That thought made him remember the long talks Murphy and Doc Grogan had about that very thing. Charles looked far up into the misty heights of the dome, where shafts of light beamed through from the light wells in the Golden Gallery. Louis also looked up. Then Mark and Jamie leaned their heads back and stared at the golden glow so many hundreds of feet above them.
The music swirled—very pretty music. Charles touched Elisa’s arm. “Look,” he whispered. “It looks like heaven.”
She nodded. Her face was sad and worried. She looked over her shoulder at the entrance in hopes that Murphy would come soon. Harvey Terrill stood on one side, beside the stairs that led up through the interior of the dome.
Charles smiled and thought how tired Doc had been when they climbed all the way up, how long it had taken him to tell them all the stuff he knew about St. Paul’s because he could hardly breathe.
He leaned his neck back on his chair again. “We were up there with Doc.” He pointed up and up. “Golden Gallery.”
Elisa looked at him strangely, as if she were thinking about Doc Grogan. She craned her neck back with the boys as the pretty music drifted on the light beams.
Then she leaned down and put her lips against Charles’s ear. “Doc climbed up there?” She also remembered that it had been his last day.
Charles nodded.
Her head went back again. “No windows,” she whispered to herself.
“Light wells.” Charles was pleased that he remembered what Doc had showed them. He pointed up toward the highest gallery just beneath the lantern tower. He would tell her more if she wanted to know. But after the service. It was almost time for Elisa to play. She was using her Steiner fiddle today. It was out across her lap. She had practiced here with it a dozen times, and—
Elisa’s face grew very white. She was looking up into the dome. Even though the time for her to play was very near, she was searching the light beams of the dome as though she could see something there. Something. Maybe Charles would take her up there after the service. Maybe they could all climb up inside together and sit on the stone benches and remember good times with Doc. Maybe Jamie and Lori and Aunt Helen would also want to remember good times with Pastor Ibsen. A picnic on the Golden Gallery would be as good a memorial as this, Charles reasoned. He would tell them his plan after this was all over and everyone else went home.
Looking up and listening to the music, Charles could almost imagine that there were angels playing on the beams from the light wells. He did not even have to close his eyes to imagine such a thing.
It was perfect, except that Theo was gone in a plane. Lori was not here. And where was Murphy? Well, it was almost perfect. Just about everyone was here today.
***
Jacob Kalner tucked his passport into his pocket and then said firmly, “I am sticking with you, Elisha.” He had a peculiar smile on his face as the other boys looked at him with amusement.
Who among them would not have jumped at the chance to flash that precious document in the face of a British Embassy official and simply slip in behind the high metal gates to be taken out of Poland in safety? But here was this meshugge actually choosing to go with them into the Warsaw fish market as if nothing at all might fall on his head and kill him! Oy! They could understand the confusion of this big oaf called Elisha—after all, he was not all there. He acted as though something had already hit him on the head and knocked a few brains loose, nu? But Jacob Kalner had always seemed a sensible fellow. Why, then, did he refuse to go to the British Embassy? And why did Captain Orde, who also could go to the embassy, insist that everyone was leaving together or no one was leaving?
It was an amazing thing to see. The one called Elisha marched on one side of Lucy Strasburg and the captain on the other. The kitten poked his head out of the neck of Elisha’s shirt in front. Lucy, who knew just exactly where Herr Frankenmuth should be, was giving directions. Turn here. Then go left here. His boat is moored halfway down the quay.
All the while as they tramped down the streets, the German Heinkels buzzed persistently above. Their shadows brushed the cobblestones behind and in front of where they ran. Why, then, did they not run faster?
“Herr Frankenmuth will be there,” Alfie assured them. “He is waiting for us to come.”
