His serious blue eyes looked back from the mirror. In his mind, Charles warned himself, Do not get too happy, Charles. You were happy with Father in Vienna, then the Nazis came. Everything could go away and then you would feel worse. He would not tell Elisa that he was scared anymore, because that made her worry. But he would be careful all the same. It did not pay to feel too happy.
***
“Guten Tag, Pastor Ibsen,” the camp commandant said pleasantly, as if greeting him at the door after Sunday service. “Did you hear us singing hymns in chapel this morning?”
Pastor Karl stared straight ahead at the wall map of Poland. He had heard the singing, yes, and the sound of such music coming from the mouths of men like this had sickened him. He did not reply.
“We sing quite well, I think.” The commandant tapped a cigarette on his desk and then held the open case toward Karl if he would care to smoke. Cigarettes were highly prized by prisoners. The commandant was hoping to thaw the ice of this stubborn iron-jawed churchman. “You do not smoke?”
Karl stared over the officer’s head toward the blue sky shining through the window behind him.
The commandant lit his cigarette and rocked back in his squeaking desk chair. “There has been a change in policy,” he continued in his too-pleasant voice. “You are to be relieved of your work among the other prisoners.”
A pause. Karl let his eyes flit down to skim the pockmarked face of the officer. “I told you. I will not sign your paper.”
The commandant laughed. “Such strength of character we consider admirable. Of great benefit to the German people, if it is channeled properly.”
“You will not cut a new path for this stream,” Karl said softly.
“A man of conviction. A true German. A son whom the Fatherland does not wish to lose.” He waved his hand in the direction of Hitler’s glaring portrait. “Clemency has been offered. You are a Christian. A man of God. You should have a time of rest. A time to think and read and bathe.”
At the mention of a bath, Karl’s eyes flickered with an instant of longing. In a split second he mastered that basic desire for cleanliness and masked his face with resolve again.
But the commandant had seen that desire. It made him cheerful. “I see you approve.”
“I prefer to remain with the others,” Karl said, regretting having shown even that brief weakness.
“We would not think of it. The Führer has given the order personally that you are to be treated well. You are a man of God, after all.”
“I am a Jew,” Karl said, as though declaring his nationality. “Let me go back.”
The cheek of the commandant twitched in a flash of impatience. But he also mastered his emotion quickly. He shrugged. “You are as Aryan as Adolf Hitler. We know this. That is why we are patient. You have been among the Jews too long. It is natural that you—”
“I am a Jew,” Karl said again, firmly.
The commandant was determined not to lose before he had really even begun the process of winning back Pastor Ibsen to the German fold. He spoke to him as though speaking to a child. “Your race entitles you to a gift from the German people whom you have served as pastor. A little time out of the cold. It is cold.” He tapped the ashes of his cigarette. “You still have friends in high places in Berlin, you see. People who wish to see you back home where you belong, preaching as you did before.” It was a lie, meant to personalize the offer of warmth and a bath and a day of rest.
Karl saw through the lie. “I have only one friend in high places, and He is not of this world.”
The commandant mashed out his cigarette and smiled less easily at this reply. “You are not above the law or the commands of the Führer. He is the highest authority in the land, and so we shall both comply with his offer of clemency.” He pushed a button on his intercom and two armed guards immediately appeared to escort Karl from the office, across a snow-dusted gravel courtyard to the empty shower room used by Nazi soldiers and officers.
Karl hesitated a moment at the step and looked up to see five hundred of his fellow prisoners, row on row, beyond the wire fence. They were turned so that they might clearly witness the mud-coated pastor enter the building and emerge thirty minutes later as clean as any free man in Berlin.
24
Never Give In to Fear
Rain crackled down on ten thousand black London umbrellas. The broad picture-postcard view of Parliament and the river Thames was obscured from Charles as he clung to Elisa’s hand and dashed up stone steps and into echoing corridors filled with people. His child’s view was not of majestic stone arches and polished floors, but a forest of pin-striped pants and ladies’ coats and dripping galoshes in the cloak room. This place where Murphy said the English ran their empire was very confusing.
