Some Danger Involved (12 page)

“Of course! No wonder he stopped the entries! Was he thinking of converting?”

“There may have been more than religion involved. Look at the margins in the back.”

I turned the circular over. The service’s hymns were printed there. Notes had been scribbled in the margins, in pencil, notes in two different hands.

“An assignation!” I said, and whistled. Barker had not wasted his time.

“Yes, and a feminine hand. Unless I’m entirely mistaken, Pokrzywa had met the princess of whom Moskowitz had spoken.”

“I wonder how long it had been going on.”

“Three months, I’d say. The journal entries stopped, you see. I think not only did he wish to avoid setting down his feelings about a Christian-convert girl on paper, he also had nothing else to write about. It is not yet proven, but I believe we shall find that Louis Pokrzywa had given up most of his charity work and could generally be found in the girl’s neighborhood, mooning under her window. The longer love tarries, the harder it strikes. After twenty-nine years, Louis was deeply smitten.”

“Was it the girl Ben Judah mentioned seeing?” I asked. “Was the telegraph pole their ‘usual place,’ do you think?”

Barker shrugged his thick shoulders. “Who can say, at this point? But it certainly gives us a place to start.”

“Where?”

“Why, Poplar, of course.”

I
N CHAPTER SEVEN OF MATTHEW, JESUS
says, “Knock and the door shall be opened unto you.” That technique did not work at the First Messianic Church of Poplar. No amount of knocking or knob rattling brought anyone forward to open the door. It was not a traditional church. More likely it had been a large shop, converted over for church usage. There was a faded silk banner over the shop’s original sign, which bore the name of the church and the message, “If the Lord comes today, will you be ready?” The windows were large, but no amount of pressing my nose to them brought anyone out of the gloom. All I could see were rows of chairs and a makeshift podium. It was not exactly Saint Paul’s.

“Do you see anything that says when services are held?” Barker asked, looking in as well.

“Yes, sir. There’s a small card stuck to the window here. Sunday mornings at nine thirty, Sunday and Wednesday evenings at six thirty.”

“Tomorrow night, then. Very well.” He leaned against a lamp post and pulled some notes out of his coat. I think he carried a working office in his breast pocket.

“What have you got there?” I asked.

“These are the lists of anti-Semite speakers and organizations in London, provided by Brother Andy and the chief porter of the Tower. It’s probable that one or more of them are members of the Anti-Semite League that murdered Pokrzywa.”

I looked over his shoulder at the list.

“Good heavens,” I said. “Most of them are pastors of churches.”

“That is so. One is not five blocks from here. Shall we go and have a look?”

After ten minutes’ walk east, we came upon a modest but venerable church. It was not old by London’s standards, mid-seventeenth-century at the earliest. Looking around me at this decayed area east of the City, it was hard to imagine it new a century and a half ago, when this was the edge of town and the church looked out onto acres of empty pasture. Now the façade was crumbling, the stonework blackened with soot, and the board-covered windows were in need of a glazier. Across the entire front were hoardings explaining how the old building was receiving a reprieve:

From the open doors of the church came the steady pounding of hammer and nail. Work was being done on a new platform for the altar, and I noticed as we stepped inside that the old and musty pews had been augmented with temporary chairs. Attendance must be picking up. I followed Barker down the aisle, as he inquired about the whereabouts of the Reverend Painsley. We found him pounding on the platform, as preachers are wont to do, but not generally with a claw hammer in their hand. He stopped at our approach, rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, and came forward to meet us.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Sir, we are reporters for the
Daily Dispatch,
and we are investigating the recent unrest among the Jews.”

“I’ll gladly help in any way I can, sirs,” Painsley said. He had a square jaw, blue eyes, and straight, crisp hair the color of straw. A cursory glance told me the fellow was going places and that this crumbling church would not hold him for long. There was high color in his cheeks from his physical exertions, and the strong hand he extended toward me was hard and calloused.

“A terrible tragedy, gentlemen, this crucifixion, but not totally unexpected. The Jews are making things hot for themselves here, flooding in like a Mongol horde from Eastern Europe. I fear the citizenry has grown tired of the steady influx of foreigners, and taken matters into their own hands. It is a mistake, I believe, for our government to leave the drawbridge down for all the refuse of Europe. A worse group of dirty, illiterate communists, anarchists, nihilists, and atheists have never crossed our borders before.”

“You have a way with words, if I may say, sir. Are you getting this down, Mr. Llewelyn? Do you believe the Jews have brought this action upon themselves in any way?”

I had never seen Barker play a role before. This pushy, inquisitive reporter was so unlike his normal self, I had to keep from smiling behind my notebook.

