Danzig Passage

  “Reverend Gustav Dorfman is solidly with us, publicly denouncing the falsehood of the pastors who remain stubborn.”

  “I do not care about Dorfman! The man is something I can clean off my shoe! Yes, he is with us because it benefits him! What about the others?”

  Of course there were others. Goebbels calmed the Führer with stories of those who had recanted their former views of national socialism and now applauded its mission from God. Many now stood in their pulpits, reinstated, ready to preach according to the doctrine of the state.

  “We have had particular success with a Protestant pastor, Nels Ritter. He is quite vocal on your behalf now, Führer, and he was quite close to Pastor Ibsen in the old days.”

  This news did not cheer Hitler. He spun on his heel and fixed his dark stare on Goebbels. This was the mouse! This was the name and the man he feared. A truly righteous man, they said. A man who could not be compromised!

  “And what about Ibsen?” he demanded. “When shall I have my broadcast? When will he tell them in England what they must hear? When will he say that we are right and just? Tell me where Ibsen is!”

  “In a prison at the border. We are making progress, mein Führer. He remains unchanging in his stubbornness. He does not know of the interest in his life from the West, of course—nothing to encourage him in his obstinacy. He is . . . we are slowly breaking him, Führer.”

  Hitler lowered his chin and glared out from beneath his forelock. He swept it back with his hand. “Break him quickly, Goebbels,” he ordered. “I want him on the radio, repudiating all that Churchill has said. He will say that we are good and just in our battle. He will say that the Almighty has blessed our cause! I want him to say it out loud! They make him a martyr, and he is not even dead. They wonder where he is, well, we will let them hear his voice speaking on our behalf!”

  “Such things take time.”

  “Time?” Hitler raged, striking out at Goebbels. “I do not have time to waste. They focus on this insect of a man as if he matters. And through his voice we are accused of crimes. You know where he has stood! I want every one of his stands reversed in our favor! I do not care what you do! You and Himmler. Only do not kill this man! I want him on my side.” Suddenly Hitler remembered the faces of Ibsen’s family: Helen, Lori, Jamie. “I told you we would use his family as a last resort. So. Now it is time to move on. Tell Himmler! Make Ibsen beg for the lives of his family! Make him promise anything for their sake! I want this matter settled!”

  28

  Betrayal

  It was Timmons on the phone from Berlin, all right. His voice sounded excited, an octave higher than usual. He shouted for Harvey Terrill to quit kidding around and go get Murphy.

  Harvey waved at Murphy across the din of the newsroom. Murphy thumped Adams on the back and took his time sauntering back to his own office.

  “It’s Timmons from Berlin,” Harvey said laconically. “Frantic, as usual. Says he has something for you about Elisa’s cousin?”

  Murphy’s eyes widened. He shoved past Harvey and lunged for the phone.

  “Timmons? Timmons! This is Murphy!”

  No reply. Murphy thought he could hear voices in the background behind the usual long-distance static.

  “Hello! Hello, Timmons? What have you got? Are you there, boy?”

  The sound of guttural laughter sifted across the miles. Maybe Timmons was talking to someone in his room. Had he called and then left the phone hanging off the hook?

  Murphy tried again, this time with a more formal tone. “Hello? This is Murphy. TENS London on the line.”

  Heavy static intruded into the connection; then suddenly a voice broke through clearly. A thick German accent replied cheerfully. “Ah. John Murphy. The newsman? Ja. This is Officer Alexander Hess. Write the name down, bitte, in case you should need it. No doubt you will have questions. Your embassy may relay them to me personally at the Reich Ministry of the Interior. Gestapo, ja?”

  Murphy stammered, trying to keep the man on the line. “What? Is this a joke? Let me talk with my employee. This is a private conversation. Put Timmons on the line.”

  “Nein. No private conversations here, you know, Herr Murphy.” Hess laughed. “I regret to inform you that your reporter is detained for questions, possibly conspiring to harbor fugitives from the law. Yes? You understand? Okay, then. You have questions? Call the Ministry of the Interior.”

  At that, the receiver clattered and clicked dead.

