Danzig Passage

  Jesus! her heart cried as the clock chimed 1:00 a.m. Lord of hurting mothers . . . hold our babies close. The wolves are at our heels.

  She silently whispered other awkward words. She did not pray for herself, but for her child and the children of other mothers. And then, a small miracle—Wolf rolled over!

  Lucy rose quickly and dressed in the dark bathroom. She could not take her clothing. No chance to pack. But she rummaged in her drawer and stuffed a change of underclothes into her largest handbag and found her grandmother’s crucifix as well.

  Wolf groaned softly from the bed. Lucy stood, unmoving, in the blackness. Peter would be at the station now. He would have the tickets stamped. The train would be turning slowly, pointing north toward Berlin, and then to Danzig.

  Suddenly the light flashed on. “Where are you going?” Wolf demanded, scowling at her in the bright light.

  “I . . . I didn’t mean to wake you.” She felt like weeping. Now he would never let her go!

  “What is that in your hand?” He stared hard at the crucifix.

  Lucy held it up for him to see. “My grandmother’s—”

  “Ah. You are going to Mass again.” He switched off the light without looking at the clock and lay down heavily on his pillow. “You and your God of hopeless causes. Pray that I find the Jews, will you? And bring me back a pastry from Demel’s.”

  36

  Freedom Ride

  The clashing gears of the Ibsen car resisted when Jacob did not push the clutch pedal in far enough. Lori glanced nervously at him. Her father’s automobile had never made such terrible noises before. Maybe from sitting so long without use?

  The missing road map was emblazoned like a neon sign inside Jacob’s skull. Streets spun off Alexanderplatz like spokes from a wheel. Some led away to Gestapo roadblocks, spot checks, and certain arrest. Jacob correctly turned onto Landsbergerstrasse. At first it was well lit and broad, later dwindling down to two lanes and eventually flanked by fields and farms and thick woods.

  This was not as he had planned—no straight highway to set his course and carry them north and east two hundred miles straight to the border at Firchau! The back road they traveled was poorly marked, unlit, and often in need of attention. But some consolation lay in the fact that there was no traffic to contend with.

  They passed the Hoppegarten racetrack eleven miles outside of Berlin. Only eleven miles! And yet, Jacob felt a sense of exhilaration. He knew exactly where they were! He had driven this complaining car eleven miles closer to the border and had not yet been stopped, had not even seen a police car on the way.

  He was driving hunched forward over the wheel.

  “Can you see?” Lori asked, noting his uncomfortable position.

  “The dirt on the windscreen,” he replied.

  “Well, you can’t drive two hundred miles to Firchau like that,” she said. “Your back will be broken.”

  He had not realized she was commenting on the awkward way he was sitting. He smiled self-consciously. She was right. His back and shoulders ached after only eleven miles. He sat back against the leather. He tried to relax his death-grip on the steering wheel and look casual about this, like his father used to look when he drove. Head slightly raised to peer down his nose at the road. Fingers limp as he gently guided the car. Yes. That was better. He could do this. He looked toward her as if to speak, and as he did, the wheels also turned with his head.

  The car swerved to the right. He over-corrected, crossing the center and brushing the gravel of the left shoulder like a drunken driver.

  Cries of alarm rose up from the backseat. Lori sat rigid with her legs braced hard on the floorboard, her mouth open in a noiseless scream. And then Jacob brought the car back on the road again.

  “Sorry,” he muttered when he could breathe again.

  “Jacob?” Lori stammered his name. “Have you driven much before this?”

  “Some.” That had been a long time ago, he wanted to tell her, before the state had confiscated the family car. Their Jewish-owned car had been Aryanized and now belonged to the family of some minor Nazi official. Jacob did not explain all this to her. He had never mentioned it. The humiliation of it was too painful.

  “Well, listen,” Lori suggested. “Don’t look at me, but listen. I learned to drive with this car. I passed my driver’s test, and . . . maybe I should drive and you navigate?”

