Munich Signature

  And so it was accomplished. Beautiful and hopeful, another little life was sealed in the covenant. Heads raised and mazel tovs filled the air as Captain Burton led the little family off to his private quarters for what short time remained of the visit of Bubbe Rosenfelt.

  38

  Running Before the Winds

  A wind stirred the sea from the southeast. Choppy waves battered the hull of the smaller craft against the Darien.

  The commander of the cutter blasted his horn impatiently. Time enough; the visit is at an end. The Cuban gunboats imitated his impatience, also letting go with shrill whistles.

  The newsmen, who had shouted questions up to the refugees and scribbled down the answers, were surprised when exactly one hour passed and Mrs. Rosenfelt appeared at the top of the steep steps. Her veil now once again covered her face. The little girls clung tightly to her. They were crying. They did not want to let go, and Mrs. Rosenfelt held them as long as she could. Maria had not come to the deck with her. Was such a parting too painful to be made in public? With a drawn face, Klaus Holbein embraced her and then placed the picnic basket back over her arm. Mrs. Rosenfelt reached out for him again. She held him tightly and at last he took her arms in his hands and gently stepped back.

  There were tears beneath that veil. Anyone with eyes could see that there had never been a more painful parting. One hour. Only one. Such a tiny fragment of time to crowd in such joy and such sorrow.

  Mrs. Rosenfelt descended the steps slowly—with infinitely more care than she had gone up to meet her loved ones. At the bottom, Mr. Trump stood with one foot on his little boat and the other on the metal mesh landing. He reached up to take the hand of Bubbe Rosenfelt to help her off the Darien. She looked back over her shoulder and waved up to the sobbing children. She held the basket and stepped away.

  Trump heard her weeping from behind the veil.

  “Mrs. Rosenfelt? Can I get you anything?” he asked as the engines sputtered and the boat drifted from the freighter. He hurt for her. Perhaps this had been more painful; perhaps it would have been easier for her not to have seen them.

  Bubbe Rosenfelt shook her head. She did not speak; she looked back one more time and raised a hand to Klaus, who was also weeping. Then she descended the steps and retreated to her cabin, closing the door behind her.

  ***

  It was astonishing to Murphy as he walked through the lobby of Hotel Royale this morning—none of the expressions on the faces of the conference participants seemed changed. Still vague and pleasant, they had spoken their first round of sympathetic platitudes last night, and then proceeded to explain why they would DO NOTHING!

  It was the League of Nations all over again. Oh my, how sad. Perfectly dreadful situation, these refugees; but you can see how our hands are tied.

  The Darien and her passengers were not even mentioned. They were so small in the horrible scope of desperation, why should anyone think of them? There were, Murphy learned, dozens more ships just like the old freighter, leaving Germany any way possible. How could these busy, important men think of eight hundred when there were millions at stake? And how could they consider millions . . . so many . . . too many! And so the conference of Evian was lost to the thumb-twiddlers and the sleep-talkers, after all.

  A bellboy in a round gray cap and gray uniform walked past the restaurant. “Paging John Murphy! Cable for Mr. John Murphy!”

  On an etched silver tray lay a telegram from Havana, Cuba. Murphy tore it open, hoping for some word of good news from Trump.

  Murphy Darien Turned Away by Gunboats in Havana Stop Much Needed Food Confiscated Stop Officials Havana Say Payoffs Required to Liberate Stop Also May Be Possible Temporary Landing Certificates If Right Men Are Bribed Stop All Immigration Authorites in Evian Stop Get Busy Trump

  Murphy read the cable; then he read it again. Good news, bad news, huh? The Darien is turned away and the food confiscated; however, certain officials told Trump that the right amount in the right pocket of a Cuban immigration official at Evian would at least buy a little time! A Cuban landing certificate!

  Amanda was long gone, but she had essentially told Murphy the same thing. There were ways to get around the reluctance of men to do the right thing. Money might stir hearts to action on behalf of the downtrodden much sooner than lofty words and ideals.

  “Welcome back to the real world, Murphy,” he muttered to himself as he strode quickly to the desk. He had plenty of money in the account Theo had set up in New York. Hadn’t this been the very sort of thing he had intended the funds to be used for? He would talk to Theo about that some other time. Now he had people to meet.