  ***

  People at the soup kitchen had begun to ask too many questions, like, “Why doesn’t your mother come here?”

  Alfie told them that she was home sleeping, and then they said, “It must be the sleep of the dead, because she is always sleeping.”

  Such things made him feel nervous. As the time came closer for the children to leave for the transport, sometimes Hitler-men would come to look at documents and take people away. So far Alfie had managed to slip out before they stopped him. But they were at the soup kitchen and looking for people to close the lid on.

  It was time for soup, but Alfie did not go. He had not gone the day before either, and he was hungry. There was no way to get around it. He would have to buy food and bring it here, or he would starve and the kittens would not have anyone to watch over them.

  Alfie picked out his jeweled necklace. It had a green stone in the center as big as his thumbnail with diamonds shining all around. Such a pretty thing ought to buy a lot of sardines, he thought as he shoved it into his pocket.

  He decided he would go to the grocery store around the block from New Church. Sometimes he and Jamie had gone there to buy chewing gum or hard candy. The grocery man knew them and was nice sometimes, when he was not too busy.

  Alfie’s stomach was rumbling by the time he hurried across the busy street, then past the shoemaker’s and the toy store and the ladies’ dress shop where Mama had gone shopping for her clothes. He stopped for a minute in front of the window like Mama always used to do. He could see himself in the glass and imagined her standing beside him.

  “Hello, Mama,” he said. “I wish I could buy you a dress.” But he knew that Mama would want him to buy food instead, and so he walked on, rounding the corner to where Niedermeyer’s Grocery was.

  Herr Neidermeyer was dusting the top shelf with a feather duster as if nothing had changed at all since the last time Alfie had been in. He did not look up at Alfie, which meant he was busy thinking and would probably not be nice today.

  That was all right. Alfie did not need help. He got a basket and went right to where the sardine cans were stacked up high. Alfie took a lot. Then he scooped in some cans of milk because the kittens would be needing to learn to drink milk properly from a bowl. They would not always be babies crying for their mama.

  After that, Alfie got a loaf of bread and some chewing gum and peaches. He had enough to fill two boxes. He could carry two boxes without trouble. Mama used to send him to the store because he was big and strong. She would call ahead and place her order, and Alfie would go pick it up.

  Alfie put the basket on the counter by the register. “Hello, Herr Niedermeyer.”

  The feather duster went up like a flag. Herr Niedermeyer looked as if he were seeing a ghost.

  “Mein Gott! Is it . . . ” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember Alfie’s name. “I have not seen you in a long time! Good heavens! Not since—” He frowned. “What is all this?”

  “Food,” Alfie told him. It was strange that Herr Niedermeyer did not know what Alfie had in the basket.

  “You want all this?”

  “If it will fit in two boxes for me to carry.”

  “It has been a long time since you were here with that other little boy. What was his name?” Niedermeyer began ringing up the items on the register. One by one he put them in boxes.

  “Jamie.”

  “Ah, yes! The Ibsen child.” A strange look crossed his face. He was thinking of something unpleasant. Alfie watched his eyes squint down. “Do you kn
ow where Jamie is?” he asked.

  “I think they took him away.”

  “Yes, but he got away and men have come round looking for him. If you see him you will tell me, won’t you?”

  Herr Niedermeyer was being nice, after all. He pushed the keys on the cash register, making a lot of numbers behind the glass window. Alfie stared at them.

  “You have money?” Niedermeyer asked. He did not like the way Alfie looked at the numbers. Alfie had never bought anything but chewing gum before.

  “Yes, I can pay you. If it is not enough, we can put something back.” Alfie dug in his pocket and placed the jeweled necklace on the counter.

  The grocer opened his mouth in astonishment. He looked at the necklace and then glanced from side to side to see if anyone else was looking. He scooped it into his hand, mumbling something all the while.

  “Not enough? You want to buy half the store?” Then he went pale and scared-looking. “Where did this come from?”

  “I picked it up in the street. Pretty, isn’t it? My cats like it, but I am hungry.”

  “You did not steal it?” Niedermeyer whispered and let it drop into his pocket.

