Munich Signature (19 page)

She would ask Murphy to explain it all later. She wanted to know everything he knew. She wanted to know the name of that fear she had seen in his eyes. When Charles was out of hearing, she would ask Murphy what it all meant.

***

“Frau Trudence Rosenfelt?” The iron-jawed matron stared at the old woman with contempt. “So. You are going back to America at last. After the Rosenfelt family has stolen from the good Aryan people of the Reich.”

Mrs. Rosenfelt drew herself up in indignation. The matron sneered and adjusted the Nazi armband on her brown uniform. She looked very much like a bulldog, Mrs. Rosenfelt thought. All bully and swagger and bluff. “Yes. I am going home. Only it is the Aryan people who have stolen from my family. I am not the thief here.”

The sneer turned to instant rage. “Silence! Old Jewish pig!” The woman kicked the trunk the porter had hauled to the dock where the
Cristobel
was moored. Mrs. Rosenfelt was surprised that it had not been loaded already. She was startled that of all the passengers, she and two others had been detained on the quay and escorted under guard to the small dark room in the back of the Port Authority’s office.

“I am an American citizen, I remind you—”

“You are a Jew! You are a smuggler and a spy!”

“What are you doing with my trunk?” Mrs. Rosenfelt took a step toward her steamer trunk. The seal of the Gestapo had been stamped across it in several places.

“Your trunk! Old Jew! You tell us now what you are doing stealing art treasures from the Reich? Eh, old sow? It is enough to have you thrown into prison!” The Nazi matron enjoyed her work of intimidation.

Mrs. Rosenfelt did not give her the satisfaction of letting her see the fear that filled her. She had heard of this last-minute persecution. Indeed, she had seen it the morning Klaus and Maria had sailed on the
Darien
. The Reich officials had swarmed the decks beating and arresting anyone who opposed them. It was also common for small objects of art or foreign currency to be planted in the suitcase of someone whom they hoped might be able to pay additional money to escape the country.

“I cannot think what you are raving about.” Mrs. Rosenfelt lifted her chin defiantly.

The matron swaggered toward her. The dark roots of her blond hair were plainly evident. “You deny that you were once the owner of Rosenfelt Porcelain?”

“Of course I do not deny that!”

“And your factory was Aryanized, was it not?”

“Yes. Speaking of thieves, your government took everything. My company. My home—”

“Shut up, old Jew! I am speaking!”

“Go right ahead,
nebech
! But what you say does not change truth.”

“The truth!” The matron jerked her head up like a sleuth who has discovered a clue. She raised her thick finger and leveled it at the trunk. “The truth is that all porcelain formerly in the possession of—”

“
Oy
! I must not forget. The Reich
also
stole our collection of porcelain.
Oy
! That along with everything else.”

“Art treasures! Confiscated by the Reich.”
“Three hundred years of Rosenfelt craftsmanship!”

“At the expense of poorly paid German laborers.”

“Young woman, my ship is leaving any minute—”

“Without you! Silence, until you answer the charges!”

“What charges?”

“Smuggling! Theft!”

Mrs. Rosenfelt was certain that something must have been placed in the trunk in order to detain her. She had no financial resources left with which she could buy her way out of this trouble. “Theft?” she scoffed. “I demand if you hold me, you must call the American consulate at once!”

“We will call no one except the police van to take you to Gestapo headquarters where other smugglers are sent!” The woman leaned confidently on the large steamer trunk.

“What is it that I am accused of?” Bubbe replied in weary resignation. There was no use denying anything. For some reason she had become a target of this monstrous game that demanded all Jews leave Germany, and yet made it nearly impossible to do so.

The matron smiled grimly. Her right front tooth was capped with gold, which added to the impression that she was a caricature of the tough, hard Nazi jailer. “I told you, Frau Rosenfelt—stealing.”

“Tell me, please, what I have stolen?”

The matron leaned back and reached into a packing crate. From a box of sawdust and newspapers, she pulled a porcelain figurine. She held it up triumphantly and placed it on the trunk beside her. Light from a grimy window shone on the delicate figure of Mary and the Christ child.