Charles was afraid of being lost. Such a crowd and such noise reminded him of Vienna in the open square before he had lost Father forever. The big people did not see that he and Louis were down below and in danger of being stepped on. The endless babble of their voices was unintelligible. Charles tried to hear only Elisa’s words.
“Up those stairs to the gallery? Mother and Papa came early . . . they’ll be sitting with Dr. Weizmann. No, not in the press gallery.”
He held desperately to her hand as she inched her way through the mob. Keeping his eyes on her face, he could see that she was attempting to smile pleasantly, although her eyes seemed worried. Murphy had said he would meet them there. But how would Murphy find them in such a busy place? The current of the crowd moved forward toward the steps.
“Hold the banister.” Elisa looked down at Charles. Her blue eyes matched her hat and her dress, light and pretty like sunlight beaming down through a dark wood. Charles smiled back from beneath his scarf.
Then, behind them a voice harumphed and called out, “Mrs. Murphy! Elisa!”
Charles knew the voice. It was Winston Churchill. Elisa stopped on the bottom step and turned. She raised her hand to wave, and Charles grasped the fabric of her dress. He did not take his eyes from her face as she looked toward the voice.
“Did you bring the little men?” Churchill asked. He could not see them either, so Charles raised his hand to mark his place on the lower step. People pushed impatiently past them, but they did not yield.
“Good morning . . . a day of hope for us all,” Elisa called.
Charles heard no hope in her voice. Still, his stomach churned with excitement. He did not think about the crush of trousers and shoes. There was something wonderful at the top of the stairs!
A big belly towered above him. The full-moon face of Winston Churchill beamed down. Watery blue eyes twinkled out from heavy lids, and the great man’s lower lip jutted out in a crooked smile. Churchill bent at the waist and extended his hand first to Louis and then to Charles. “How do you do? Master Louis Kronenberger. Master Charles Kronenberger.”
“How . . . how . . . do you . . . ”
Churchill focused his attention on Charles. “I am pleased you could come, young man.” The chin jutted out in thought as he laid a thick hand on Charles’s head. The face moved closer until that was all that Charles could see. Churchill pushed the scarf down, exposing Charles’ mouth. “There. That’s better.”
Charles noticed that Churchill’s lower lip also stuck out farther than his upper lip, and he smiled.
“A smile to give me strength,” Churchill said. “You must remember, young man . . . never give in to fear. Never, never, never give in! I shall look for you in the gallery.”
Another quick shake of the hand, and the big face was gone. Once again they turned their attention to the steep stairs. Charles did not think about putting the scarf back in place. He did not think about the pink scar on his lip. Something good was about to happen, and he let go of Elisa’s hand and charged up the steps ahead of everyone.
***
An electric atmosphere permeated the hall of the House of Commons. Elisa could feel Murphy’s tenseness as she took her place beside him in the pres
s gallery. Several rows to her right, the faces of Anna and Theo reflected the same deep concern as the expression of the Zionist Chaim Weizmann beside them. Anna managed a smile and a small wave to the boys. Elisa wished they could have sat together; that she might have been able to hold her mother’s hand the way Charles clung to her now. Elisa felt very young and small as she considered the importance of the coming debate. Thousands of lives depended on the results. The riots Leah reported in her letters from Jerusalem seemed to put all hope in jeopardy.
“Winston was looking for you,” Murphy whispered.
“He found us.” Elisa looked over the rail of the gallery as members of Parliament took their places on the long benches. Prime Minister Chamberlain and his Cabinet cronies sat facing Winston Churchill and the opposition party. Charles leaned against the rail and waved shyly at Churchill, who spotted him immediately and managed a lopsided smile of acknowledgement for his smallest fan.
Charles nudged Elisa and pointed downward. There was the fellow who would not give in. Never give in!