  “No. If I did, I did not mean it.” Alfie stacked the boxes on top of one another.

  The grocer was staring hard at him. “You . . . I remember now. Jamie’s friend. The Dummkopf. They took you away, ja? To—” He did not seem nice anymore. “You caused all sorts of trouble for that pastor, too. I remember! It is quite clear now. And they took you to the Sisters of Mercy asylum, and . . . how did you get back here?”

  Alfie felt scared. Herr Niedermeyer looked angry, like people looked when they would shake Alfie or hit him on the face. He picked up the boxes and started to back away. “I am going home now.”

  “Home? Home where?” Niedermeyer mumbled something about a reward. “Wait!” he called to Alfie. “Wait here. I’ll get you some candy. I . . . just a minute!”

  Alfie stopped just inside the door. “Only a minute. I got to go home.”

  “Sure, sure.” Niedermeyer grabbed a pack of mints from the rack and put it on top of the boxes. “Now just wait; I have a surprise for you, ja?” He hurried through a curtained door just behind the register.

  Alfie heard him dial the phone and ask for the police, please. Herr Niedermeyer was calling the Hitler-men to come after Alfie!

  The bell above the door jingled as Alfie slipped out. He carried the boxes down the alley and ducked to hide behind garbage cans. Alfie did not move when the green police car wailed up in front of Niedermeyer’s Grocery. He listened to the men talk about Alfie and Jamie and how Herr Niedermeyer had always suspected that the Dummkopf was stealing while the other diverted his attention. He was certain that the Dummkopf ought to know where Jamie Ibsen was because the two had been fast friends. He wanted to know if he could have the reward if they were brought in.

  Alfie stayed in the alley until long after dark. It was only a short walk back to the churchyard, but now he was afraid. They were looking for the Dummkopf! And looking for Jamie!

  From now on, Alfie knew he would have to be very careful

  ***

  Goebbels stammered as he faced Gestapo Chief Heinrich Himmler and Special Agent Alexander Hess.

  “I did not tell him about the situation with Ibsen’s family. He was too angry, Heinrich. You know how he can be.”

  “The official records show that Helen Ibsen died in prison. The Führer need not know anything but that. And as for the children, Officer Hess has good news for us today.” He motioned to the round-faced plain-clothes officer who tugged his earlobe thoughtfully. He looked more like a pleasant, balding shopkeeper than a Gestapo officer.

  “We know the children are in Berlin,” he said casually. Such momentous news, and he acted as though it were nothing.

  “Berlin? Where in Berlin? With whom?” Goebbels asked incredulously. All this time, and the Ibsen children might have been walking past him in the street.

  “Where? We do not know exactly.” He shrugged.

  “Really, Heinrich,” Goebbels protested to Himmler. “This is not good news. The Führer is demanding action with the family of this man.”

  “Just listen.” Himmler was cool, confident.

  Hess began again. “We discovered them quite by accident. We had the lines of the American reporter Timmons tapped. Usually there is nothing of interest coming or going over that line, but there was a phone call. A young woman. The girl Lori, we are certain. She thanked Timmons for the broadcast. She said that she and her brother and the children of—” he checked his note pad—“Richard Kalner were all together. Here in Berlin. Timmons agreed to meet them. The man is a dolt. He cannot possibly grasp what it means to them.” Hess broke into a slow, sleepy grin. He yawned as though bored. “We have men stationed at the place of rendezvous, near Brandenburg Gate. Timmons offered to pick them up in an automobile. Anyway, they do not know what this Timmons looks like. We detained him about an hour ago. I will take his place and meet them.”

  Goebbels wiped his thin face with a white handkerchief. This was great news—the clear hand of providence! So at least part of the Ibsen family would be available for use to convince the recalcitrant pastor of his error. Goebbles hoped to have the broadcast arranged quite soon, after all.

  ***

  The inside of the streetcar was illuminated by three light bulbs in the ceiling. By this light, passengers could read the advertisements above the windows and the latest rules and regulations about who could ride and who could not. NO JEWS ALLOWED was stenciled in unnecessarily large letters above the driver and then again on the fare box.

