Jerusalem Interlude

  Theo smiled, but it was thin-lipped. “So you see, Anna, the government of Great Britain has set a watchdog over us. Not a snarling mastiff like the Gestapo in Germany, but rather a terrier who will bark if someone undesirable comes to the door.”

  The voices of Charles and Louis echoed excitement from the north gallery. Anna glanced nervously toward the entrance. “Have we not all been through enough, Mr. Beckham?”

  Beckham was sympathetic. “I have my assignment, Mrs. Lindheim.”

  “Then must you be so obvious? These children . . . might we at least have the illusion of freedom?”

  Mr. Beckham nodded his long, thin head. “Certainly. It is enough that you know we are watching. Henceforth you may have your illusions, and we will remain . . . invisible.” He backed up a step. “It is enough that you know. Good day, Mr. Lindheim. Mrs. Lindheim.”

  With that, he turned and walked briskly across the floor. His heels clicked and clacked, receding down a corridor until they diminished to nothing and they were alone. At least, they seemed alone.

  Anna looked up at Theo. “Why does this not make me feel better?”

  ***

  The playful banter of members of the London Philharmonic Orchestra was a tonic for Elisa. She was the new kid on the block, as Murphy said, but the block was filled with the familiar faces of old friends who had played with her in Austria and even faraway Berlin.

  Backstage conversations were in English now instead of German, but the subjects seemed remarkably unchanged from the carefree days of Vienna. Names of conductors like Toscanini and Fuchwanger were mentioned, along with the discussion of the music festivals that would continue to be held in Austria in spite of the Nazi takeover. It was still undecided if the London orchestra would be traveling to the Reich for the Wagner festival or the Mozart festival. Thought of such a journey back into the land of their persecution made many of the newest members of the London Philharmonic nervous in spite of the assurances of Sir Thomas Beecham, the London conductor.

  This very issue clouded Elisa’s first days with Sir Thomas and the orchestra. Now that she carried Murphy’s child, she had more to think about than just her own safety. And she had to consider Charles and Louis, as well. She did not feel free to perform in Germany for the same people who had persecuted even these little ones.

  For this reason, Elisa had made an appointment to speak with the great conductor this morning. The eyes of Frieda Hillman, Beecham’s Jewish secretary, were full of understanding as Elisa explained her concerns as unemotionally as possible.

  Frieda, a heavy-set woman with a doctoral degree in music, had come to London from the Berlin orchestra of Maestro Fuchwanger after the Nazi purges of 1935. Her obviously Semitic features had made it impossible for the brilliant and capable woman to show her face around the Berlin concert hall even though she arranged all the daily details of the orchestra. She had remained poised on the brink of the Nazi inferno in Berlin until Sir Thomas had asked her to join his staff. Her mother still remained in Germany as a hostage to guarantee that Frieda would not speak ill of her former persecutors. Many like Frieda carried such a burden with them. And yet their faces did not reflect openly the pain that must certainly be felt privately.

  As Frieda led Elisa through the backstage maze of the Royal Opera House, she introduced every stagehand and technician on a first-name basis. Elisa’s mind was reeling as Frieda spliced in questions about Anna and Theo, both of whom she had known well in Berlin. Elisa answered rapid-fire between introductions and the hail of business questions being shot at Frieda from the right and left.

  The return to such wonderful chaos was like a warm bath on a frosty day for Elisa. How long had it been since she had hurried through the corridors of a concert hall? How long since those blissful days in Vienna when she had looked through such innocent eyes at a condemned world?

  “Sir Thomas may seem gruff at times, but you will see . . . in spite of the bark, there are no teeth in the bite!” Frieda had been around long enough to adapt English clichés to her own style.

  The two women paused before the impressive mahogany door marked with a brass nameplate: Sir Thomas Beecham. Frieda patted Elisa. The message was obvious: Elisa must not be nervous in the presence of this man. Then Frieda knocked.

  “It is open” came the mellow voice of the conductor.

