Munich Signature (38 page)

“Can they not remain anchored until the matter is explored more fully?” asked Dr. Goldmann.

Hull swung around in his chair and pointed to the American flag behind him. “Dr. Goldmann,” Hull answered gravely, “I took an oath to protect the flag and obey the laws of my country. You are asking me to break those laws.”

Made bold by the desperation of the refugees, Goldmann cleared his throat and replied, “Several weeks ago a number of anti-Nazi German sailors jumped overboard as their ship was leaving New York. The Coast Guard picked them up, and now every one of those sailors has been given sanctuary on Ellis Island by the United States government. Those German sailors are still there, under the authority of the State Department. Now, as secretary of state, might you not send a telegram to those people onboard the
Darien
and suggest that they jump overboard in New York Harbor? Certainly the Coast Guard would pick them up. Certainly they would not be allowed to drown because they are Jews without papers. Then they would be safe.”

Secretary Hull’s mouth turned down angrily at Goodmann’s words. “You are the most cynical man I have ever met,” Hull replied angrily.

Undaunted, Henry Lieper answered for the group: “We ask you, Mr. Secretary, who is the cynical one—we Christians and Jews who wish to save these innocent people, or you, who are prepared to send them back to Germany to their deaths?”

Nothing further was said. Hull dismissed the delegation and refused to shake the hand of Dr. Goldmann. On this melancholy note, Murphy returned to New York with the others in the hope that public opinion might have the last word in this matter.

***

Himmler adjusted his glasses nervously as he read the latest decoded message from Gestapo agent Hans Erb in New York. How the old Jewess Trudence Rosenfelt had come to be so closely allied with John Murphy and the Kronenberger child was unexplained. It was, however, a fact that the old woman had accompanied the boy to the hospital when Murphy had been working. She had taken him to meet her family in the Jewish district of Brooklyn. While John Murphy had busied himself rousing support for the Jewish scum onboard the freighter
Darien
, the old woman had cared for the boy.

Himmler scratched his head and grimaced with irritation. “Sewer water flows down the same gutter,” he muttered. It was inevitable, he supposed, that persecuted people would somehow band together. This was not what troubled him.

Perhaps the most annoying fact in the recent dispatches was the matter of American public response to the plight of the refugee ship. One announcement over the radio by Eddie Cantor had led to thousands of letters offering assistance to individuals and families onboard the
Darien
. The U.S. State Department had been inundated with phone calls and wires. Christian ministers had joined with rabbis around the country to organize committees for gathering food and clothing and medical supplies for the passengers when they arrived in New York.

Only one week had passed since the arrival of the
Queen Mary
, and yet already Trump Publications and John Murphy had managed to create a stir of sentimentality that might well destroy all that the Führer had in mind by releasing the Jewish ships from the Reich.

With a sigh, Himmler placed a phone call to Joseph Goebbels and then to the Reich Chancellery and Hitler himself. It was past time to discuss a strategy against the tide of do-gooders and Jew-lovers who had suddenly materialized in America.

***

Adolf Hitler was surprisingly calm as he listened to Himmler’s assessment of the latest difficulty in New York.

“And so you see there is quite a stirring among the religious population to allow the Jews from
Darien
to leave the ship when it reaches New York. The Quakers have joined forces with the Jews—”

“Strange bedfellows, eh?” remarked Goebbels dryly.

A look from the Führer silenced his remarks. Hitler was quite relaxed. He sat back in his favorite overstuffed chair and pressed his fingertips together as if he was considering the possibilities of an American movement to open immigration to Jews—beginning with the Jews onboard the coffin ship
Darien
. At last he sighed. “It will not happen, of course.”

“But . . . but, mein Führer, it
is
happening.”

Hitler smiled—a rare smile. “Great noise. It means nothing. Have you been with me so long, Himmler, and you have not learned that the way to destroy opposition is simply to shout louder?”

“But what power do we have in America?”

