nodded and pointed to the office of Hamburg-Amerika shipping, just a few feet from where they were all standing. “Don’t worry.” Jacob touched her lips with his finger. “I will be lost without you, even though I will not be lost.”
The emotion came again, glistening in her eyes. She kissed his finger, nodded, then looked away. Children were already walking up the gangway. She did not want to see that, so she stooped to flip the luggage tags, making certain that they were all as they should be.
The line inched forward for the luggage examination. English officials from the ship stood beside Polish customs men. The checks were not very complete. Sometimes a bag was opened, but mostly the children and their tiny parcels were simply waved through. Not like Germany. Not at all. This is what the Danzig Gang was counting on. Most likely the bag containing Werner would be looked at briefly and passed over the table, and then Alfie would carry it up into the ship.
“Murphy says we will be together again by the fall.” Lori’s voice grew more desperate as the line moved up again. Jacob held her hand. Their fingers were twined together, like Alfie’s hands when he prayed.
“In the meantime this job . . .” The whistle of the ship boomed the warning that there was only half an hour to cram all these children onto the boat! Jacob’s words were lost beneath the bellow of the Horn.
“You can go to school in London and work part time at the newspaper office,” Lori said.
“And we’ll get a little place of our own.”
“And I will plant a garden.” Every word brought them a step nearer to the luggage table. Beyond that, the gangway and the ship waited.
“It will be fine for us, Lori. Wait and see.” He put his hands on her shoulders, his eyes skimming the side of her face.
“This may be something you really enjoy doing. And . . . it will be all right. A lot of people . . . newly married . . . are . . . they have to be apart awhile.” Tears welled up. Her chin trembled as she spoke.
Jacob lowered his head and looked her in the eye.”Don’t. Or I will cry.” He bit his lip. She brushed away the tears.
Lori did not let herself cry because she did not want to do that to Jacob. It was a very brave thing. Yes, Alfie thought, very brave.
Then they reached the luggage intersection. The bags were hefted onto the table, including Werner’s secret hiding place.
“Well, what have we got?” The Polish inspector and the Englishman stood side by side. “Personal items?”
“Personal,” Lori said in a very businesslike manner. “Clothing and such things as that.”
The English inspector checked the luggage tags against the tags that were tied to their buttons. He took out his red pencil and began to check each bag.
At that moment Werner’s bag let out the most mournful, terrible howl. The inspectors both jumped back and put their hands in the air. The yowl began again. Alfie knew they would find Werner now and not let him go, and he felt sick.
“Heavens!” exclaimed the Englishman. “What is in there?”
It was the most terrible calamity. All their bags were put to the side. They were told to stand over by the office, while others in line were checked right through. Werner continued his racket even then.
Jacob patted Alfie on the shoulder. “Sorry, old friend.” And Alfie knew that Jacob really was sorry. “We will have to let Werner out of the bag, or they won’t let you on the ship.”
Alfie talked softly to Werner so he would not squirt out and run away when they opened his hiding place. Then Alfiie lifted him out carefully. He was still drunk, Jacob said, but just awake enough to yell. So Alfie held Werner for the last time while they waited for the inspectors to come over and have a stern word with them. Alfie remembered how Lori did not cry, and so he did not either.
the line moved on. Two hundred remained. Lori and the boys would be last on board. Lori did not mind, she said. It gave her more time to spend beside Jacob. She drank him in, like Alfie drank the cool lemonade his mama had fixed on a hot day. That was a good way to think about how Lori and Jacob looked at each other. They were lemonade to each other on a hot day.
***
“You are an idiot!” Wolf glared at Hess and then looked at the gun in
his hand with a careless disdain. “I had her here, and now you are letting her get away!” He gestured toward the window through which she had obviously escaped and the roof over which she had climbed.
Hess was unmoved by Wolf’s pleas of innocence. “You warned the Ibsen children to abandon their flat,” Hess snarled. “You have now warned Lucy Strasburg to leave this place.”
Wolf paced, and the barrel of Hess’s gun paced with him. He ran his hands through his hair in the frustration of encountering this moronic obstacle that even now kept him from tracking Lucy down. “She could not have gotten far.” Wolf’s eyes flashed angrily. “And if you will work with me in this matter, we will bring her in and settle once and for all who helped her escape. I, for one, believe it was you, Major Hess. And I shall not hesitate to report that you held me at gunpoint while the object of a massive manhunt slipped away through the streets of Danzig unhindered!”
Hess and Ahlman exchanged glances. “You were here with her last night. Wolfgang.” Hess’s voice was high and whining with perverse amusement. He wanted nothing more than to see this haughty Prussian aristocrat brought to trial. And Hess himself would deal with Lucy Strasburg—without assistance from Wolfgang von Fritschauer.
Wolf exploded with rage. “Look at the blood, Herr Hess! Does this look like I embraced her as comrade and fellow conspirator?” He gestured at the dried stains on the sheets, the dark splatters on the wall.
With this, the first doubt struck Hess. Yes. There was blood. Had von Fritschauer beaten the woman? If so, why? Seconds ticked by as he considered the implications of such a thing. Wolf would have beaten her only if . . . if she had somehow betrayed him.
Hess did not reply. He kept the weapon leveled at Wolf’s gut, yet that unspoken doubt shouted to Wolf that perhaps he was getting through. “So. You think I have something to do with the Karl Ibsen case? Or perhaps that I am one of the conspirators with Michael Wallich and Otto Wattenbarger? You believe this insanity, even though it was I who arrested both men?”