And his success made Haj Amin extremely angry.
“This Samuel Orde—” he drummed his long effeminate fingers against the notes—“You call him the most dangerous man in the British Mandate, Herr Vargen.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at the German commander chosen by Hitler to assist with the Muslim rebellion.
“Dangerous,” Vargen repeated, his face betraying no emotion, “because he is not afraid to fight.”
“We are not afraid to fight.”
“You pay these men of yours ten pounds a month and promise them Paradise if they die fighting Jews and killing Englishmen. But they are still not half the fighters this Orde has managed to bring in. Professional British commandos, I believe, dressed as Jewish settlers. Your peasants are no match for them.”
Haj Amin flushed with anger at the insult. “Then perhaps if the British are bringing in more special troops, we shall put the question to the Führer as well. Is that what you are suggesting?”
“For a start. I have sent my recommendations to Berlin. But most of all, I believe it is essential that we eliminate the Englishman, Captain Orde. Perhaps we might issue a bounty for his head. And then, politically, we must have the Arab leadership remaining in Jerusalem file an official complaint. The Führer agrees. This is not a matter of self-defense any longer, but attacks.” He passed a typed memo from Berlin to the Mufti. It had just arrived at the German Embassy in Baghdad and bore the official seal of the Reich. It was signed with the name of Adolf Hitler, and addressed to the Mufti of Jerusalem in exile.
One cannot forget, my friend, that the British are basically political beasts, swayed by all political criticism, very conscious of public demonstrations and disapproval, and eager to please whoever is the most vocally unhappy. I would recommend a two-pronged attack on this one English captain in Palestine who is effective against us. Eliminate him physically, if possible. The Reich will transfer ten thousand pounds into your account for this purpose. Failing that, make certain that the Arab Higher Committee of Jerusalem in your absence files protests of outrage against Captain Orde’s obviously pro-Zionist leadership.
We work together in a common cause. Stand firm in your resolve and we will live to see the world rid of the troublesome Jews without fail.
Warm greetings,
A. Hitler
Along with the personal note of encouragement from the Führer, plans were included that duplicated the concentration camps already built throughout the Reich. Written neatly in Arabic script at the bottom of the blueprint were these words: FOR THE ELIMINATION OF THE JEWISH PROBLEM IN PALESTINE.
This brought a smile to the lips of Haj Amin for the first time in days.
***
The study in the Red Lion House seemed uncomfortably warm to Theo. He tugged his collar and mopped his brow.
Murphy tossed another scoop of coal onto the fire. He was not perspiring. Elisa sat wrapped in a blanket. Anna wore a sweater. Perhaps the open threats in Hitler’s speech made Theo sweat.
He looked up at the clock: half-past eight. The voice of the Führer, like a razor, cut away the self-righteous illusions of the nations.
“Nor can I see a reason why the members of this Jewish race should be imposed on the German nation, while in the nations so enthusiastic about these ‘splendid people’ their immigration is refused with every imaginable excuse. I think the sooner this problem is resolved the better, for Europe cannot settle down until the Jewish question is cleared up! It may well be possible that sooner or later an agreement on this problem may be reached in Europe, even between those nations that otherwise do not so easily come together. The Jewish race will have to adapt itself to sound constructive activity as other nations do, or sooner or later it will succumb to a crisis of an inconceivable magnitude.”
Elisa raised her head, daring to interrupt for the first time. “What can he mean by that? Wasn’t Kristal Nacht enough? Can there be more?”
At the time, the violence of Kristal Nacht had seemed inconceivable to Theo. Now Hitler declared something more terrible, something that the human mind could not imagine. And he was stating his intention over the airways of the BBC.
“One thing I should like to say on this day, which may be memorable for others as well as for us Germans: In the course of my life I have often been a prophet and have usually bene ridiculed for it. During the time of my struggle for power, the Jewish race received my prophecies with laughter when I said that one day I would take over the leadership of the state and the nation and that I would settle the Jewish problem. Their laughter was uproarious. But now they are laughing out of the other side of their face! Today I will once more be a prophet!”
Here Hitler paused as the world waited to hear the prophecy he would utter to the Jews of Europe. Anna took Theo’s hand and glanced fearfully at him as Hitler boomed:
“If the international Jewish financiers in and outside Europe should succeed in plunging the nations into a world war, then the result will not be the bolshevization of the earth and the victory of Jewry, but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe!”
Annihilation. The word was simple enough. It was, indeed, inconceivable and yet no longer did Theo doubt what the Führer of Germany was saying.
“He means to kill them all,” Theo said quietly.
Eyes raised to look at him, to study his face, to see if Theo truly believed such a thing was possible.
Theo cleared his throat. “He means it. And he has made the German people ready.” He wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “In 1933, the year he came to power, one million babies were aborted in Germany. Then came permissible euthanasia, mercy killing of the old. That led to selective euthanasia, the murder of those who were mentally unworthy, racially unworthy. And then there were the children like Charles—the killing of babies who were considered imperfect.” He stared at each member of his family. “Annihilation of the Jews of Europe. His excuse for that will be war. The inconceivable is not only possible, he means to do it.”
