Warsaw Requiem

  If it was an accident, why go through this again? Why put Lori through the horror of reliving it over and over?

  Yet another detective opened the door and motioned to Detective Thompson with a crook of his finger. “Grogan died a few minutes ago.”

  Murphy and Elisa exchanged sorrowing looks. Doc Grogan dead! Lori covered her ears and buried her face deeper in Elisa’s shoulder. Elisa held her as if she were a little girl.

  “Do you want your mother?” Elisa asked gently, then she shot a withering look at Detective Thompson. Why was he pressing so hard? “She needs her mother,” Elisa said to Murphy in a voice loud and indignant enough that Thompson could hear her. “And then she needs to sleep!”

  Murphy stood and crossed his arms across his chest in a defiant way. He waited until the second agent slipped out, leaving Thompson to glance at his watch apologetically. Yes. It had been going on a long time.

  “I suppose you overheard?” He looked at the door. “I am sorry. I was hopeful Grogan would survive this. Shed some light.”

  “The girl is worn out.” Murphy indicated that there was to be no more questioning.

  The agent nodded and swept his hands toward the door where the others waited. Then as Elisa and Lori moved on, he put a hand out to stop Murphy. Waiting until the two woman were out of earshot, he said quietly, “There is someone here you should talk to.”

  Murphy was convinced that there was nothing more to the headline than Careless Housekeeper Leaves Gas Stove On—Blows Up House—One Killed. This continued probing seemed needlessly cruel, and he was angered by it. Murphy sighed and nodded. It was ten minutes more before anyone came.

  The door swung back, revealing the bulk of the man Murphy recognized immediately as Mr. Tedrick, of the British Secret Service. It had been over a year since Tedrick had arranged for Murphy and Elisa to meet together in the cottage of New Forest. This was one man Murphy had hoped never to have to see again.

  “Hullo there, Murphy.” Tedrick extended his meaty hand. He was too cheerful for a time like this. His smile was too broad, his voice too eager to spill the bad news.

  “What are you doing here?” Murphy did not shake his hand. He was finished for the time being, and he wanted to gather up his family and find a nice quiet hotel to sleep in for a while.

  Tedrick would not be put off. He sat down heavily in the one comfortable chair and indicated that perhaps Murphy should sit somewhere as well. Murphy continued standing.

  “Suit yourself,” Tedrick said. “I suppose you’ve already written the story. Let me guess—something about a careless housekeeper? A gas burner left on? Household accident?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Print whoever you like. Probably that is the best story to circulate in a case like this.”

  “What case?” Murphy asked in an unmistakably angry tone.

  “What was Patrick Grogan to you?”

  “Dr. Grogan . . . Doc . . . was a speech therapist. One of our boys—” Murphy ran his hand through his hair. The effort of telling even this small detail seemed too great. Murphy could not believe that Doc was gone. He needed to think about that. Digest it. Try to understand the loss. Instead, Murphy was standing in a little room across from an arrogant government man who manipulated personal lives like a game of chess. “What difference does it make?” Murphy finished and sat down.

  “Grogan was more than that.” Terick looked at his nails and then back to gauge Murphy’s response. “He was an agent.”

  Murphy shook his head. He stared at the stony face of Detective Thompson. “Yours? Or theirs?”

  “Actually,” Tedrick said with a half smile, “yours, American.”

  “Well, well,” Murphy said with disgust. “Is that for publication, Tedrick? Remember who you’re talking to. My profession.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

  “Suit yourself.” Tedrick was not threatened. “Your government might not be too happy about it, though.”

  “Listen,” Murphy growled. “It’s late. The bottom of my house blew up today, just about taking my kids up with it, killing a man we were all genuinely fond of. I don’t much like you, Tedrick. Never have. So if you’ve got something to say, just get to it, because I’m taking my family someplace quiet in about three minutes.”

  Tedrick’s amused expression did not change. “Well, then. You always were a rather direct chap.”

  “That’s what makes me a newsman and you a professional sneak. So? What’s up?”