  Frieda opened the door then stepped aside, allowing Elisa to enter the office first. Sir Thomas was lounging on an overstuffed sofa. Music scores were spread on a low table before him. He puffed on a cigarette in a long ivory cigarette holder. Barely glancing at Elisa from beneath his busy eyebrows, he waved a hand for her to be seated.

  Elisa’s calmness evaporated. In spite of Frieda’s assurances, Sir Thomas with his precisely groomed goatee was an imposing figure in his silk smoking jacket.

  “Elisa Murphy, Sir Thomas,” Frieda volunteered. She was still standing, uncertain if she should remain for the talk.

  “The new first violinist,” he said gruffly, like a general discussing a private. “Your concerts with the BBC were quite nice. But what is this nonsense that you may not be able to travel with my orchestra to Bayreuth? To Salzburg?” Then he glared at Frieda. “Sit down,” he commanded. “I may need you to explain a thing or two.”

  Elisa hesitated. As Sir Thomas turned his piercing eyes on her, she swallowed hard. He had a way of making her feel like a music student again. “My family . . . ,” she began. “We are quite . . . out of favor with the Nazis.”

  Sir Thomas cleared his throat impatiently. “Just as it should be. If that were not the case, you would still be there instead of here. Correct?”

  “Yes . . . I . . . as a matter of principle . . . cannot imagine playing there again. For the Nazis.”

  “As a matter of principle, you must consider it. They have managed to disrupt the life of one of Germany’s most promising young violinists. But you must not allow them to imagine that they have destroyed your career with their silly racial nonsense.” He looked to Frieda. “Tell her, Frieda!”

  “Last year I traveled to Bayreuth. When I was with the Berlin Orchestra, I could not have done so. But the Nazis did not act as though my presence there was anything unusual because I am under the protection of Sir Thomas you see.”

  The great conductor’s chin lifted regally. “You see?”

  Elisa decided she needed to add another dimension to the story. “Well . . . I traveled to Germany from Vienna . . . before the Anschluss. I . . . worked to aid refugees to escape without the knowledge of the Reich.”

  “Good heavens! Do you think we have not?” Sir Thomas brushed away her objections. “Take a look at the faces in this orchestra, Elisa.” His voice became more gentle. “You have been through an ordeal. But here we think of music! We perform where we are called to perform. We are above politics in many ways, although our perfection as musicians may make a political statement. They are fools, these Nazis, with their lunacy about German culture and this and that.” He puffed on his cigarette as he chose his words carefully. “I attended the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. It gave me great pleasure to see the black American Jesse Owens demolish the Aryan supermen on the track field.” He smiled smugly. “It also gives me great pleasure to out-perform Hitler’s pure-bred albino musicians. The Nazis have banished the very best musicians in Europe. And I have inherited them! That includes you, Elisa. I would have hired your friend Leah Feldstein and her husband in a moment as well, but alas! They are in Palestine.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I wired the High Commissioner that they were coming. He will see to it they perform there as well.”

  Elisa drew a deep breath. Sir Thomas was telling her that she had no choice but to travel with the orchestra even into Germany if it was arranged. The thought made her feel sick. “I . . . there is something else . . . I am expecting a child.”

  Sir Thomas drew himself upright, surprised. “Congratulations.” Then he brushed over the news as though it had nothing to do with the subject at hand. “Such things seldo
m affect the quality of one’s music. We encourage families to teach their children to play well—providing me with another generation of musicians, as it were.”

  “Sir Thomas, I . . . fear for my safety in Germany.” She tried to emphasize the danger.

  He was gentle again, remarkably so. “I can understand that. Frieda and a dozen others have felt the same. But they have learned, and so must you, that while you are a member of my orchestra, no one would dare to harm or threaten you, my dear. To do so would cause an incident of world proportions.” He sat back. He was finished. Clapping his hands, he dismissed them. “You will learn to trust. And now . . . to work!”

  7

  No Sabbath Peace

  There had been no sound within the walls of Old City Jerusalem for two hours. The gunfire had ceased, and the only audible noise now was the purring of cats and the old rabbi’s own labored breath.

