Against the Wind

  In distant lands far to the south, the British army carried on the battle alone against the Nazis. Three times a week, Murphy traipsed the mile into the village for news and mail. He always returned with the question of the Irish on his lips, “When will the Yanks come into this thing? I wonder.”

  The U.S. remained neutral. Convoys bearing food and supplies from America braved the dangers of the Atlantic. Many merchant ships were sunk in the crossing. Such information brought the fresh terror of nightmares to me, so Murphy stopped telling me what he heard in the village. We concentrated on being together in a way we had never experienced in our marriage before. It was almost a honeymoon. Hours were filled with long walks, good books, and making love without fear of being interrupted by an air raid siren or bomb exploding.

  The cold rains of early December sluiced off the roof as Murphy and I warmed ourselves beside the peat fire. The doctor arrived for my final checkup, carrying a London newspaper. The front page displayed photos of the reunions of the children of Lifeboat Number 7 with their families in England.

  I sat silently gazing at the images for a time, loving the small heroes who waved and smiled at the crowds who gathered to welcome them home. No one would ever really know what these young champions had endured. I also knew well that many mothers and fathers who had lost their children on the Newcastle looked at those same photos with wistful longing.

  I thumbed through Lindy’s notebook and realized the time to return to England and to the war had come. When I raised my eyes, Murphy was studying me tenderly.

  “Those kids,” he said slowly. “Little Connor. The rest. They are some strong tea, huh?”

  “It was some hot water.”

  “Ready to go back to the kettle?”

  I squared my shoulders and nodded. “Yes. Ready.”

  May the LORD give strength to His people! May the Lord bless His people with peace!

  PSALM 29:11 ESV

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  MARCH 14, 1938

  Austria is no more. The German army is at the border and will march into this beautiful little nation to devour it. Murphy has come back here to my flat for me. I scribble this final note in haste. When Leah comes we must leave Vienna quickly.

  Murphy says my name is on a list with the Gestapo, and they will come knocking on my door. No matter that I am married to an American. They know I have been aiding Jewish children to escape from Germany. Murphy says he will not leave me. He is my safety and protector.

  I play the Guarnarius one last time for Austria, for my lost father, and for Murphy.

  I ask him, “It’s all over, isn’t it? Like the night we left Berlin?”

  Murphy answers with a nod. I see his compassion for me reflected in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Elisa.”

  “I have been running my whole life. When will it end?”

  “When the Jews have their own homeland. When Jerusalem is the capital of reborn Israel. Isn’t that what your friends are working for?”

  “Leah? Yes. And why Rudy was murdered. Oh, Murphy! I pray that day will come.”

  I am happy now that I wear Murphy’s lapis wedding band on my finger. I grieve for all those of Jewish heritage who have no plan, no place to run.

  The wind is howling outside, like the night my father left the Reich in a plane. Murphy tells me again the story of my father’s escape from Berlin. How Papa bravely climbed into the tiny biplane and, against all odds, flew against the wind into the night. The storm raged around him, and he vanished.

  I pray now for Papa. And for Mama. How she must long for him.

  I am weary. Murphy’s arm is around me, and I lean against him. I know that if I am arrested and these are the last words I write, he will carry my story out to the West.

  I hear footsteps now. Heavy on the stairs. Too heavy for Leah. Have the Nazis come for me?

  I hear a man cough in the corridor. Murphy stands suddenly. His fists are clenched.

  I hear my name! “Elisa?” Is that my father’s voice calling to me?

  Murphy goes to the door and peers through the peephole into the hallway. He gasps and throws the door wide. “Theo! Theo! It’s you!”

  My father asks, “Where is Elisa? Where? I’ve come so far. Escaped. Where is my daughter? They are coming now! The Nazis will swallow Austria whole by tomorrow! Is Elisa here? We must hurry!”

  ON THE TRAIN TO KITZBŰHEL

  LATE NIGHT

  Leah and Shimon rang as we were leaving for the terminal. She says they have tickets and will cross into Switzerland and meet me in Innsbruck within the week.