***
A haze of smoke from burning buildings drifted across the sky above Peter. He could hear the sounds of pitched battle not far away. The engines of the airplanes seemed always the same, neither far nor near, only sometimes louder and softer. He knew when they climbed because the pitch changed, and he knew when they came down against their targets because the roar turned into an angry scream, followed by dull explosions. Peter did not look up as he ran through the deserted streets of the Jewish district. He did not stop to look at the lifeless faces of the children who had died there this morning.
He ran on toward the cavernous doorway on Kozhla Street, the winding little lane where the animal market was. He passed beneath the archway and there, in the smoke, he saw something enormous moving toward him! It moved quietly and took shape. Yes! It was the great horse of Dolek the milkman! Its reins hung down from the bridle. It took a step and stepped on the end of a rein and stopped. Its enormous hoof held the leather fast against the cobblestones, and so the horse did not move when Peter walked to him. The horse’s liquid brown eyes were watering—probably from the smoke, and yet, for a moment, it looked to Peter as though the beast was weeping silently.
He crooned to the animal and stroked his thick neck. He took the leather rein, lifted the foot, and then led the horse to a heap of rubble. Peter climbed the rubble nervously and then slid his leg across the broad, sweating back. Grabbing a handful of mane, Peter turned the animal back toward the square and nudged him forward.
The hollow clop, clop, clop of iron horseshoes against the pavement beat a rhythm in time with the explosions of Nazi bombs on the train stations and warehouses on the outskirts of town.
***
Every newspaper in London had a special edition already on the streets. War news was already being shouted from the news kiosks that lined Fleet Street.
Cars and taxis pulled to curbs or hailed the newsboys who ran through slowly moving traffic selling their papers. Murphy took one look at the traffic jam and headed up the street toward St. Paul’s on foot.
His brain was dull from lack of sleep and the unending onslaught of events over the last twenty-four hours. He looked at the clock tower of the cathedral. Still a few minutes before Elisa was scheduled to play. How he regretted the loss of her violin—the beautiful Guarnerius, given over to a crooked customs inspector who seemed to know very well the quality of the instrument.
Murphy’s head ached. He brushed past pedestrians on the packed sidewalks and began the ascent up Ludgate Hill to St. Paul’s. He was angry at himself for his failure. No Orde. No Jacob or Alfie or Rachel Lubetkin. And the violin was gone, for nothing.
He bit his lip and paused mid-stride. How had the Polish customs’ inspector known to challenge Murphy about passports? Not your passport,” the man had said.
Murphy turned the incident over in his thoughts once again. It seemed that the inspector had come looking specifically for Murphy.
Elisa had told Murphy that she had managed to sneak a call to Harvey Terrill. That she had asked him to send the cable to TENS Warsaw.
Murphy reached into his pocket and pulled out the note he had found in the office just a few minutes before. Elisa’s handwriting: a note to Harvey.
Murphy stopped walking. He frowned down at the message. He looked up at St. Paul’s. People pushed past him, but he did not notice.
He knew without a doubt that he held the note that Elisa had sent Lori to deliver to Harvey last night at the TENS office! The message—and Lori—-had reached TENS!
He began jogging rapidly up Ludgate Hill toward the cathedral. Why had Harvey lied? Why would he lie about seeing Lori? And how had Polish customs gotten the tip to detain Murphy?
&nbs
p; Harvey Terrill!
***
Allan Farrell watched a flock of pigeons swirl in a figure-eight pattern around the clock tower and the bell tower of St. Paul’s. He was growing impatient for the time to push the button.
He toyed with the idea of pushing the button without waiting for the signal. After all, everyone was inside already, weren’t they? Did it matter whether Churchill died while speaking or while sitting in the audience? How much longer was the orchestra going to play, anyway?
Igniting the charges right now, however, would kill his accomplice as well. He wondered how much trouble he would get into for that. Of course, he could always explain that it was a mistake. He doubted that anyone really liked Harvey Terrill enough to care very much anyway.
The transmitter lay on top of the satchel. A flick of one switch turned it on, then a long push on the button, and . . . Allan’s eyes again sought the top of the dome. Would the tower drop straight into the inside, like a candle being pushed down into a cake? Or would part of the fabric of the dome collapse too? Allan was eager to find out.