  He did not speak for a long time. The road was straight. He wanted to ask her if she had guessed he could not really drive. But he did not. He knew she knew. It was easier to pretend that she did not.

  “A good idea,” he said, braking raggedly and pulling to the side of the road.

  She took the wheel and shifted the gears effortlessly; the brakes did not grab or squeal. The three boys in the backseat fell soundly asleep, and for the first time since he had imagined this desperate flight from Berlin, Jacob actually believed they might get out safely.

  ***

  The great steam locomotive panted and drummed beneath the train shed. The sound was not half so loud as the pounding of Lucy’s heart as she hurried into central terminal!

  Peter Wallich stood by the fountain. He leaned against the wall and propped Willie up to face him on his knee.

  In a tweed cap, marching knickers, and jacket, Peter no longer looked ragged. He had replaced his old coat with Otto’s camel’s-hair overcoat, folded on top of his suitcase.

  He did not seem to see her at first, although she raised her hand when he looked her direction. He lifted Willie high above his head and smiled and talked to him as a gendarme strolled past. The policeman gave the brothers a warm glance. The officer paused as if to speak to Peter, but Peter did not look at him and continued to make Willie giggle. No chance to talk. He walked on.

  Only then did Peter look at Lucy and then up at the face of the huge bronze clock on the far end of the station. She was late; it was nearly three o’clock. He had been fending off the wolves for fifteen minutes longer than he wanted to! All these things were obvious in the hard look he gave her as she approached.

  “Where have you been, Aunt Lucy?” he muttered under his breath. “We are the only passengers this morning. Everyone else at the station is Gestapo.”

  “Are we boarding yet?”

  “We could have been snug inside the train ten minutes ago,” he remarked sourly. He seemed to have forgotten who had purchased his tickets and rescued his passports.

  “I told you,” Lucy replied, taking his suitcase in hand, “I have a brother named Peter. He was your age once—a rotten age. I could handle him, too.” She shot him a threatening glance. “Manners, bitte, and we will get along nicely.” She smiled sweetly. “Is that clear?”

  ***

  With Jacob as navigator and Lori as pilot, they skirted the tiny walled city of Custrin and struck out through rolling farms toward Landsberg.

  At times Jacob thought he heard the distant shrill of a train whistle across the land. The tracks, he knew, were not far from the road they now traveled.

  The city of Landsberg cast a soft glow on the predawn horizon. It was still hours before sunrise, and in the absolute stillness of the sleeping country, the fact that they were running for their lives seemed unreal.

  Just beyond Landsberg, the coughing and sputtering of the engine jerked them back to reality. Then it clattered loudly and died.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Jacob slapped the dashboard as though he could wake up the machine. “Has it ever done this before?”

  Lori’s face was tense as she steered the dying vehicle to the side of the road. “Once,” she said quietly.

  “What is it?”

  “Papa said its head broke.” Lori winced. “I think that’s very bad.”

  ***

  Lucy Strasburg’s stern remark served as a warning shot over Peter’s bow. It took him by surprise. He liked it, and suddenly decided he liked her, too.

  He shrugged his agreement to her peace terms, then stepped back as she proceeded to w
altz them through three different passport checks. None of the officials even looked at Peter or Willie. They were too busy looking at Lucy, listening to her talking about her nephews here beside her, and her sister who had sent them to Vienna to keep Lucy company over the holidays.

  She talked and talked, spinning such a story that Peter had to shake his head in order to keep himself from believing her as well. The pressure was off, and he suddenly felt very tired.

  Everyone on the platform knew all the details of their stay in Vienna within minutes—what parks and museums and concerts they had attended; how long they had stayed, and what they liked to eat best.

  Astonished, Peter listened as Lucy named off all the places he had wanted to visit in a lifetime of living in Vienna, but had never had the chance.

  He heard tales of himself patting the nose of a Lipizzaner stallion and being invited to watch the training.

  “All this in just two weeks!” Lucy exclaimed.

  The passport officer smiled pleasantly as she finished her recital. Only now did he look Peter full in the face.