  Soon the evening would come and it would be Shabbat. He wondered if there would be services tonight. Who would lead the congregation in prayers for peace?

  Every muscle in his body ached, and he could find no position that offered relief. He fingered the envelope in his pocket. The weekly letter to Etta and Aaron and the children. In it he had told them how peaceful things had been the last few weeks. Once again he had begged them to return to Jerusalem after the baby was born. There was room here. And how the old man longed to see his grandchildren!

  Rabbi Lebowitz determined that he would not mail the letter. How could he ask Etta and Aaron to bring the children here when a new wave of violence had erupted? No, he would not ask Etta and Aaron again. They had almost come back once before, but that had been before the riots had squeezed off Jewish immigration to a trickle. Life was good for them in Poland, Etta wrote. Certainly anything was better than this. Three million Jews together in Poland were certainly safer than this ragtag little remnant who clung to the scarred earth of Zion and scratched out a living in the hills of Galilee.

  “Oy!” Rabbi Lebowitz moaned in spite of his pledge to keep silent. Thirst had become almost unbearable. Were the battles over in the Old City now? Did the lengthy silence mean an end to the clash between the Arab rebels and the British?

  The thought tempted him to step from the hiding place, but he did not. Soon it would be evening, and he could walk home under cover of darkness. As the congregation prayed in the synagogue, he would come through the doors and proclaim that the Eternal had been merciful.

  Such a thought this was! It almost made him smile to imagine such a thing, but his lips were so dry that they cracked when his mouth turned up. He would save his smiles until he was safe at home with a cool glass of water drawn from the cistern.

  Creeping shadows offered the only movement in the Square. The sun dipped lower in the sky beyond Jaffa Gate. The old man shifted his weight from one foot to another. He wondered if he would be able to make his body move when he left the shelter. Certainly he would make an easy target if there were snipers still in the minarets or on the rooftops. But perhaps they had all gotten weary and gone home.

  How easy it would be to step out into the Square right now. Why would anyone wish to shoot an old man? Did he have a gun or a uniform? Only one letter. They should kill him for that?

  He inched nearer the opening. It would be so easy. Such a relief.

  As he moved, the mother cat stood.

  “So you have had enough too, little Mama-leh?”

  The cat purred and walked easily toward the aching legs of the rabbi. The kittens laid back their ears and remained behind in their nest of rags. The mother cat brushed against the old man’s legs and then moved with calm elegance toward the opening.

  He decided he would follow the cat. Both of them had had enough of this nonsense for one day.

  “After you, cat.” The rabbi was careful not to step on the little calico just ahead of him. The cat was unconcerned. This was not her war after all. Her tail was erect, like a flag of neutrality. She meowed and stepped from between the two buildings onto the cobbles of Omar Square. From both directions a dozen guns erupted! The old man stifled a cry as he fell back and bullets tore through the calico cat and shattered the stones where he had stood a moment before!

  The only sign of life on the street had been shot to pieces. The kittens blinked in bewilderment. Where had their mother gone?

  The rabbi moaned softly into his hands. Death was very near. Very near! Shabbat was coming to Jerusalem, but there would be no Shabbat peace tonight.

  Rabbi Lebowitz wondered if Death would be placated by something as innocent and unconcerned as the calico cat? Or must it also reach in and take him as well?

  ***

  The trees of the English countryside had shed their leaves, leaving tattered, barren branches to point at a somber sky. While Prime Minister Chamberlain congratulated himself and hailed the betrayal of Czechoslovakia as “peace in our time,” the realists knew that hoping for peace now with Germany was like hoping that the trees would bloom in December.

  Among those realists was Winston Churchill. At his side stood men like Anthony Eden and Duff Cooper, who had resigned their cabinet positions rather than support the fiasco that Prime Minister Chamberlain was bringing upon a slumbering England. Publicly these men had stood against the cheering members of Parliament and declared that the Munich Agreement was a fraud, a sham. A delusion that was, in fact, the worst defeat ever suffered by England. Churchill endured the boos and catcalls of his fellow MPs when he took the floor of Parliament and spoke the truth:

  “I will began by saying the most unpopular and unwelcome thing, what everybody would like to ignore . . . we have sustained a total and unmitigated defeat.”