“I do,” Painsley asserted. “This is a common pattern for the Jews. They move in, as refugees, and there is a general feeling of sympathy for them for a while among the public. Gradually, they prosper and begin to charge higher and higher interest rates, as their natural avarice begins to assert itself. The sympathy fades, eventually to be replaced by disgust. The disgust boils over into anger and violence, and the Jews are driven out. Look at Russia and Eastern Europe. Look at our own history. It shall happen here, again, gentlemen. Mark my works.”

“Do you think there will be a pogrom, then, sir?”

“Of course. I mean, I hope not, but I fear it is inevitable.”

“So you believe this murder to be the work of citizens justifiably angry at the Jews for usury, or for coming in and stealing jobs?”

“Not necessarily. It is possible the Jews did it themselves.”

“Themselves?” Barker almost spat out, letting his mask slip for a moment.

“Yes. Is this the kind of murder an Englishman would commit? Certainly not! A Celt or a Teuton might kill in the heat of anger or a fatal stroke of passion, but remember, it was the Jews who crucified our Lord and Savior.”

“Are you keeping up, Mr. Llewelyn? Don’t miss a word, now. And why would the Jews crucify one of their own, Reverend Painsley?”

“To gain sympathy, I suppose,” the reverend said, breezily. “Or some internal struggle. There are many kinds of Jews, all with their own petty squabbles and hatreds. They carry their feuds for centuries, you know.”

“How dastardly.” Barker shook his head. “So, if England were to shut its doors to the thousands of Jews arriving from Eastern Europe, where would they go?”

“If the civilized countries were to close their borders, they would have no choice but to return to the oriental countries from whence they came, and through hardship, privation, and war, gradually reduce the seething mass to a more manageable size.”

“That would certainly decrease the population,” Barker said. “But what of the Jews that have been here for hundreds of years?”

“It was a mistake of Cromwell’s to let them return in the first place. London is the center of Christendom. No doubt the nobility was seduced by the prosperous Jewish merchant families and their millions of pounds. Now they are marrying into English families, even into the aristocracy. I can only hope that succeeding generations shall water down this strain until the dominant Teutonic blood overwhelms it.”

“But what of Jesus, sir?” I blurted out. “Wasn’t he a Jew?”

The fellow smiled condescendingly. “Not really, Mr., er, Llewelyn, was it? He was the ‘New Man.’ Can you picture him as a hook-nosed, kinky-haired, furtive little fellow? Of course not! He was a big, bluff carpenter, a robust leader of men, a man’s man. He was the perfect specimen of manhood, and in all ways we should aspire to be like him. Gentlemen, I don’t like turning away a group of hungry and desperate wretches any more than you. It does not seem Christian, I know. But sometimes, one must do the hard thing, when one knows it to be right.”

He sounded so logical, so convincing, that it seemed impossible that he was talking about the deaths by slow starvation and exposure of tens of thousands.

“Bravo!” Barker said, clapping the fellow on the shoulder. “Thank you, sir, for your time and your learned opinions. Look for an article in tomorrow’s
Dispatch.”

“Certainly, gentlemen,” the Reverend Painsley said, flashing us a set of perfect teeth. “Thank you.”

Barker led me back through the aisles to the entrance. Once outside, he turned immediately to his left and punched the brick three times, until his knuckles were red. The sound was drowned out by the hammering inside. He grimaced, and his teeth looked as ferocious as an angry lion’s.

“Such a pathetic mixture of half-truths, twisted logic, and outright lies I have never heard in all my born days. Of all the creatures in the garden, the serpent was the most subtle. Hook-nosed? Kinky-haired? Mongol hordes? Natural avarice? It’s a wonder I didn’t seize the fellow by the limbs and toss him the length of the sanctuary. I’m going to keep an eye on that man. He wants to make Christ over in his likeness, not the other way round.”

“He’s not alone there,” I noted. “How often have you seen pictures of a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed Christ?”

“More times than I can stomach at the moment. Jesus was a Jew from the line of David. Those paintings make him look like Siegfried from a Wagnerian opera. New Man, indeed! They look upon Christ as the first of a super race, the Aryan race, who must watch over their ‘inferiors’ and exterminate them, if necessary. Have you ever heard such distorted history? He makes it sound like the Jews sit in their ghettoes, plotting the domination of the world.”

“Do you think he actually believes this nonsense?” I asked.

Barker nodded. “You know, I wondered that myself. He got himself appointed to an old church, and now, through preaching vitriol against the Jews, he’s revitalized it. He could have a new church in the West End a year from now. He may go far, and I have nothing to fight him with, legally. He’s riding a lie to achieve power. And he’s just the first on the list. Damn and blast!”