  “And how do you feel after such a vacation in Vienna, young man?”

  “Tired,” Peter answered truthfully.

  The officer laughed uproariously. “Indeed! Who would not be? Sleep all the way to Danzig then, eh?”

  “No, no!” Lucy linked her arm through Peter’s. “He has to keep me company!”

  Peter thought she would have stood and chatted another few minutes with this uniformed officer. Did she know that this was a fellow who had people locked up at will? If she was aware, she did not seem to care. He was an excellent audience. And she, perhaps, was the finest actress Peter had ever seen.

  The train whistle shrilled the three-minute departure warning. Lucy had become old friends with a man who would cut Peter’s throat if he had bothered to take him through the customary physical body search. But the search had not been requested. She had talked until the last possible instant they could board the train.

  Peter decided that she was either the dumbest woman he had met or the smartest. She was fearless, he was sure of that.

  ***

  Four o’clock in the morning. No one was up except perhaps for dairymen milking their cows. Soon enough, however, there would be farmers driving this road to market. They might notice the abandoned car and ask questions. Maybe someone would even call the police and give the location. Then it would be easy for the officials to check the registration and discover that the car was the property of a certain Pastor Karl Ibsen.

  “We’ll have to hide it,” Jacob said, trying to find a suitable place to stash the vehicle.

  Alfie inhaled deeply. “There are lots of big trees over there. And a river too, I think. Let’s put it in the water.”

  Jacob no longer felt like questioning Alfie Halder. As Jamie said, Alfie was smarter than Jacob thought.

  With Lori steering and Werner the kitten comfortably on the dash, the boys pushed the useless vehicle toward the sloping banks of the Warthe River. Deep enough for good-sized ships, the Warthe would easily swallow up the car.

  After an hour of muscle, they grabbed the kitten, then gave one final heave, sending the derelict car to a watery grave.

  ***

  They could see the dairyman in the light of his swinging lantern as he walked slowly toward the barn.

  Ducking low behind the hedge, Lori brushed the dirt from Jamie’s black Hitler Youth uniform and straightened his hair.

  “All right, you know what to say to him?” Jacob asked Jamie.

  “Yes.” Jamie recited. “Heil Hitler.” He hated that part especially. “My friends and I are traveling, and we would like to sleep in your barn a little while and then have breakfast. We can pay you well.”

  “Good,” Jacob said, thumping him on the back. It was always important to know your lines. “If he says no, then walk that way, back toward the river. We will meet you.”

  They were all exhausted. Days of preparation and anticipation had left them without energy. Now that the car was in the drink, it seemed that they deserved a little sleep in some fresh straw. Lori prayed that this farmer would be a kind man. Papa always said that German farmers were the best people on earth. He had said it even after Hitler had come to power. Plain people, they did not change with the winds of politics . . . they simply grew more seasoned with their land.

  This was an older man. His gait was stiff and slow in the early morning cold. Maybe he would not like to hear Jamie give the salute, but it was best to be prepared.

  Jamie struck off across the yard and met the farmer at the door to his barn.

  Up when the arm. Heil! The farmer did not respond in kind. This was a good sign.

  Snatches of conversation drifted to them amidst the crowing of roosters and the impatient bellowing of cows wanting to be milked.

  “Why did you want to stay here?” the farmer bellowed also. A no-nonsense man. “There is a Hitler Youth camp just over that hill. Go stay with them, why don’t you?”

  “Ummm. Not all of my friends are . . . Hitler Youth. And, ummm . . . your barn is a better place for us.”

  Silence. A big laugh from the farmer. “It’s hard to know who to give the stiff arm to, isn’t it, son?”

  Moments later, Jamie beckoned them to come at a run. Within fifteen minutes the farmwife had brought them blankets and all five were tucked in the sweet-smelling straw.

  They had only four hours’ sleep among the belching, cud-chewing milk cows belonging to Herr Schöne and his wife, but it was their best sleep since Kristal Nacht.