  He rang the bell on the lobby counter. “I would like the room number of Cuban representative Cabrillo, please.” He spelled the name for the French clerk. “C-A-B-R-I-L-L-O. He’s Cuban.”

  ***

  Anna made her way back through the crowded kitchen. “What did he say?”

  “Did he agree?”

  “Was he insulted, or angry with you?”

  There were a thousand questions that seemed to need answers at the same moment.

  Anna answered hopefully. “He says you should come and see.” And that answer was passed from one to another in the house and down the food line.

  In the midst of the noon meal a harried-looking messenger boy arrived on a bicycle in front of the heavy-laden tables. He had a telegram for Anna Linder marked urgent.

  Women exchanged glances. Could this mean that Theo or her sons had been injured or killed? A small boy went to fetch her from the kitchen.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Anna hurried down the steps to where the messenger stood guarding his bicycle. She paid him the charge; then with trembling hands she tore open the envelope.

  The whole street seemed silent as they watched her. Tears filled her eyes, and she smiled. “They are being called home to Prague,” she said at last. “Theo, Wilhelm, and Dieter are to be stationed here at the airfield. Sunday! God is good to me! They are coming home!”

  ***

  “So Señor Murphy.” Manuello Cabrillo studied Murphy from across the table. “You are buying time for these people, no?” He toyed thoughtfully with the silver knife at the edge of his plate. “Time is a very expensive thing. I have spoken to my superiors. In this case . . . time will cost one million dollars.”

  Murphy simply blinked at him in disbelief. One million! “Nobody has that kind of money,” he replied unhappily.

  Cabrillo shrugged as the waiter in the tea room poured their glasses full of the famous Evian water. “You see those two men over there?” Cabrillo now leaned in to whisper as he jerked a thumb toward two iron-jawed Germans across the room at a window table.

  “What about them?” Murphy had a distinct distaste for this unctuous little Latin with his slick hair and Italian silk suit and two-toned shoes. He looked like a casino manager and displayed the greed of a Chicago bank robber.

  “These men are Germans, Señor.” He shared a fact that Murphy had easily guessed. Evian was packed with members of Hitler’s tribe this week.

  “So what?”

  “They are here to sell Jews, Señor Murphy!” Cabrillo grinned and sat back in amazement at the thought. “Yes! They are selling their Jews for two hundred and fifty dollars a head! And you know what?” He paused for effect. “Nobody wants to buy their Jews, Señor! No one at all is in the market for Jews. Have you not noticed? No country wants Jews! Even when Hitler offers them free, no one will take the German Jews!” He spread his hands in a broad gesture. These were the facts. “Since no one will even take free Jews, like your Jews, well then, it only makes sense that maybe Hitler will have to pay to get rid of them, no? Or maybe you—the company you represent—maybe you will pay such a little amount to the government of Cuba to keep your Jews on the Isle of Pines for six months? Such a little amount considering our risk.”

  “What risk?” Murphy was inwardly fuming but did not show it.

  “What if after six months you still ca
nnot get them on the quota list? What if the U.S. government will not take them then? What will we do with them? Tow them out to sea and let them sink?”

  “One million is . . . impossible.” Murphy glanced toward the Nazi flesh peddlers who lunched on quiche washed down with white wine. They accepted their failure as Jew salesmen rather pragmatically. They looked totally carefree. Perhaps they had found another use for their unwanted merchandise. So this was Evian. Council of the great and merciful nations.

  Murphy cleared his throat in an effort to hold down the sudden revulsion he felt. He considered the account Theo had set up in New York. He estimated what might be raised from other sources. “We are prepared to offer you two hundred dollars for each Cuban landing certificate for the people onboard the Darien.”

  Cabrillo smiled a wide-mouthed, incredulous smile. He shook his head at such a ridiculous offer. “We all know that the rich Jews can pay much more than that. Sears and Roebuck, Loeb and Kuhn—they say, ‘I’ll give you fifty thousand for this or that. One hundred, two hundred thousand.’ We all know about these rich bankers. These Jews! They can come up with a million dollars in one hour!”