“Who’s next?” I asked, hoping to assuage his sudden temper.

“A fellow in Chelsea. That’s too far. Here’s one in Camden. Ah, yes. Mr. Brunhoff, the Anglo-Israelite. I haven’t crossed swords with him for several months. Capital, provided we can find a cab or omnibus to take us there.”

We did indeed find an omnibus heading east as fast as a pair of draft horses could pull us. After Racket’s fleet vehicle, the pace seemed maddeningly slow, but it allowed us to talk.

“Now, if I’ve got this right, an Anglo-Israelite is a Jewish person who was born in this country.”

“No, lad,” Barker corrected, “That’s an Anglo-Jew. An Anglo-Israelite is something utterly different. Are you familiar with your Old Testament?”

“Tolerably, sir,” I said. “I’ve studied the book as a schoolboy.”

“You know that God set aside the Jews as a ‘peculiar people,’ a race chosen to have a special relationship with Him, and with whom He made an eternal blood covenant. The Anglo-Israelites believe that this ‘mantle’ of being the chosen race has fallen on the shoulders of the Aryan races, notably the British, and to a lesser extent the Germans and Americans.”

“Why do they believe that?” I asked. “What makes them think the English and Americans are the new chosen people?”

“Remember the old legend about Joseph of Arimathea coming to England?”

“You mean the ‘Stone of Scone’ and all that?”

“Correct. The story goes that after Christ’s death, Joseph brought the holy relic, the rock upon which old Jacob lay his head, to England, where it now sits under the coronation chair. As proof of the transfer of grace, God sent King Arthur and his Round Table after the Holy Grail, the chalice Jesus drank from at the Last Supper.”

“If so,” I said, with a smile, “then it never reached the English at all. Arthur was a Welshman at Tintagel. It’s the Welsh that are the chosen people, not this Anglo-Saxon lot.”

“Ha!” I’d actually made Barker laugh. “Don’t be cheeky, lad. Actually, you’ve shown the problem in microcosm. The entire thing is all about nationalism, and you know how that is sweeping across Europe. Being ‘chosen’ gives people license to do just about anything they like, from expanding into other countries’ territory, to wiping out undesirable people within one’s own borders. And the more a country prospers, the more they feel that God is on their side, and the more arrogant they become. In America, they call it ‘Manifest Destiny,’ this idea that all they do is ordained by God.”

“So the Jews are still the chosen people?” I asked, somewhat doubtfully.

“If you are a Christian, you must believe it so, because the Bible never contradicts it. A blood covenant is eternal. God never changes. I know it’s more congenial to think we are the chosen people, but one can’t build a strong biblical case for it.”

“Then how can these Anglo-Israelites go around preaching it?”

“My dear Llewelyn, you have a naive side, if I may say it. People don’t read their Bibles. They hire pastors to preach to them. And some pastors will preach total nonsense if it will tickle the congregations’ ears enough to open their purses. There are some very rich and very gullible people in the Reverend Mr. Brunhoff’s church. And they’ll defend the delusions he’s indoctrinated in them to the death.”

We got off the omnibus and traveled a block or two before coming up to another church. It still seemed strange to me, looking for a group of killers among a church congregation. I would characterize this as a neither-nor church: neither rich nor poor, neither old nor new, neither high church nor low. The name, the Universal Church of the New Jerusalem, was one of those nonconformist titles that make Church of England people uncomfortable, only one can’t say exactly why. Barker plunged into the building, going up one hallway and down another, while I bobbed along in his wake. Eventually, he found the church office and the Reverend Brunhoff.

“Not one more step, Mr. Barker!” the preacher thundered, rising from his desk at the first sight of my employer. “Get out of my church!”

“It is good to see you again, Mr. Brunhoff,” Barker said politely, as if the man had invited him in for tea. “Have you been doing well since last we spoke?”

“Do you mean, since you last accused me in front of Scotland Yard?” Brunhoff was a stocky bulldog of a fellow, with a Prussian haircut and heavy jowls. He wore a plain black suit with the cleric’s badge of office, a white tie.

“We briefly suspected him of being behind the desecration of a synagogue a year ago,” Barker said to me, conversationally, as if the threatening preacher were not even there. “That was the first case I handled for the Board of Deputies, of which you heard Sir Moses speak. It turned out to be the work of a Jewish atheist.” He turned back to face Brunhoff. “We’re investigating the murder and crucifixion of a Jewish teacher not half a mile from here.”