Mrs. Rosenfelt gasped. The figure of Mary and her little boy had, indeed, been one of her favorites. “But . . . where . . . I have not seen that piece in nearly three years!”

“You admit you are familiar—”

“Familiar!” Mrs. Rosenfelt scoffed. Mary, with clear skin, bright eyes and long dark braid, timelessly captured in a smile of delight as her young son held up a small wooden boat he had made for her. Here was a holy moment between mother and child. Yes, Mrs. Rosenfelt knew the piece well.

“When the thousand figures of the Rosenfelt collection were absorbed by the Reich, this was not among them!”

The old woman’s heart fell. Could this be the reason they had detained her? She had given the figurine to her housekeeper, Frau Haefner. “I gave it to a friend as a gift.”

“It was not yours to give!” the matron roared. Her face reddened with fury.

“It was mine. More mine than you can know. You see, I posed for the figure of Mary. My little son Daniel was the child Jesus,” Mrs. Rosenfelt said quietly. “Yes. Mine.”

The matron nearly choked at the words of the old woman. “You are saying to us, to the Reich, that you posed for this—”

A smile flitted across the thin lips of Mrs. Rosenfelt. “I was much younger then, I admit. Even a beauty—”

Her words were cut short as the matron spit in her face. “Sacrilege! A Jewess and her spawn posing for a holy—”

Bubbe Rosenfelt felt silent as she wiped the spittle from her face. For a moment she thought she would be ill; then a new indignation took hold of her. “I thought that is why Herr Hitler had all images of Jesus removed from the churches. You did not know your Christ was a Jew, Frau Matron?”

The matron was speechless in her rage. She gaped at the tender figure of mother and child. “You . . . you . . . this art is stolen, and now you will pay for it!”

“How did you come by it?” Mrs. Rosenfelt raised her voice gruffly.

“Your Frau Haefner confessed.”

“Did she confess that her employer had given her a personal gift? Her heart had been broken by the desecration of the church by Nazi symbols, and so I offered her—”

“This is enough! Now I will call my Oberführer and we will see how you feel in a Gestapo cell!” The matron spun on her heel and reached for the door.

“Before you do that,” Mrs. Rosenfelts aid coolly in a voice that carried some dark threat, “you would be wise to contact Colonel Beich at the Office of Immigration. He might have some word of advice for you. Something about the family connection of this old sow, as you have so named me.”

The matron seemed not to hear. She slammed the door behind her as she left the room. Mrs. Rosenfelt heard the key turn in the latch. The silent, empty room was a welcome relief after nearly half an hour of threats and insults.

She moved toward the old trunk and pulled herself onto it until she sat beside the porcelain figurine that had caused her so much trouble this morning. Poor Frau Haefner must also be in some sort of terrible trouble. Why would she confess a crime that was no crime at all?

Mrs. Rosenfelt looked down at the image of herself and Daniel so many, many years ago. Gently she touched the smooth, happy face of the child with her own aged finger. She could remember when the face of Mary had been her own mirrored reflection. Of course, no one could possibly see the resemblance now, but how wonderfully obvious it had been once! She had told Frau Haefner the secret when she gave the piece to her on their farewell. Remember, it is a Jewish mother and her son.
“
Can you remember that, Frau Haefner? Will you still be able to pray if you think of that? Or must all Germans remove their God from their hearts to worship Hitler?”

Frau Haefner had wept bitterly that day. Not only was her mistress being robbed of all her belongings, but after thirty-seven years of service, Frau Haefner was no longer able to work for a Jew!

What happened to my devoted housekeeper?
Mrs. Rosenfelt wondered.
And what is to become of me?
She glanced nervously at her watch. There was less than an hour left before the
Cristobel
was scheduled to sail. The Nazis would certainly not allow her to leave in time. The trip to the Gestapo headquarters would take up most of the hour.

She clutched the porcelain figurine to her as if she had found an old friend. “Well, then, you have got me into this. How will you get me out of it?” Then she chuckled softly at the irony.

She had barely spoken when the door flew back and a young red-haired officer in a black tunic stepped into the room. “Heil Hitler!” he cried.

When she did not reply he looked momentarily confused.