38
Live and Be Well
Outside the packed shelter, the steady whump! whump! whump! of falling bombs penetrated the thick walls of sandbags.
Rachel huddled close to her mother. She was frightened but not terrified as many others seemed to be. Everywhere the sounds of sobbing could be heard—mothers who had lost children, sisters who had lost brothers.
Rachel looked at the dust-covered forms of David and Samuel. There was blood on the knees of David’s torn knickers. Samuel had a trickle of dried blood on his right cheek. How had they survived? It was a miracle when so many had perished this morning!
But how long would this go on? Would Germans run out of bombs soon? Would they be shot out of the skies by the Polish Air Force—or by the English?
“Where is England?” someone muttered. “They will surely come and stop this!”
As if in reply, a desperate pounding sounded against the barricaded door of the shelter.
“You think that is England, already?” A ripple of nervous laughter filled the room.
“Maybe Hitler got lost and wants in.” More laughter.
It was an odd thing to have someone knocking on the door with destruction raining down outside. And then everyone realized at once that it was not odd—someone had found his or her way to the shelter!
“Let them in!” cried a dozen voices in unison.
First the question was shouted, “Who is it?”
“Peter Wallich” came the muffled reply. “Please! Let me in! Is Rabbi Lubetkin inside? I have an urgent message!”
Heads swiveled to look at the rabbi. “Let the boy in,” he urged.
Rachel shuddered at the thought of the door swinging back. She did not want the terrible noise of the explosions to fill the shelter. She snuggled close to her mother and leaned her face against Etta’s arm.
***
“Please! No, Papa!” Rachel begged. In the same storage room of the shelter, she wrapped her arms around her father’s waist and clung to him.
Mama held the British passport in her hands as though it contained her every hope.
“Rachel,” Mama said gently. “God has heard my prayers and answered.” She put a hand on Rachel’s shoulders, and the girl turned and buried her face against her mother.
“Mama! I don’t want to leave you! Don’t make me go with Peter! Oh, Mama! Let me stay with you!”
Aaron Lubetkin swallowed hard and stepped back. He could not bear to look at the misery of his only daughter. It would be easier for her stay right here with them. Much easier for Rachel. Maybe even easier for him to allow her to stay.
“You must choose life, Rachel,” he managed to say. His voice did not carry the authority of the spiritual leader of his community. Instead, there was only the grief of a father who must now bid his daughter farewell, possibly for the last time.
Peter Wallich waited outside the metal door. He had warned them that they did not have long. He had risked his life to come for Rachel. He would be risking his life to take her to the gates of the British Embassy to safety. And then he still had a journey to make.
How much longer did they dare take in this parting? Mama held Rachel close and stroked her hair. She kissed her daughter on the head as she perched on the crate and begged with an embrace that they not be parted.
Then Etta reached behind her and grasped Rachel’s clasped hands. Finger by finger she pried them loose; all the while she whispered Rachel’s name gently, as if she were trying to wake her from a nightmare. “Rachel? Rachel? Sweet Rachel? It is time. It is time to go now. We will meet again. Please. Rachel? You must go now. You must.”
Rachel sat back in a daze on the crate. So it was true. It was harder to choose life. Much harder.
“May I say good-bye to David and Samuel? To the baby?”
Papa opened the door slightly. David entered, carrying the baby. Samuel followed. Samuel was also crying, although he did not know why. The door clicked shut. Only one moment more . . .
Rachel embraced little Samuel first. She took his face in her hands.
“What’s the matter, Sister?”
“I have to leave,” Rachel managed to say bravely.
“Will you come back?” His eyes were puzzled, frightened that she would leave the shelter and never come back. The streets were littered with friends who were not coming back.
Rachel looked to her mother for help.
Etta stepped forward and pulled Samuel into her embrace. “Rachel is going to be with Grandfather Lebowitz. To live at his house. She is going to the Promised Land.”