  “Grogan was an American agent, working closely with us on the link between the Nazis and the American Clan de Gael. Recognize the name?:

  “The American version of the IRA. Yes.” Still angry, he showed little interest in the news, as though nothing surprised him. Maybe nothing did anymore.

  Tedrick continued as if he were talking about the weather or a motoring trip to Blackpool. “We have known for some time that information about you . . . your family . . . has been of great interest to the other side. The Nazis. With your wife’s former activities and personal associations—”

  Murphy narrowed his eyes threateningly. If this clown brought up the fact that Elisa made a mistake once a long time ago with a former Nazi, Murphy decided he would knock him out cold. Patience was gone. Tedrick seemed to sense that and backed off a bit.

  “Her connection, for instance, with Pastor Karl Ibsen, on the one hand. And on the other, her activities in Vienna. Smuggling children out of the Reich. Children like . . . your boys, for instance. Charles and Louis Kronenberger. Such things are all an active irritant to the sensitive stomach lining of the German Führer, we are certain. For this reason we thought it best if your . . . bodyguard—” He was openly amused at Freddie Frutschy. “Well, Grogan was a healthy backup, as you can see from today’s incident.”

  “Not an accident? Then what?”

  “Grogan lost his life. The bomb—”

  “Bomb?”

  A slow nod replied. The irritated smile remained as if to say, What else, you idiot? “Bomb. Yes. We are 90 percent certain. It was a botched attempt on the lives of the Ibsen children. On your children. No doubt your wife and the babies were supposed to be there for the event as well. If Grogan had not broken out the windows, the whole block might have been lifted up and sent elsewhere.”

  Murphy’s stomach lurched. He felt cold and then hot. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. There was no room left for defiance, no matter what he felt for Tedrick.

  “Okay. Why?” he pleaded.

  Tedrick studied his nails again, then rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “Have you ever heard the name Paul Golden?”

  Murphy played the name over in his mind a few times. “Golden? Paul Golden?” He sighed and scratched his head in confusion. “No.”

  Now Tedrick looked concerned. “Grogan said the name. Three times before he died. Paul Golden and light wells.”

  “He spoke?”

  “Paul Golden. Light wells. Ibsen. Churchill,” Tedrick replied. “He was on to something big. Told me last week—”

  “Told you?”

  “Yes. Grogan was not hostile to me, as you are. We did have a bit in common. Like rooting out the scum from London’s gutters before someone innocent slipped and—” He waved his hand. That was all beside the point. No use discussing political ideologies in the face of a cold, brutal murder. “So, he told me there was someone in your organization bleeding you dry for information. The leak is from a stationary agent in your house, possibly at the TENS office. From there it is passed to the IRA and then on the Nazis.” He paused, letting the complications sink in.

  “You mean someone close to us?”

  “I was hoping Paul Golden worked for you,” Tedrick said in a distracted way. “Have you noticed things missing? Or maybe out of place?”

  “Come to think of it, I thought it was just me.” He frowned as he considered the times he had misplaced things. The postcards warning Elisa that she might still be in danger had vanished completely. There were ple
nty of other things as well. But Paul Golden? The name meant nothing to Murphy.

  “I just had a word with the ladies about it.” He held up his hand to stop Murphy’s reaction. “No one knows Paul Golden.” The smile was gone. “Where would you like to stay? Savoy, perhaps? You will need a round-the-clock bodyguard. I’ll get my best man on it right away. Freddie Frutschy and his wife are leaving for Wales tonight. They have a son there. Freddie told me the Missus needs to get away.” Tedrick talked rapidly. “This is beyond him anyway,” Tedrick said grimly. “I am making arrangements for Mrs. Lindheim and her sister to leave London with the boys before the first public orders for evacuation are announced tomorrow.”

  “Evacuation?”

  Tedrick had said the word in such an offhanded way that it sounded as though the event were common knowledge. He left no room for argument. Decisions had been made.