  Papa is asleep on the bed in our compartment. I watch him and wonder if he will be strong enough for the journey over the mountains. Murphy sits like a sentinel in front of the door.

  The chance of escape is past, I think. The Western nations have allowed evil to gain a foothold. England is silent tonight as Austria crumbles. Murphy says there will be a war. The only real refuge will be America, so we must set our hopes on that distant shore. “You’re a strong woman, Elisa,” Murphy says. “Like strong tea, huh? You never know how strong until you’re in hot water.”

  I tell him this is a compliment I hope to live up to. Only I am ready to climb out of the hot water.

  He laughs and I laugh with him. Strange to be able to laugh at such a moment.

  Tonight I know there is no time to think of what might have been. Though I see now that Murphy looks at me with longing, how can I speak of my love to him? I know what I feel is far more than gratitude. I love him, but outside the window the world descends into deep and terrible darkness. Will there come a time for love again? I pray it will come again.

  The water grows hotter and, as with tea, I feel myself grow stronger.

  EPILOGUE

  SOUTHERN ENGLAND

  DECEMBER 1940

  It was almost Christmas when Murphy and I boarded a plane for the quick flight from western Ireland to Heston Aerodrome near London. It was at this same airfield that, after handing Czechoslovakia to Hitler in 1938, the British Prime Minister Chamberlain had returned to declare, “I believe it is peace for our time.” I thought of the mounting cost of Chamberlain’s appeasement policy as we circled low over the bomb-blasted landscape. Barrage balloons swam through the air beneath us like giant silver fish in the sea.

  “Welcome to the war,” remarked a fellow passenger to no one in particular.

  I knew there was only one real reason for me to return. Lindy’s notebook was safely wrapped in my rucksack. The lock of her hair was tucked into the volume of the Book of Common Prayer. I would at least bring that small fragment of Lindy back home to her mother. Lindy’s death was the direct result of a weak, deluded British politician who had feared to stand up to the Nazis.

  I cried a little when I set foot on British soil. When I had left England three months earlier, none of us were certain how long the little island nation would survive. I remembered my girls on the Newcastle. Lindy’s bright smile as she joined in the singing, “There’ll Always Be an England.”

  In my heart, I answered the chorus with a prayer: So far, so good, Lord. England is still here. Thanks for watching over her.

  Murphy and I spent the night at the Heston Aerodrome Hotel, which Murphy told me looked a lot like the American White House.

  I replied that I hoped one day to see the American president’s home with my own eyes. We both knew it could not happen for a long time.

  The next morning Murphy kissed me good-bye and headed into London while I caught the slow Southern Railway train to Lindy’s little village home of Lewes.

  The jingle of bells sounded outside the Lewes railroad station as I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.

  A 1920s-era cab rattled toward me. “Where headed, miss?”

  “It’s missus. Missus Murphy.” I passed the address of Lindy’s mother to the driver. “This address in the village, please.”

  He studied the handwriting briefly as I climbed into the carriage. Glancing at my Irish t
weed traveling clothes in the rearview mirror he asked, “Not from round here, are you, Missus Murphy? A Yank, are you?”

  I felt encouraged that my Teutonic accent was fading. “Yes. Yank. American. Nearly.”

  “Well, may I ask y’ then? When are you Yanks going to come along and do your bit in this war? Things are pretty rough over here, you know.”

  I did not answer but remembered the great hulk of the Newcastle as it slipped under the water. I could hear the cries of the dying rise up like the roar of a crowd in a sports stadium. I stared silently out the window at the frosty countryside as the little vehicle wound through the streets of Lewes, which must have been so familiar to beautiful Lindy. I pretended to see her memories. I imagined what Lindy’s future would have been if only Chamberlain had stood up to Hitler and refused to collapse at the tyrant’s threats.

  But it was not to be. I organized my thoughts as we headed toward my rendezvous with heartache. What would I say to the woman to whom I had given my pledge of protection for her only daughter? I had failed. Should I ask for forgiveness that I had lived while this extraordinary child had perished?