Murphy no longer needed convincing. The Kristal Nacht reports had eliminated all pretense that Germany was still a basically civilized country. “What do we do now, Theo?” Murphy asked. “What will it take before people believe this?”
“They believe it already.” Theo rose and walked slowly toward the window. He swept his arm across the sleepy little square. “They have heard it. Who can doubt that the threat is real? Most do not care to think about it. But those who do hear and think and have a conscience must also have a plan.”
“We can’t wait for the British government,” Murphy said, leaning heavily against the mantel. “And no one in America is any better as far as the government is concerned.”
“Then I say we go back to doing things the old way.” Elisa raised her chin defiantly. “Passports smuggled in. Forged papers. Why do we need to play their game? Hitler is right. The democracies are barrels of hypocrisy. The churches will not help. Why don’t we go back to doing it the way it was done before?”
Anna answered. “Because we are being watched. Your father has been warned that if he works outside the immigration laws and quotas, he will be deported back to Germany.”
She did not need to explain further. The group fell silent once again under that ominous reality.
Minutes passed. The speech of the Führer continued. Crowds roared their approval of his policies. Yes, he is a prophet, they seemed to say. And they were all quite willing to fulfill his prophecies.
***
The telephone call from Sir Thomas Beecham, conductor of the London Philharmonic Orchestra, issued a call to arms for every musician.
“Yes, yes!” he said to Elisa. “It is already arranged with the BBC. We begin rehearsal in an hour. Bring your fiddle and be ready to work!”
And so the musicians who had fled Germany for the safe haven of Covent Garden prepared for their first battle cry against the horrors of the Night of Broken Glass. Every face was grim; many eyes were red with tears of anger and fear for lov
ed ones who remained behind in Germany. But their hands did not tremble as they held their instruments and listened to Sir Thomas as he explained the message he intended to send straight to the Chancellory in Berlin.
Standing tall and bull-necked on the conductor’s hand, Sir Thomas directed his steely gaze to those musicians he knew had suffered the most under Nazi policies. He had heard Elisa’s story of the fall of Vienna. He knew well the part her Guarnerius violin had played in that struggle to save the lives of Jewish children. He also suspected that the darkest days were yet to come.
“In Germany, those of you who are Jewish are forbidden to play the works of Beethoven. But we shall throw this music back in the teeth of Adolf Hitler!” He paused and thumbed through his music folder. “We had planned to open our season with Mendelssohn tonight, but since this is to be broadcast also in Germany, it occurred to me that Beethoven’s Fifth might be a better message to send, eh?”
No one smiled. Elisa looked from face to face and pictured where old friends might have been sitting on the stage of the Musikverein. She felt homesick for them and angry.
Sir Thomas Beecham continued. “For those of you who are not familiar with Morse code, I will tell you that the letter V is three dots and a dash. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth are. . . .”
One at a time, faces broke into smiles as the musicians remembered the score, and Sir Thomas held up his fingers in the V-for-victory sign. Simple. Three dots and a dash put to music. The letter for victory had been written by Beethoven long before Morse had invented his code.
“We must speak to the persecuted who remain trapped in the Reich, my children!” Sir Thomas held his fingers higher and answering hands rose among the orchestra. “Hitler thinks he has refused you victory, but we here in England will send the message back to Germany. Your friends and family will hear it on the BBC and have hope tonight!”
***
Peter tuned Herr Ruger’s radio with the delicacy of a safe-cracker. Suddenly the static gave way to clear, elegant tones of Sir Thomas Beecham’s voice.
“Among the musicians of the London Philharmonic are men and women driven from the orchestras of Germany by policies of racial madness which transcend any since the Dark Ages. Intolerance by Germany has blessed the democracies with great talent; for this we may thank the German leaders with all our hearts! These talented people belong with us now, and through their instruments we send a message of victory yet to come to those who still cringe beneath the lash of the tyrant!”
It was a good speech. Peter and his mother took turns translating the best of it to Marlene, who was not really interested.
England! For Peter, the voice of the BBC was like water in the desert of last night’s destruction. Through forbidden music, a sermon of hope was preached, and for an hour tonight, he did not think of the smoldering ruins of the Turnergasse Synagogue or the prisoner lorries that had taken his friends away. He found himself looking at Herr Ruger’s photograph of Hitler and feeling strangely triumphant, as if a prophecy rang out in the notes, as if victory lay nearly within his reach.
***
The Nazis had searched New Church from top to bottom, and a miracle had occurred. Not only had they passed by the organ bellows, they had also overlooked the cupboard in Pastor Ibsen’s office where the radio was kept. God had somehow blinded the eyes of their pursuers to keep them from finding the radio.
For Lori, food did not seem half so important as that link with the outside world. Tonight, in the nearly total blackness of the church, she led Jacob and Mark to the windowless study and ordered them to sit. She did not need to switch on the light.
She groped along the wall of cabinets to the one containing the radio. Jacob closed the door of the study as she turned the knob and a low whistle announced the first words from the outside.
“Papa kept it tuned to the BBC,” she said in a hushed voice. “The only real news.”
The voice of Sir Thomas Beecham crackled over the radio. Lori, a shadow by the light of the dials, turned down the volume.