  With the rain outside, the car was crowded almost to capacity. Lucy took the only remaining place beside an old woman just behind the driver’s seat. There were many Nazi uniforms on board, but the old Austrian woman next to Lucy still carried on a loud and animated conversation directed at the nervous driver.

  “And so”—she gestured toward the sign about Jews—“you see, it is this sort of thing I am talking about!” She did not seem to notice when Lucy sat beside her and the car lurched ahead. “Look! Look at what they have posted all over my Vienna!” She clucked her tongue for the shame of it. “All my life I have lived in Grinzing, which as you know is just outside the city. And now I come to shop and I hardly recognize the shopkeepers anymore. Everyone is leaving, and can you blame them?”

  The driver glanced nervously in the rearview mirror to see a dozen grim, stern faces beneath peaked Nazi caps looking back toward the old woman. The man was sweating. It would have been humorous had it not been so dangerous.

  Lucy peered out the window at the darkening city in an attempt to ignore the indignant monologue against the Germans who stomped in and took over everything so that a native could not even find her way around anymore! Coins and currency were different! Even the names of places around Vienna had been changed to honor the conquerors! “It is a crime.” The old woman’s lower lip protruded defiantly and Lucy felt sure she was purposefully speaking loud enough for everyone on the car to hear her.

  They stopped and stared, clacking past the Stadtpark. Uniformed passengers got off, but not before giving the old lady an icy stare. New German passengers got on, took their seats, then sat rigidly as she began her tirade against the government all over again. In spite of the cold air rushing in from the open door, the driver wiped beads of heavy perspiration from his forehead.

  Lucy simply stared at the passing lights and sights of the city. Just ahead, across from the canal that wound through the park, loomed the enormous central railway terminal. Lucy’s head turned with involuntary longing as they passed it. Somewhere at the end of the line was the freedom for an old woman to complain on a streetcar without fear! Between that magic place and this, however, stood uniforms and stern faces and rules and customs inspections that would take Lucy’s survival money and pitch her into prison in the bargain. The thought of such a journey made her shudder more than the open defiance of the Austrian wo
man who blasted the Nazis with such disregard.

  “And now you will see what I am talking about!” The old woman nudged Lucy and held up a ticket stub for everyone in the public car to see. “Look here!” She shook the stub at a round-bellied Wehrmacht officer who managed to retain a complacent, cow-eyed look of innocence. “You see what you and your Führer have done!” She held the ticket higher. “I bought this streetcar ticket to travel to Am Heumarkt! But I thought you renamed it Adolf Hitler Platz and so I bought the ticket for Adolf Hitler Platz! Now he tells me that the place you renamed Adolf Hitler Platz is really much farther up the route, and so here I am!” Her sagging cheeks reddened with rage as she fixed her gaze on the innocent officer. “I have spent too much on this ticket! It may be only a few pfennigs to you, but it means a lot to an old woman!”

  So that was what this was all about. As simple as that. She had paid fare for a place up the line and now would lose the unused portion of the ticket. Relief flooded several faces.

  The Wehrmacht officer stood up, managed a smile, and clicked his heels politely as the car stopped at Am Heumarkt.

  “A simple error,” he said on behalf of the Reich. “The driver will no doubt refund the unused portion and then, perhaps, you will know that we Germans have come to make life better for our brothers and sisters in Austria, ja?” At that, he plucked the ticket stub from the old woman’s fingers and presented it to the startled driver. “Refund the fare to Adolf Hitler Platz, if you please.”

  “Danke! Danke!” the old woman said. “So gracious, so polite, so just!” Two copper coins were promptly refunded, and the old woman limped down out of the streetcar.

  As other passengers boarded and counted out their change and pulled their tickets from the roll, Lucy Strasburg conceived the answer to her dilemma.

  “Wait!” she cried as the doors banged shut. “My stop! I’m getting off here, too!”

  With an exasperated roll of his eyes, the driver opened the doors and let Lucy off to rush past the mumbling old woman. Just across a narrow bridge lay the train station—and, she hoped, the solution to her financial problems.