“For years we have been supplying that Fritz Kuhn fellow with funds to build his German-American Bund. We have Father Coughlin who quotes Goebbels’ anti-Bolshevik propaganda to the American masses every week. A priest! And he uses our propaganda quite effectively, I understand. And then there is the Christian Front—dedicated anti-Semites.”

“What difference can they make?”

The Führer was uncharacteristically patient with Himmler. He instructed him gently tonight. He was confident in his principles. “Our goal—” Hitler gazed at the ceiling as though a script had been written there. “Our goal in matters such as these is to simply demonstrate that the democracies are really hypocrisies. They hate the Jews as much as we do. They will not take them in, either.”

“But there is a movement to do just that.”

Hitler laughed. “But you see, America is a democracy. Nothing at all can be done for months. Congress will simply sit in hearings and worry about being reelected if they make the wrong choice in this matter. By the time they decide what they are deciding, the
Darien
will have been forced to return here, or will be run aground or sunk somewhere! You have panicked, Himmler. Here in Germany my word is law, and so things get done. But America is a land of committees; most choices are so watered down that they become useless.”

Himmler considered the Führer’s assertion. It was true. The machinery moved like a snail in American politics. “Well, it seems that we are still the ones with the advantage—after all, your word is law. So what is your law in this matter, mein Führer?”

Hitler did not hesitate. The choice was simple. The enforcement of his command would also be simple. “Wire Hans Erb in New York. Then wire Fritz Kuhn. He is politically strong in New York, I believe. Have these men organize opposition to the pro-refugee movement. Rallies in New York with the German-American Bund and the Christian Front. When the
Darien
arrives in the harbor make certain that these groups are on hand as a counter-demonstration to the
Darien’s
supporters. Such a demonstration should shake up the politicians a bit. After all, it is an election year.” He waved his hand languidly in the air. “You will see. I am right about this. I am always right. President Roosevelt may be a secret Jew, but he is also a coward. He would hate to see his Democratic Congress voted out of office. The fellow is a politician first and a humanitarian second—when it suits his purposes. He will let the Jews perish before he will let his career suffer for helping them. You will see, Himmler. I am right about this.”

Himmler nudged his glasses back on the ridge of his nose. He nodded grudgingly. “And what about the journalist John Murphy? It was he who first published the Kronenberger document. He who somehow got the mutant Kronenberger child out of the Reich. And now look what he is doing with his columns and stories in America.”

Hitler yawned and rubbed his eye as he considered the problem. “Yes. My own life is an example of how the diligence of one man can change the course of events. Of course, I had nothing to lose and therefore nothing to fear.” Hitler smiled a second time. “That is why I am here and my opponents are not. So, it is time perhaps to let this American experience real fear, Himmler. Send that message to Hans Erb. The American will have to be silenced.”

***

Elisa Murphy was even more beautiful in person than she had been in the news photograph. Blond hair curled softly at her shoulders. Her lips seemed a bit fuller, her figure slightly more voluptuous. She wore dark glasses as she entered the lobby through the revolving door. She carried a battered violin case. If she indeed had been ill, nothing in her appearance now gave the impression of a woman stricken with influenza.

She gazed absently at her watch, and then as the folds of her navy dress floated around shapely legs, she descended the steps and entered the news and magazine shop just off the lobby.

Georg Wand was only steps behind her. He picked up a German language newspaper describing the latest turmoil in Czechoslovakia and, with a shake of his head, muttered in Yiddish, “
Oy
, so terrible. Terrible what those Nazis are doing!”

She looked at him sideways and purchased her own newspaper. Hers was a copy of the London
Times
. She put her coins on the counter as Georg stared disconsolately at his handful of change and said in German, “How much? I will never figure out these English coins.”

The ploy worked. Helpless. Confused. Ordinary. And the beautiful blond woman smiled sympathetically and pointed out the correct change. “Here,” she replied in her native tongue. “It will take a while, but you will catch on.” Then she inclined her head. “You are German?”

“
Danke
! No, I am Austrian . . . or at least I
was
Austrian . . . until there was no more Austria.”

She frowned. He could see the pity in her eyes even through the dark glasses. “A terrible thing.”