  His voice was nearly drowned out by angry shouts. Indeed the truth was most unpopular in England during the days following Munich.

  That being the case in England, it was also true in faraway America. One of the exceptions was Trump Publishing, whose publisher insisted that the truth would be printed. The first cabled orders this morning from Mr. Trump to his editor-in-chief of Trump European News Services had been a confirmation of Murphy’s instincts.

  Murphy RE: Trouble in Holy Land Stop Get your tail to Chartwell for immediate interview with Churchill Stop Got to get Chamberlain and his umbrella off American front pages Stop Signed Trump

  This was an assignment Murphy welcomed. While other newsmen with Hearst, INS, McCormick, and Craine publications were being forced to print the fairy tale of appeasement politics, Murphy was already driving the narrow rutted lanes toward the Churchill estate.

  Though the barren trees, he could see the steep gables of the ancient brick country house. The lush green ivy of summer had also deserted Churchill, leaving the facade of the house naked and forlorn. Gloomy was the word for Chartwell these days. Murphy had heard that the master of the house was also gloomy. He had reason to be.

  Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Murphy stopped in front of the house. Someone pulled back a curtain, then let it fall. The pudgy, somber-faced housekeeper Murphy had met last summer opened the door. In a whisper, she asked for his hat and coat. She led him quietly from the foyer and to the closed door of Churchill’s study. Murphy could smell the reek of cigar smoke through the panel. The maid looked almost fearful as she raised her fist to knock. The master was obviously in a black mood!

  The soft tapping was followed by a bellow from within. “Who the devil is it now?”

  Murphy answered for himself. “Murphy.”

  The door flew open. Churchill stood in his dressing gown, glaring at Murphy. “You mean they haven’t tarred and feathered you yet?” He took Murphy by the arm and slammed the door in the housekeeper’s face.

  The room was hazy with smoke from the myriad cigars Churchill had fired in his battle against depression. The strain of knowing the truth and losing to lies showed on the face of the old prophet-politician. He jerked his head at a chair piled with newspapers.

  Murphy took this as a signal to sit. He moved the papers and ob
eyed. He did not open the conversation. After all, what was there to say? You’re really looking bad. Hitler got away with everything in spite of you, didn’t he?

  Churchill stood facing the window.

  A gray and dreary day, somber and funereal like the cemetery scene in Our Town, Murphy thought. He cleared his throat lest Churchill forget he was in the room. Apparently the great statesman had forgotten about the interview.

  Churchill growled, “I know you’re there.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “There are no good times left, I fear. If you wish to interview me while I am a member of Parliament, you will have to do so now.”

  “You are . . . resigning your seat?”

  “I heard this morning there is an organized opposition within my own constituency; it has come to this for me at last.”

  If there were no good times to interview Churchill, Murphy could not imagine that he could have picked any time worse than this! For his outspoken stand against Munich, Winston Churchill was being punished by the Conservative party machine. The affairs of Palestine would be far from Churchill’s mind.

  Murphy stumbled over words. “But you . . . you are one of the few who sees!”

  Churchill exhaled. He turned away from the window, and in the dim light Murphy could see that the man had not shaved today. “Matters in my own constituency have come to such a pass that I have made it clear—” he raised his cigar for emphasis—“if a resolution of censure is carried out against me, I shall immediately resign my seat and fight a by-election!” He shook his head and sank down in an overstuffed chair. “And yet I would give everything . . . everything . . . if only I could believe that this terrible folly in Munich could truly bring peace.”

  “Would it be better . . . the interview . . . another day?”

  Churchill almost smiled. “There is nothing I may say that will bring down additional brimstone on my head, Murphy. Indeed, if I am silent now, of all times, I might burst, and what a mess that would be to clean up, eh? Of course it might give the Nazis another reason to celebrate.” He flicked ashes from the arm of his chair. “At least I am not paying for my opinion with my life, as some brave Germans may well be doing right now.”