  I hugged my rucksack close to me. What shall I say, God?

  The taxi turned a corner onto a street of small row houses. The lane was decorated for Christmas—as though there was no war, as if Lindy had not perished on the sea. Imagine! Holly and wreaths on every door!

  “Here we are, missus.” The house where Lindy lived was a tall, narrow structure with square-paned windows and a green enameled door. A bicycle leaned against the wall.

  I paid the cabbie a few pence, then stood outside the picket fence to simply drink in Lindy’s street. It sloped steeply downward, and in the distance I could see Brighton, and beyond that, an angry gray sea. Would I ever lose my fear of the ocean?

  I held the rucksack in my arms like a baby and wondered if I should have Lindy’s notebook out and ready to hand over when the door opened. It had only been a few months since the Newcastle sank. Would Lindy’s mother still be in mourning? Would she welcome me? Would she want to hear the details of her daughter’s death? Would she forgive me for my failure—or blame me that I had not stayed for Lindy to die in my arms?

  Was it enough for me to tell her that Lindy’s last thoughts had been for her mother and home? This home?

  The hinges of the gate groaned as I swung open the gate. An aged border collie barked from the porch and raised himself from the ground one leg at a time until he tottered fiercely, blocking my way.

  I heard a woman’s voice scold the canine from inside as the green door opened. “Darby! What are you about then?”

  Still hugging the rucksack, I managed a smile but remained rooted on the walk. “He won’t let me by,” I explained.

  “He has no teeth.” The woman laughed. She was young, in her midthirties, with a mop of pale curly hair closely matching the lock I carried with me.

  “He has a wicked bark,” I replied, unmoving.

  Grasping his collar, she stroked his head. “Bark is worse than his bite…obviously. My protector. Nothing like a faithful dog. Man is gone with a wind, but a dog? Now he’ll stay with a soul through a howling gale.”

  Protector. The description stung me. Yes. A dog was more faithful and true than I.

  I blurted, “I was on board the Newcastle. With your daughter. With Lindy.”

  She released the dog, who resumed his place at her feet. Lindy’s mother straightened slowly. Her eyes considered me first with awe, followed by curiosity.

  “I am…my name is Elisa Lindheim…Murphy.”

  The woman’s expression filled with compassion. “Elisa. Yes. I would know you anywhere. You were…there.”

  “Yes.” I patted my rucksack. “I have something that belonged to your daughter. Her diary. I’ve brought it. For you.”

  Her eyes brimmed as she held out a hand to welcome me. “All this way you’ve come. I read in the newspaper you were rescued off the coast of Ireland. Please, please. Do come in. I’ll make a cuppa tea. My name is Dora. You must call me Dora.”

  My chin quivered as I tucked my head and followed her into the small cluttered foyer. A garland of scented evergreen wound around the banister of a flight of stairs that rose abruptly from the tiled floor. A coal fire flickered in the sitting room to the left. A corridor led away to a kitchen in the back of the house. A pair of muddy shoes was beside the entry. A girl’s coat hung on the rack. I knew these were Lindy’s things, still in the place where she had last worn them.

  I could hardly breathe. On the radio I heard the music of “Silent Night” playing softly.

  Dora linked her arm in mine. “Elisa! You must have a lot to tell. So many days adrift. A miracle, they say. A miracle you survived. We read all about it in the papers. Please come along. I’m so glad to see you. I never expected—”

  I breathed deeply at her welcome and inhaled the aroma of baking cinnamon apples. More relieved than I had been at any time since the sinking, I followed Dora into the kitchen and sat in the plain wooden chair at the table. I began to rummage in my rucksack, removing Lindy’s paper-wrapped journal and the Book of Common Prayer containing her golden curl.

  My eyes upon the lock of hair, I relived in a moment the officer who had ordered me to run to the lifeboats while he stayed below with the dying child. I stammered, “I don’t know how much you would like me to tell you about what happened. She loved you so much.” The kettle whistled.