  “Yes. Schoolchildren. They are being evacuated out of the areas most likely to be targeted by the Luftwaffe.” Tedrick cleared his throat. Evacuation was the final admission by the British government that things had become hopeless. “There is a cottage in Evesham near the Avon. Charles and Louis Kronenberger, Jamie Ibsen, and Mark Kalner will be happy there until you can make arrangements to get them back to the States. I suggested that Elisa leave as well. She refuses to consider it until after the memorial concert at St. Paul’s. She says now, more than ever, it must go on. Lori Kalner is adamant that she will stay until Elisa leaves London.”

  “You’ve already talked this over with them?” Murphy challenged. His weary brain replayed the news of mass evacuation of English schoolchildren. Again and again he rolled the news over until the implications of it made him feel a little light-headed. And Tedrick had already spoken with Anna and Elisa about it!

  Evacuation! Refugees here in England? First in Germany, then in Austria. The Sudentenland had followed. Prague in March. Danzig. And now that Poland was certain to be swallowed, the evacuation order was finally to be given right here in London!

  “So it has come to this,” Murphy replied in a hoarse voice. “I hoped it wouldn’t.”

  “But it has. And now we will make the best of it.”

  ***

  “It is hard to believe that there could be any good news on a day like this.” Anna gently put her hand on Murphy’s arm.

  He looked up at her, barely able to comprehend what she was saying. She pulled two envelopes out of her handbag. The return address was the passport office. The passports of Alfie Halder and Rachel Lubetkin had arrived in the mail today.

  Lori carried Jacob’s document in her handbag. But 157 birth certificates had gone up in the flames of the Red Lion House. Destroyed with them were the hopes that they might be used to obtain additional passports for the boys in Orde’s Zionist Youth brigade.

  A number of applications were pending, however. Twenty-nine were currently being processed. But the political situation deteriorated by the hour. Should Murphy take these three passports to Warsaw? Or should they wait until more arrived?

  Murphy gazed at the solemn faces inside the slick blue folders. Rachel Lubetkin. Jacob Kalner. Alfie Halder. Their safety seemed to hang in the balance with that decision.

  ***

  Peter Wallich was taller, it seemed to Lucy, when she first spotted him at the long table in the Community Soup Kitchen. He was definitely thinner and more tattered. She recognized the plaid shirt he wore—the same shirt he had on the day he left her in Danzig.

  The center of attention among a group of young people his own age, Peter gestured broadly as he related some story to his audience.

  Lucy looked around for sign of Peter’s mother and sister. Where was Karin Wallich amidst the clamor? Where was Marlene, with her dark and sullen face?

  No one had yet noticed Orde’s entrance into the enormous room, or spoons would have been silent against bowls, and conversations would have fallen away. Orde had deliberately come early. The photographer was scheduled to arrive at seven o’clock to begin the arduous task of taking several hundred passport photos. Orde had not explained that he was sending them back to England a few at a time in hopes that they would come back inside shiny new British folders. Lucy had heard Orde gruffly inform the photographer that what happened to the photos was of no concern as long as he was paid.

  “What is it?” Orde leaned in to Lucy as he noticed her gazing with mild wonder in the direction of Peter Wallich.

  “Peter,” she answered.

  “Yes. A member of the Zionist Youth. How do you know him?”

  “I know him,” Lucy said as the boy happened to look up and see her.

  He gaped at her a bare second before he leaped to his feet and dashed through the narrow aisles between tables to where she stood.

  “Lucy!” he shouted, loudly enough that his cries of joy turned heads. “Lucy! It’s you!”

  Suddenly everyone noticed that the woman Peter Wallich was shouting at happened to be in the company of the great and magnificent British Zionist, Samuel Orde. So who was this Lucy, anyway? And how did Peter happen to know her?

  All propriety was thrown to the wind. Peter charged up and embraced her, laughing and shouting her name! A small group of his companions made a curious semicircle around him as he and Lucy embraced and looked at each other with delight.

  “Last I saw you, you were not so thin!” Peter exclaimed.

  “And I could say the same for you,” she replied.