  “There are no rich bankers onboard the Darien. These people paid passage with their last cent.” Murphy controlled his outrage. “This might be their last hope.”

  “Ah, well. Pity them. But they do have rich relatives in the United States, do they not, Señor? Everyone knows the Jews control the press. All the banks in America. Such a small amount will be simple for them to arrange, no, Señor? That is our final offer. We can give you twenty-four hours to consider it. That is all we can do.”

  Twenty-four hours to raise one million dollars. All for the privilege of camping on Cuban soil. But what other options were there? Could Trump and the others manage to raise that kind of cash?

  Murphy met the man’s impudent gaze with a slow nod. He glanced toward the Nazis and suddenly had the sickening sense that the man he was dealing with was just as dark in his soul.

  ***

  There were no little shiploads of news reporters. No one to denounce or threaten. Now Commander Deming could do his job. He radioed for support from a second cutter as the Darien again came within American waters. Together these two American vessels flanked the Darien even as the skies above them grew darker with the approaching storm.

  Bullhorn to his lips, Deming issued the warning, the ultimatum: “YOU HAVE ENTERED AMERICAN WATERS! TURN ABOUT, DARIEN, OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO FIRE ON YOU.”

  Captain Burton answered: “THERE IS A GALE APPROACHING. WE ASK FOR ANCHORAGE.”

  “NOTHING DOING, DARIEN. SMALL CRAFT WARNINGS ONLY ARE ISSUED AS OF NOW. NOTHING YOU CAN USE AS AN EXCUSE TO MOOR IN AN AMERICAN HARBOR.”

  “CHECK YOUR BAROMETER!” Burton shouted back in frustration.

  In reply, the crew of the cutter fired a round above the bow of the Darien. “YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD A LITTLE WIND TO SAIL THROUGH IF YOU DO NOT TURN ABOUT IMMEDIATELY!”

  Burton looked at the small, timid radio repairman from Berlin who now manned the transmitter. “Send word to Trump. Tell him we’re being forced to turn out to sea. Keep sending word of our position.”

  ***

  First Mate Tucker stood defiantly beside Captain Burton. Together they stared down the barrel of a revolver. It was not a large weapon, but it was enough.

  Five other crewmen faced them almost apologetically. “This ain’t mutiny, Captain Burton. We done more than we signed up for, and now we’re finished with it, that’s all.” The leader jerked a thumb toward the lifeboat. “We ain’t more than eight miles from shore, and I ain’t much of a man if I can’t row eight miles.”

  “You see, sir,” his second offered, “we signed up from Hamburg to New York. We been on this stinking tub for weeks, and now it looks like you’re gonna have to go back to Hamburg. I don’t fancy another trip across the big pond, not with the weather comin’ up the way it is.”

  Tucker drew himself up angrily; he took a step toward the man with the gun. “If this ain’t mut’ny, they why y’ got a gun?”

  “Just to make sure we get off.”

  Burton had remained silent throughout the confrontation. He placed a hand on Tucker’s chest as if to hold him back. “We can run the ship without them.”

  “But, Cap’n . . .”

  “No,” Burton said, “I mean it. If we are forced back to Hamburg, then I will at least have a reason to keep a few of the men here onboard as crew. Go on, Tucker. Pick out a few from among the single passengers and let these gentlemen have the lifeboat.” He smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Payment for the lifeboat?” he asked. “I want the marine cards of every one of you. Keep the rest of your papers, but I want your Merchant Marine cards.”

  “You can’t keep us from picking up work on another ship. We can get those cards replaced, you know.”

  “In Hamburg your cards will be identification for my new crew, that’s all. You are free to go.”

  The lifeboat was lowered after the casket of Ada-Marie was gently removed from it. The little coffin was taken to the bow of the ship and secured, then covered with a tarp as the five crewmen rowed toward shore. Fifteen minutes later they were picked up by Captain Deming in his Coast Guard cutter. After showing their papers as proof of American citizenship, they were given a lift into Norfolk even as the Darien turned out to sea for the last time.