“So, you are keeping me off the boat over this?” Mrs. Rosenfelt slid off her trunk. “You Nazis have taken Christ out of every church, and now you will arrest me for giving this to my servant?”

The young officer did not reply. He clapped his hands and shouted at two dock hands who waited nervously behind him. At the signal, they moved awkwardly into the cramped space and hefted the trunk.

“How long will you detain me?” Mrs. Rosenfelt demanded, still clutching the figurine.

The officer jerked his black-gloved hand out in a gesture that demanded she give him the porcelain. She held it a moment longer and then extended her hand and the figurine. A fraction of a second before the officer grasped the statue, she opened her fingers. He shouted as it tumbled from his grasp and smashed into a thousand pieces on the hard concrete floor. Head and arms, smiles and eyes, flowing folds of cloth and the tiny sailboat became sharp splinters that sprayed over the spit-shined jackboots of the startled officer.

His mouth opened and closed as he stared at the shattered glass littering the concrete. At last he whispered in disbelief, “It was worth thousands—
why?
”

Mrs. Rosenfelt did not feel regret for the broken figurine. Yes, it had been one of the best among the thousand or so that had been in their priceless collection. The piece had been famous. There were a few more in the edition. No doubt the Nazis would steal one from some other collector. Of course, it would not be the first of the edition, but—

“A tragic blunder on your part, Herr Officer,” Mrs. Rosenfelt replied coolly. “Your first error is my arrest.” Again she glanced at her watch. The great whistle of the
Cristobel
bellowed from the dock. “The second error is detaining me.”

“I came—” he could not take his eyes from the smashed treasure at his feet—“I was coming to tell you . . . a mistake. We thought . . . that is, Colonel Beich says you are the aunt of . . . an important American . . . and . . .” To finish his stammering and incoherent thought, he clicked his heels and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” Shards of porcelain crunched under his boots.

“You are telling me I am free to go?”

He bowed slightly in agreement and clicked his heels again. “And I am instructed to tell you that charges have been—”

“Dropped.” Mrs. Rosenfelt inclined her head slightly and picked her way out carefully through the mess. “
Oy
, such a pity you broke this. Worth thousands, no doubt.”

The clean, sleek hull of the
Cristobel
was still waiting at the dock when she emerged.

***

As the gulls above the
Darien
increased in numbers, wheeling and crying the approach to England, the ships and small fishing vessels in the sea lanes became a common sight. Trudy and Gretchen made a game of calling out each new sighting and then guessing the flag under which the craft sailed.

“England!”

“No, the flag is American—at least I think so—like the one on our ship.”

There was a certain pride when, indeed, one of this vast and varied armada displayed a flag that was identical to their own. Somehow, sitting beneath this American flag made them all feel a small part of the mysterious and wonderful country. The colors were the same as the British Union Jack, but everyone knew that this was because the Americans had fought the English kings and tyrants to make their own country. A brave bunch, those Americans.

Great steamers and liners and freight ships much sleeker and newer than the
Darien
carried this banner. The glory of those vessels was keenly felt by the ragged voyagers who watched them pass and waved as if they were old friends meeting on the street corner.

Young Aaron, who had spent the afternoon on the bottom step leading to the bridge, paid little attention to the squeals of the little girls and boys who pretended now to be pirates searching for a schooner to pillage. Aaron had other matters of grave importance on his mind. Balanced precariously on his lap was a worn red volume, Karl Baedeker’s
Handbook for Travelers
. It was a 1901 version describing Great Britain and Wales in the German language. The folding maps inside the book were carefully unfolded and held from ripping in the wind. The traveler’s guide had once belonged exclusively to the young man, and he guarded its contents jealously from the old men and women who flocked around him like a herd of tugboats nosing an ocean liner.

When a dozen passengers pointed toward a spur of land jutting into the sea and called that this must be the mouth of the Thames, Aaron shook his head in solemn disagreement and the crowd waited expectantly to hear what place this was on the Baedeker’s map.

“Spurn Heat,” Aaron announced like a professor of geography. This strange British name was pronounced and mispronounced around the deck until the point of land disappeared in a mist and Aaron raised his hand to point and say, “Here is Humber and there is Gremsby.”