How grateful Elisa was that Winston had taken the time to seek out Charles and whisper such brave words. If the Old Lion had clapped her on the back and directed his comments to her alone, it would not have meant half so much as his kindness to Charles. She noticed that the child laid the scarf over the back of his chair as though he had brought it along by mistake and should have left it in the cloak room. Murphy also saw the discarded scarf and shared a sigh of relief with Elisa.
“So what did Winston say?” Murphy asked, his eyes lingering on the scarf.
“He said, ‘Never give in to fear.’” Elisa repeated the words as if they were a prayer for Charles and for everyone who was threatened now. Such brave words made her think of Thomas and the photograph they should never have seen. The sight had made her fear—for herself, for her family, and for the many thousands who lived within the shadow of such brutality. Yes, she was afraid, but she would not give in to it. There was too much to do. They could not be paralyzed by threats.
The bulldog face of Churchill turned upward one more time to the gallery. He winked and gave Charles the V-for-victory sign. And then the battle began.
Elisa found herself more concerned with the reactions of the boys than with the debate. Louis fell asleep after a restless hour in his chair. But Charles sparked with interest, although he could not have understood most of what was being said. His eyes were intense. He stared hard at Winston Churchill, frowning when the statesman frowned, nodding when Churchill made a comment on the proceedings.
Elisa noted that Charles’ lower lip jutted out in imitation of Churchill when Colonial Secretary Malcolm MacDonald took the podium. When the same look of defiance as Churchill wore showed in the child’s eyes, Elisa knew that Charles had found his hero. A sense of gratitude filled her eyes with tears.
MacDonald began to speak, and his words rang out the death knell for those trapped in Germany. But Elisa, like Charles, had heard a sermon on the steps of the Commons. A one-line lesson in courage had been etched on their hearts.
“The tragedy of people who have no country has never been so deep as it is this week,” MacDonald began.
“Hear! Hear!” cried Churchill and a handful of others.
“But I must sound a word of warning . . . ”
Murphy leaned close to Elisa. “Here comes the blow.”
“When we promised to facilitate a national home for the Jews, we never anticipated this fierce opposition by the Arabs.”
Charles sat forward on the edge of his seat. His small, pale hands were clenched in tight fists on his lap as he listened and tried to make sense of what was being said.
Yes, it was true that the Jews had made the desert bloom in the Mandate. Yes, it was also true that the Arabs poured across the border at a rate of 35,000 a year to enjoy the benefits of that progress. But it was equally true that they had now begun to fear Jewish domination. The riots of the Mufti’s men were purely a matter of protest against further immigration. England was being forced to pay attention. How could the persecuted souls of Germany settle in a place where they would surely be slaughtered?
The men on Chamberlain’s side of the room cheered MacDonald as he finished. Such reasoning made sense. If the Jews went to Palestine and were slaughtered, then they were Britain’s responsibility. If they remained in Germany, the blood was on the hands of Hitler. No one liked responsibility!
Churchill’s turn came. Louis slept on, while Charles rested his chin on the rail to drink in every word and mannerism.
Churchill studied his notes in silence, then his glasses came off again and he shoved his notes back into his pocket. He would speak from the heart. In one final loving call to courage, he raised his eyes to Charles. The look was steady and unwavering, as though he were speaking to every child still suffering within the Reich. All of them watched him. Every mouth was marked with a thin pink scar, but every heart was guileless and innocent. A million young faces looked down through the eyes of Charles Kronenberger and asked for help.
Perhaps, Elisa thought as she observed the silent understanding that passed between the great man and that small boy, Churchill had invited Charles here as a witness to his own heart.
A minute later the voice resonated with measured cadence in the hall: “People . . . children . . . are dying, meeting grisly deaths from day to day. Only two weeks have passed since the Night of Broken Glass devastated the persecuted of Germany, and we have already forgotten their misery! People are dying. While here—” he swept a hand toward Chamberlain—“all that is done is to have debates and pay compliments and above all run no risk of making any decision to help!”