  ***

  Shimon stood for a moment with his back to the giant mountain of coal. Captain Burton did not look back as he clattered up the metal steps and ducked through the watertight door.

  Well, perhaps it is only right, Shimon thought as he turned to face the broad flat shovel. After all, the fires of the Thyssen Steel Works had brought him here. Now the coal and the shovel and the fires of the boiler would take him home. Wherever home might be. Leah is where home is. He grabbed the shovel and plunged it into the coal, then tossed the load into the furnace. He would find her somehow. If this ship was ever brought into a port, he would find a way to reach her. Was she still in Vienna? he wondered. Had the Nazis expelled her from the orchestra, or did her cello still sing sweetly from the stage of the Musikverein night after night?

  He could picture her most easily at her music stand. Yes, Leah, I see you there, nodding as the crowds applaud you. You are more clear to me than these fires I feed. My heart glows more warmly than these flames.

  He had not yet regained all his strength; the doctor was correct about that, but still he was stronger than he had been working in the steel plant. Good food, laughter, hopeful Jewish hearts and words had brought him back to life again. He did not mind this work at all. His muscle fueled the fires that turned the engines that would somehow bring him home. Home to the only thing that mattered to him. Home to his dear Leah.

  As he worked he sang the melodies of a hundred symphonies that they had played together. The clanging rhythm of the engine boomed like the kettledrums. He had not been allowed to sing when he had been under the thumb of the Nazi overseers. Music made the burden of work seem lighter, and always ringing in his ears was the clear sweet melody of Leah’s cello. The music never left him as he labored deep in the belly of the ship. And always she was there: a smile, a nod of thanks to the audience, and then a knowing wink for Shimon across the stage.

  ***

  For a hundred miles into international waters, the Coast Guard cutter of Deming pursued the Darien out to sea. In the distance lightning split the black sky like veins on the hide of Satan.

  The storm was more than a danger to small craft. Burton could smell it coming, even if the bottom had not yet dropped out of the barometer. The Coast Guard cutter at last turned away to rip back across the water to safe harbor. The lumbering Darien had no such advantage.

  “Secure lifelines,” Burton instructed Tucker. “Get everyone belowdeck. I’ll bring her around and head for shore in an hour, when I’m sure the cutter is long gone.”

  ***

  From the first assault of the storm, it had been diffic
ult to stoke the boiler. The ship rolled from side to side until the men who manned the engines could not stand up. And then when the Darien turned to climb the towering waves like mountains and slide down into the deep valleys, the task became nearly impossible.

  Aaron, Fredrik, Klaus, and a dozen others held on to ropes and one another as they manned the pumps. A few inches of water in the bottom of the ship had risen to eighteen inches. Their faces reflected terror. They were pumping as fast as possible, and yet . . .

  The moans of the others were covered by the winds until Shimon could no longer tell if the sounds came from humans or from the whole world.

  He picked up his shovel as the bow of the ship raised to ascend the face of a wave. “Open the boiler!” he shouted to the terror-stricken young Orthodox man who helped him. “Open, and then close it after I toss in the fuel!”

  The man nodded. If he did not move quickly enough the fire would spill out. Shimon braced himself and struggled to stand as the iron door swung back. White heat emanated. It swallowed the black chunks of coal. The Orthodox man slammed the door, looking relieved.

  “More men on the pumps!” Klaus shouted. “We need shifts.”

  Aaron struggled toward the steps to climb up and raise the cry for more help to combat the mounting seawater.

  ***

  Maria cradled Israel in her arms as the floor of the Darien sloped away and another moan rose up from the refugees trapped below the howling storm.

  There was sickness. The air smelled of vomit and fear. Somehow the four little girls managed to sleep through this hideous rolling and lurching. And Israel nursed calmly and then paused, turning his wide dark eyes to gaze at his mother. Something in those peaceful, innocent eyes calmed Maria’s own heart. So at rest he was, not aware of the waves that towered over the highest masts of the Darien, oblivious to the howling of the winds and the shouting of men who tried to pump the water from the hold of the boat. Slowly but surely, the waves that tumbled over the decks were winning the contest against the men who manned the pumps below.