“
Ja
. What they did to the Jews there . . . my wife . . .” He let his tone express his grief. “One day she goes out, and then I do not see her again.” He shook his head as if to shake off the memory of something horrible. “You are German also?”

“I lived in Vienna for a while.” She was careful. Evasive. Her feeling of sympathy had not yet caused her to lower her guard.

Georg nodded toward the violin case. “A musician!” he exclaimed. “Ah, how my wife and I loved the concerts at the Musikverein!” Here was the point of connection he had hoped for.

“They are not the same any longer. Sad times have fallen on Vienna, Herr . . .”

“
Bitte
. . . my name is Georg Krepps. And your name?”

“Elisa Murphy.” She extended her hand to shake his. “Very good to meet you.” This first interview was over.

“Good luck,” he said, bowing humbly. Then he added the Austrian farewell, “
Grüss Gott
.”

“
Grüss Gott
,” she replied, sweeping out of the little shop.

Georg was quite please with this first contact. He would not crowd her. He would take things slowly. Progress with caution so that sympathy did not sour into annoyance.

He watched her cross the lobby. She swung the violin case with a lighthearted air as she stopped at the desk. “Messages for Elisa Murphy?” she asked. The clerk checked her box and slipped an envelope across the counter.

Shaking his head, Georg read the news as he walked slowly back to his chair in the lobby. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the woman glance at him as she boarded the elevator.

***

It had been months since Shimon had eaten so well. Throughout the day, visiting Yiddish mamas presented him with various meals and chastising tirades if he did not eat every last morsel.

“So what’s wrong? You don’t like the way we cook? You turn your nose up at good Jewish cooking? You don’t want to get well or what? So eat, already!
Oy!
Dr. Freund, tell him he should eat it all so the ladies down in the kitchen will not think he does not like our cooking,
nu
?”

Morsel by morsel, strength returned to Shimon until one day Dr. Freund pronounced, “If he has not died by now, he is going to live. A miracle!”

“Not such a miracle. Just good Jewish cooks!” argued a hefty matron as she ladled broth down Shimon’s throat. “A good Yiddish mama can make chicken soup out of pickled herring. True, Shimon Feldstein? Of course true! So eat!
Eat!
”

The rabbi of Nuremberg came to see the miracle of the almost-dead man they had pulled from the vent shaft like a grouper from the sea. It was a good sign that this fellow lived, he pronounced. Then he raised his hand to proclaim the promise of Psalm 91: “
Er hut mir tzu fridden gemacht . . .
He has satisfied me with long life.”

Hope coursed through the veins of Shimon and new hope bubbled up among the passengers of the
Darien
as they drew nearer to New York, America.

Torah school students made pilgrimages to see that the man who should be dead was very much alive. The five daughters of Klaus and Maria Holbein came once a day to sing him a song or tell him about the very largest fish they had helped the rabbi haul over the rail. He learned their names: Trudy, Katrina, Louise, Gretchen, and Ada-Marie.

The burns and open wounds on Shimon’s back began to heal, and each day he took a few more steps along the narrow corridor and back again while Aaron and the clean-up brigade cheered him on.

Bit by bit he recited the story of how he had come to be here: The arrest in Vienna on the first day of Nazi invasion. On to the labor camp. Then to Germany and Dachau, where the strongest were chosen to work in the steel mills of Hamburg. Searing heat that killed lesser men. Hours of brutal work to produce the armored steel plate for the battleship
Bismarck.
The explosion. The water.
There his memory failed him. He could not remember climbing onboard the
Darien.
He could not recall hiding in the ventilation shaft. Even the night of his discovery remained a mystery to him.

Again the rabbi offered the explanation of a miracle. Perhaps an angel had carried Shimon to the ship! Such things were not unheard of, after all. Perhaps the hand of the Almighty, blessed be His name forever, had reached down and lifted Shimon from the explosion and then helped him into the water and onto the ship.
Oy!
Such a miracle that he survived. And then, of course, the Almighty would deem it necessary to block the event from the mind of Shimon!