“And you will come later,” Rachel said. But the tears did not stop flowing; she did not truly believe in this dark hour that anyone would ever be in Jerusalem with Grandfather!
David stepped up and hugged her in a manly way as Papa held the baby. “The Eternal go with you,” he said gruffly.
“And give you . . . peace . . .” Rachel broke. Only for a moment. Then she caught herself and took Yacov from Papa. The baby, not understanding anything, only felt Rachel’s sorrow. He nuzzled her damp cheek with a sloppy kiss.
Then Mama took him from her and opened the door. Peter stood before her. She gave the passport to Peter, as if the passport were Rachel herself. Rachel’s life.
Shalom . . .
Rachel did not look at the faces of the people in the shelter who watched her leave. She followed Peter out into the smoke-shrouded sunlight. The sun was a red ball in the sky, glaring down on Muranow Square.
The big horse of Dolek the milkman was tied to a broken branch on the great fallen tree in the square. Peter held her hand as if she were a small child. He led her through the rubble and helped her stand on the horizontal trunk of the tree and then boosted her onto the back of the animal. He jumped on behind as the constant boom of bombs and artillery fire pushed against the hot air around the broken city of Warsaw.
***
Harvey Terrill leaned nervously against the wall of the south aisle of the cathedral. Directly behind him were the circular stone stairs, the first part of the ascent to the dome. Harvey had chosen to stand in that spot so he could see if anyone went up to the galleries. Now he was not at all sure why he did it.
What was he going to do anyway? Tackle someone to prevent him from climbing the steps? Argue with the person?
Harvey could not take his eyes from the hazy hollow globe of the dome over his head. It seemed so vast and so high and so permanent. It was hard to imagine that, in minutes, both peace and permanence would be shattered right here in the heart of London.
The enormity of it made Harvey nervous. He thought of how much stone and lead-covered timber was over his head, and he wondered how impatient his partner with the trigger was getting. He wished this service would speed up. Didn’t Churchill have more important things waiting? How long before the man would speak?
Elisa Murphy was shifting in her chair. That meant she was getting r
eady to play, and Harvey knew she was on the program right before Churchill.
Then Harvey noticed—she too was looking upward at the blue shimmer of the dome! Terrill’s head snapped back. Was there something up there that gave the plot away? Had she gotten some clue to what was about to happen?
Harvey looked anxiously to see if any of the others were stirring. Had Churchill been warned? No, there he sat next to David Lloyd George and Anthony Eden and others of similar politics. Harvey forced himself to calm down, to think about what a blow would be struck here today. All of the anti-Hitler, anti-appeasement crowd were gathered in this one place.
Still, he wished it would hurry and get over with. Even if this event was going to be bigger news than the Führer’s speech, Terrill wished it would happen soon!
Beside, the two adopted brats of the Murphys were staring up at the dome as if they knew something. How much longer?
***
Elisa trembled as she looked down at the reddish hues of the old Steiner violin. What had been Doc Grogan’s last words. Paul. She raised her eyes to scan the majestic creation of Sir Christopher Wren. St. Paul’s Cathedral. Could Grogan have meant . . . ?
Golden. She craned her neck to search up into the heights of the Golden Gallery, where Doc Grogan had spent his last hours with the children. Paul Golden? A man? Or St. Paul’s? Golden . . . .Golden Gallery! Light wells!
She listened as the last strains of Karl Ibsen’s favorite symphony built to a crescendo. Ibsen! She looked to where Winston Churchill studied his notes in preparation for his coming speech! Churchill!
She let her eyes linger on the violin. Not the Guarnerius. Why had Murphy been intercepted by Polish customs and asked about passports? Illegal passports?
One more look to her far right told her she was not wrong. Harvey Terrill was starting up into the dome of the cathedral as though something was terribly wrong above his head. He glanced at his watch, shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he wanted to run from this place.