  “Tell me everything. You must. I’ve heard only bits and pieces. ’Twas an angel carried my daughter though the waters, I’m sure of it…lifting Lindy up and up. The thought of it gives me such peace. Most who survived were rescued the first night, but you were lost, overlooked somehow.” She brewed the tea. “I like strong tea. You?”

  I nodded my agreement. “Strong tea. Yes. Someone once told me…women are like tea. You never know how strong they are—”

  Behind me a girl’s sweet voice finished the proverb, “Never know how strong until they’re in hot water.”

  “And here’s my girl! Where’ve you been, darlin’?” Dora smiled over my shoulder.

  I turned to follow her gaze and gasped.

  “Hello, Elisa!” The beautiful child greeted me with her arms opened to enfold me.

  Her mother exclaimed, “Look, Lindy! Look who’s come a-visitin’. It’s Elisa Murphy, darlin’. She’s come all this way to Lewes, just to return your diary!”

  TAKING IT DEEPER…

  Questions for individuals and groups

  1. If you were going to write your “Last Will and Testament,” who would you address it to? What possessions would you list? What instructions would you give? What would you want to make sure that those left behind knew?

  2 Elisa says, “I see one child who is a hero in this story” (p. 10). For her, it’s Connor Turner. Why is Connor so special to Elisa? In what way(s) does Elisa identify with Connor’s mother’s story? What person in your life do you see as a hero or a heroine? Why? Tell the story.

  3. Psalm 91:11 says, “He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways” (KJV). Do you believe God’s angels have charge over you? Why or why not? Give an example from your own experience.

  4. Elisa received a very special Christmas present from her mother in 1936—a red leather-bound diary stamped with roses. Of all the gifts you’ve received, what one special gift do you remember most? Why was that gift so significant?

  5. In 1936 Elisa feels that “the whole world is crumbling around us. Do we still imagine that everything will return to normal somehow?” (p. 16). How does that statement apply to our world today? Do you have hope that “everything will return to normal somehow”? Why or why not?

  6. If you were a parent living in London in summer 1940, would you:

  risk sending your child on a ship to America, hoping for safety along the way?

  keep your child with you in London?

  Explain your answer.

  7. Rudy Dorbransky, and later Eli
sa, take tremendous risks hiding visas for Jews in the case of the precious Guarnerius. If you had the opportunity to save lives by doing so today, would you take the risk—of what it might mean to you and to your family if you were discovered? Why or why not?

  8. Elisa says, “My friendship with Irish actress Mariah Fitzgerald and the Spanish flamenco dancer Raquel Esperanza was first forged in flames of the Blitz and later sealed on the high seas of the North Atlantic” (p. 43). How does living through crises knit people’s hearts together? When have you developed an unlikely friendship as a result of going through a difficult time? What has each of you gained from the experience? Tell the story.

  9. Elisa says, “I remember Christmas past in our beautiful home in Berlin. Music and laughter. Snow falling on the ground. A whispered secret and knowing glances. The scents of pastries and the Christmas goose filling our house. The midnight chiming of the tall old clock in our foyer” (p. 51). What special memories do you have of Christmas, or other holidays in your home growing up? What childhood traditions do you still carry on, and why are those traditions, in particular, important to you?

  10. “I wonder sometimes if God is asleep. Why has He been silent? Why do my prayers go unanswered?” Elisa asks when her Papa disappears, and there is no word of his fate for a long time (p. 79). Have you ever wondered the same thing—if God is asleep or silent? Why He doesn’t answer your prayers? If so, in what situation(s)? What have you learned about yourself, God, and faith as you’ve waited for answers?

  11. Why do you think Miss Pike is so disapproving of Elisa and the way she handles the girls onboard ship? Have you faced a personality like Miss Pike’s in your own life? If so, how have you handled that disapproval? How might looking at that person with a long-range perspective—and a sense of humor—help you from becoming discouraged?