  “You got my letter?”

  “No.”

  “Where is the baby?”

  “In England.”

  A moment of dark comprehension flashed in his eyes; then he brushed it away. “But you had to get the letter—you found me here. I lost the address where Mother and Marlene—”

  “They are not there anymore,” Lucy said in a rush.

  And so the reunion stumbled from one revelation to the next as members of the Zionist Youth lined up to have their pictures taken in the basement.

  Peter and Lucy talked for three hours in a quiet corner of the now-deserted dining room of the soup kitchen. When Orde and Jacob and Alfie emerged from the evening’s instruction, the red-haired youth leader’s countenance had changed from one of joy to somber concern.

  The conclusion of their rambling conversation had come to a frightening possibility that Peter shared with Orde.

  “So you see, when I lost my address, I wrote to Lucy in Danzig, inquiring of her to send the information to me. I gave this place as my return address.”

  “I never got his letter,” Lucy added.

  “It is possible that the man who pursued her in Danzig could have intercepted that letter,” Peter finished. “He would have this address, you see. He arrested the man who helped my family in Vienna, and I do not doubt that he is still—”

  Orde nodded and looked at Lucy with a new concern. “Yes. It is best that you remain with me. He will show up, sooner or later.” The prospect seemed to please him. “In the meantime, the photographer is still waiting downstairs. Both of you . . . if you please.”

  ***

  Allan Farrell coupled the wires of a small black device to a bundle of explosives on his kitchen table. Another of the leather satchels stood open on the floor beside him. There was a sharp rap on his door.

  Farrell started to sweep all his material off the table and into the case when he heard two more knocks, followed by a pause, and then two more. He continued putting everything out of sight, but in an unhurried manner. Then he went over to the door and admitted Hess.

  “Ah, Mr. Farrell,” said Hess. “Sorry to interrupt you.” He tugged on the glove covering his crippled hand. “Is all proceeding as planned?”

  Allan nodded. “Soon everything will be in place.”

  “What a great pity that the explosion that removed the man Grogan did not eliminate a few more nuisances as well.”

  Farrell stiffened, expecting a rebuke for his rash act.

  Hess noted the worried expression that crossed Allan’s face. ?
??Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Farrell. You did very well in removing a potentially troublesome opponent, and as for the rest—well, they will not be around to bother us much longer, will they? But I have come to say good-bye. Other important events are going forward that demand my presence elsewhere, so I leave you to the completion of your mission. Do you have all that you require?”

  “Everything.”

  “Good. If you find the need for additional supplies, just leave your request in the usual way. Between our technology and your courage and resourcefulness, I am certain you cannot fail.” Hess straightened his necktie. “That’s it, then. I’ll be listening for the sound of your success. The echo will undoubtedly be heard throughout Europe.”

  ***

  Two days later, Hess stood in the bowels of Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, reviewing Allan Farrell’s progress.

  “You are certain that Operation Edifice is positioned and will take place as planned?” demanded Himmler.

  “Quite sure, Reichsführer,” responded Hess. “And there will be no way to link the activity to anyone but the IRA.”

  “And will all the principal targets be in place?”

  Hess nodded a contented agreement. “The Murphys, the Ibsens, and the Lindheims will all be attending to hear Winston Churchill deliver an address on what is sure to be a memorable occasion.”

  Both men chuckled slightly. “You have done well, Agent Hess. Your reward will be participation in another event of great significance.”

  “Thank you , Reichsführer.” Hess nodded modestly. “And the nature of my new assignment?”

  “It is the opening scene of what is called Case White,” explained Himmler, waving a handkerchief that he was using to polish his spectacles. “The Führer was very taken with an American radio production called, I believe, The War of the Worlds. In it a race of beings from the planet Mars attacks the earth. This is, however, beside the point. The night that the broadcast occurred, a great many Americans believed such a ludicrous invasion was actually taking place! There was widespread panic, and armed citizens fortified their homes against the threat from Mars.” Himmler paused and smiled at the puzzled look on the face of Hess.