  They awakened to the voices of the old couple as they argued at the door of the barn.

  “They cannot go out. The Hitler Youth will see them, and—”

  “Those little black-beetle swastika wavers,” growled the farmer in his quietest whisper. “I thought these children were part of that mob. But they can’t be. Did you see the big one with the kitten?”

  “Shhh!” scolded the farmwife, Frau Schöne. “They will hear you!”

  Wide awake, Jacob rolled over to see if Alfie had heard the comment about him.

  Alfie’s eyes were open, and he smiled broadly. He held up Werner and whispered to Jacob. “They are talking about my kitten. They like Werner. They like us too, I think.”

  It was another miracle, Alfie said—thick slices of fresh, warm bread with lots of butter slavered on top, a pitcher of fresh milk, then another, and a third! None of them could remember when they had eaten anything so wonderful! They shouted their thanks to Herr Schöne, who was mostly deaf, as Frau Schöne explained. And the couple would not hear of taking payment!

  Little Werner lapped up milk from Alfie’s cup until his furry belly bulged. Even the kitten’s eyes looked as if they might pop. Alfie told them all he would have to be careful and not squeeze the kitten after such a meal.

  A second miracle followed the bread and milk. Herr Schöne smoothed his drooping mustache and peered down at his guests. “It is not safe for you to travel on foot around here in daylight. Not even in the dark. Not with that camp of Blackshirts over there. They’d think nothing of popping that kitten and then going after you.”

  “Not so harsh,” protested the Frau to her husband. “You will frighten them!”

  “They need to be frightened. Terrible days, these days. So—” He lifted his chin. “Where are you going?”

  Lori and Jacob exchanged looks. This was not in the plan. They had vowed to trust no one!

  Lori shrugged. Jacob told him. “Northeast to Firchau.”

  “You hear that, Mama?” shouted the farmer. “North to Firchau!”

  Jacob imagined that the Hitler Youth could probably hear it as well.

  “Sehr gut!” exclaimed the old Frau. “Today Papa is heading just that direction. Cabbages and chickens are going north as far as Schneidemuhl. Would you care to ride?”

  ***

  The train to Danzig chugged into the enormous new Sudahnhof train terminal in Berlin, a glass and steel cathe
dral of technology and modern engineering. At this latest structure of the Reichsbahn, Nazi party members in good standing disembarked during the layover for the usual document checks. Murals and sculptures displaying the mythical bodies of strong Aryan workers adorned the place with the perfect ideals for the race.

  The steam of the locomotive billowed up and cascaded from the domed roof, and Peter thought they had entered a new version of hell. He did not want to tour the building in spite of the hour layover. Lucy stayed with him as she had done throughout the long trip from Vienna as passengers had gotten on and off all along the way. She had faced them all with her dazzling personality. Those who had been reluctant to talk with her, had, nonetheless, done so.

  Not one of the strangers who had entered their lives along the way would even remember what Peter and Willie looked like. When they looked back on their trip, they would remember only that the compartment had been shared with a garrulous blond from Bavaria.

  The Berlin terminal was crawling with police and agents. The Biedermeier friendliness of Vienna was nonexistent on the faces of the plainclothes officers who scrutinized everyone from behind their newspapers. Peter had not imagined that the atmosphere of heaviness could be darker anywhere than it was in Vienna, but here in the north every face looked grim and fixed. Perhaps it was the close proximity to Hitler and the policy makers of the Reich; everywhere arms flipped up and lips formed the Heil Hitler. Hello. Good-bye. Heil Hitler. The stuttering blasphemy echoed in the air. In Vienna, Otto had taught Peter how to cross himself like a good Catholic, but here, the religious genuflect was that stiff arm! In Berlin there was no god but Hitler.

  A sharp rap sounded on the door of the compartment. “Fräulein?” the porter called. “Everyone is getting off the train.”

  “Come in.” Lucy fixed a smile on her lips, but even that was wearing thin. Perhaps she felt the heaviness, too.