Jacob spoke impatiently. “How will we know the news if this fellow is talking in English only?”
Lori translated the little speech given by the British conductor about Beethoven and victory. The words made them all feel better. Someone in England knows what happened in Berlin! And now they tell us to have hope!
Jacob had never cared much for classical music, but he sat spellbound as the forbidden music of Beethoven signaled that the sound of smashing glass had been heard beyond the borders of the Third Reich.
***
Lucy lay in the dark on her bed and listened to the faraway music of London’s BBC. It was forbidden, of course, but everyone with a radio listened to England all the same—for this reason the authorities had demanded that all Jews turn in their radios. Hitler did not like the thought of Jews taking comfort from the self-righteous pronouncements of the British against the Reich.
Tonight Lucy felt especially sorry for the Jews of Germany who could not hear this musical condemnation of the riots against them.
Beethoven’s Fifth. Music and victory. Only an Englishman would make such a connection and have the audacity to announce it over the radio. Three dots and a dash, indeed! According to rumor, Hitler himself listened to the BBC to hear what the British were thinking. Maybe tonight he had heard the English conductor thank the Führer for sending England the finest musicians in the world. Perhaps Hitler paced and raged while the London Philharmonic Orchestra gave his nasty racial laws a good stiff slap in the face! Lucy hoped so. She hoped that Sir Thomas Beecham had ruined Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony forever and always for the Führer! From this night on, Beethoven’s Fifth would be Lucy’s secret theme song.
16
Death by Politics
The wind blew high above Jerusalem, pushing the clouds across the sky like sailing ships. The British Union Jack strained against the flagpole; metal clips on the flag clanged like a warning bell as Samuel Orde strode up the steps of the British High Command.
Soldiers on either side of the door saluted, their neatly pressed uniforms and spit-shined shoes a distinct contrast to Orde’s rumpled khakis. He returned their salute. I haven’t missed all this, he thought as he caught some hint of foreboding in their manner toward him. So. Here I am again. Up to my neck in hot water.
“General Wavell will see you, Captain Orde.” The adjutant led him into the small office that overlooked the Old City panorama across the Valley of Hinnom.
Wavell barely acknowledged Orde’s salute. He motioned to a chair and studied his reports before he cleared his throat in an embarrassed way. “Well, so you have been cleaning out the rats’ nests in Galilee.”
“Been quite successful. Night raids. Catching them off guard. Striking first.”
Wavell slapped a hand down on his desk and leaned back, glaring at Orde. “And who are you using for soldiers, Orde?”
The general did not need to ask. He knew. Everyone knew what was happening in the north. A collection of ragtag Jewish settlers trained and armed by this English officer, were beating the socks off a combination of Arab mercenaries from all over the Middle East who were armed with German- and Turkish-made rifles. It was a stunning success. Orde had written about it himself and sent the stories to Murphy’s TENS office in London under a pseudonym.
Orde considered the red face of the commander opposite him. “I am using anyone who is available and not afraid to die.”
“You are training Jews! Everyone knows it, Orde. Strictly against the policy of the Mandate! You are putting weapons into the hands of the Zionists, making them potentially capable of turning those weapons on us.”
“Their weapons are captured German ordnance.” He did not back away from the challenge. He had broken every rule in the book and yet had been right in doing so. “German-made. You know what that means.” He leaned forward with urgency. “The Nazis have come here, just as they are fighting with the Fascists in Spain and calling the Loyalists who o
ppose them all Communists—”
“We are trying to keep a lid on this thing.”
“The lid was off long ago. The Zionists are the only friends we have, General Wavell. And we have tied their hands and put them in front of a firing squad where Hitler is the judge and Haj Amin is the executioner!”
“We are protecting the settlements as well as possible. That was your assignment as an English Officer!”
“And I have fulfilled my duty!” Orde replied angrily. “While Arab gangs have closed down the roads to British vehicles every night since the rebellion began, I have kept our roads open in Galilee. There have been murders all over the rest of the Mandate, but only two since I arrived in Galilee.”
“You know most of the staff officers favor Arabs.”
“A sentimental hangover from the days when Lawrence led the Bedouins against the Turks.”
“And you fancy yourself another Lawrence of Arabia, eh? Orde of Palestine?” His eyes burned with the challenge. “Savior of the Zionist cause?” He held up a sheaf of articles Orde had written about his own exploits in Galilee against the gangs. “You are your own press agent—exploitation and egotism in the highest!”
Orde managed a slight smile. He never expected to fool anyone with his pseudonym. He had only wanted to shame the British High Command into training and equipping the Jewish settlers to fight a mutual enemy.
“We are defeating the enemy on the field of battle. There is nothing written in the articles that is not absolute truth.”
“I will tell you the truth, Captain Orde, and the truth comes to me straight from Whitehall in London! The truth is that our government does not consider the Arab gangs of Haj Amin to be our enemies. They are simply discontented with the way things stand. They may well be future allies and the Arab Higher Committee does not consider it in the interest of future peace in this region for us to allow the Jews to fight at our sides. Arabs do not fight at our sides in this conflict, after all.”