The faces of the opposition stared back with open contempt as he spoke.
“Never give in,” Elisa breathed. Her heart beat faster as she realized just how unpopular these words were. How much this man risked to speak out!
“In regard to our pledge for a Jewish homeland, it is obviously right for us to decide now that Jewish immigration into the Mandate should be equal to Arab immigration each year. My honorable friend has put the figure of Arabs crossing the Jordan at 35,000 a year. Jewish immigration should be equal. It is just! If the Arab gangs refuse to accept this, then we should consider our obligation to them discharged!”
The outcry of the opposition drowned out the voice of Winston Churchill. Someone behind Chamberlain howled that the reason for the troubles in Palestine was the presence of the Zionists! “The Arabs could be managed if it were not for the Jews! After all, that is why the Arab gangs attacked—”
As the crowd shouted Churchill from the podium, Elisa regretted that Charles had come here after all. But then she looked at him. He brushed his blond hair back defiantly and raised his chin. His blue eyes blazed angrily and he stood up, holding his hand high in the air for Churchill to see. Little fingers were raised in an unmistakable V sign.
Churchill inclined his large head in thanks. Never give in!
It was the winter of Munich, the season of defeat and appeasement of evil, Elisa thought as she listened to the uproar of seared consciences. But here blazed the bright flame of one candle that had been passed on to another fragile wick. The battle must be won now, one life at a time.
The outcry of those opposed to the immigration of children to Palestine began to die away. But a louder, more insistent sound penetrated the high windows of the Commons above the gallery.
Horns and voices mingled together. The faces of the MPs reflected confusion, then concern. The unmistakable outrage of a massive crowd could be heard.
“SEND PARLIAMENT TO BERLIN!”
“NO ROOM IN COMMONS!”
“COMMONS CONCENTRATION CAMP!”
At a stern nod from Prime Minister Chamberlain, MacDonald stepped to the podium. The roar of the crowd extended from the streets in an unending wave.
“There you have the voice of the people of Britain! Our honorable friends may see by their outrage that we must consider the needs of our homel
and first! There! There is the British reply to those who would embroil us in a conflict which—” His words were almost drowned out by a fresh blast of horns from small boats and barges on the Thames.
Elisa lowered her head with a heartache at such a demonstration against a hand extended to help the innocent.
Charles sat up and smiled, not comprehending the meaning of it. The light from the windows reflected on his face.
Louis woke up and frowned at the din. “What is it?”
On the floor, MacDonald continued. “The people have spoken, and now it remains for us to respond to their wishes.”
At that, a small elderly man in a dark suit hurried across the floor to whisper in the ear of Prime Minister Chamberlain. Chamberlain’s face reflected concern, then astonishment. He gazed up at the vibrating windows as if trying to understand.
“They want the kids,” Charles said, holding up his fingers to Churchill again.
“No, Charles—” Elisa started to explain. Then the stirrings among the men on the floor stopped MacDonald midsentence.
More blaring horns. Voices shouted from bullhorns as the prime minster rose and MacDonald stepped down.
“It seems . . . ,” Chamberlain said with a croaking voice, “we are asked not to venture out. There is a . . . demonstration, you see. People. Fifty thousand?” He looked over his shoulder at the messenger, who nodded. Yes. At least that many.
They packed Parliament Square and blocked the traffic of St. Margaret Street. Rushing through the gates of New Palace Yard, thousands had stormed the entrance of Westminster Hall, threatening to invade the House of Commons itself! A young clergyman had climbed the statue of Oliver Cromwell to lead the cheering crowd.
A chant began outside: “LET THEM COME! OPEN THE GATES!”
Churchill raised his head. Had he heard right? A slow smile spread across his face. Fifty thousand British men and women had taken to the streets! And now their voices joined the few within the government who had cast a vote for mercy.