Charles suspected that this strange difference in the time was why Murphy never seemed to sleep more than a few hours. Since they had arrived in New York, the typewriter had continued to clack and ping far into the night. Charles would awaken to find poor Murphy asleep at the desk, still in his clothes. Murphy would then shower and shave and start all over again with endless interviews on the question of refugees and appointments at the medical center and still more interviews. The hours of darkness were passed writing. Sometimes Murphy would eat, but not always. Charles was worried about Murphy—more worried about him than he was worried about the surgery he was to face ten days from now.
Tonight, or this morning, Murphy’s voice boomed into the telephone as if he were trying to shout across the Atlantic all the way to London. Charles listened quietly from his dark bedroom. At first Murphy sounded excited and happy. Moments passed and the voice took on an edge of unhappiness. Charles had heard the sound of unhappiness in the voice of his father before. He knew what it sounded like.
“Speak up, Elisa! Elisa? Darling, I can barely hear you. What? What are you saying? The BBC orchestra . . . what?” A long silence followed those words. And then, “But how long?” Charles heard something like a groan. Soft and barely audible. Certainly Elisa could not have heard the groan all the way to London. “I . . . but I thought you were coming right away. If I had known about this I would have turned right around and come back to England. Now Charles is scheduled for surgery, and I . . .”
The voice sounded angry now. It made Charles feel sad that his own name was recited with anger. He wished that Murphy would go on back to England, leaving him in the care of Bubbe Rosenfelt. He should go back to be with Elisa so he would not be angry. Maybe if he was with Elisa he would sleep in a bed and eat breakfast and lunch and supper.
Murphy sounded exhausted. “No . . . yes. I suppose I’ll survive. Work? Sure. I’ve gotten myself smack in the middle of the refugee problem here, but—” Murphy sighed loudly. Charles could see Murphy’s long legs stretch out from where he sprawled on the couch. “If I had known . . . no. Well, of course I see how important . . . what a break it is for you, but . . . but . . . sure, yeah. I’ll give Charles your love. Sure. Yeah. I . . . love you too, Elisa. Next week. You’ll call next week? Same time. Sure. Fifty bucks for three minutes. Sure. Good-bye, darling.”
Murphy had trouble replacing the receiver. It banged and rattled.
Through the crack in the door, Charles could see Murphy was lonely. Charles knew about that. He climbed out of his warm bed and tiptoed quietly to the doorway. He stood very still for a long time and watched, but Murphy did not move. He only sighed a lot and exhaled loudly as if he might breathe deeply enough to relieve some terrible pain.
At last Charles coughed—a soft cough to let Murphy know he was there. Murphy looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and he appeared to be sick.
“Hi ya, kiddo,” he said. It was not the usual happy greeting. “You need something? Water? Bathroom? You have a bad dream?”
Charles shook his head and walked slowly toward Murphy. Three feet from him he stopped and waited patiently.
“What?” Murphy asked again.
In reply, Charles put out his arms. A hug.
With a muffled cry, Murphy enfolded him in an embrace. “Me, too, Charles,” he said. “Just what I was missing.”
24
Do-Gooders and Jew-Lovers
“America’s Loss Is England’s Gain!” The headline on the entertainment page of the London Times ran just above the photograph of the lovely blond violinist performing with the renowned BBC Symphony Orchestra. The article read:
A fortnight ago, a beautiful young violinist named Elisa Linder-Murphy fainted on the docks of Southampton and missed sailing to America onboard the Queen Mary. Those of us privileged enough to have heard Elisa Linder perform in her native Vienna were delighted to hear that her bout with influenza is over and that she has been signed to perform with the BBC Symphony Orchestra as a soloist over the next several weeks.
The article continued with reference to a daring escape from Nazi-occupied Austria and the incident in the Czech National Theater when the assassination of President Beneš had been thwarted by her warning. No mention was made of where she was staying in London. It was assumed by Colonel Tedrick that the Gestapo would pick up such details easily enough on their own.
Several different versions of Elisa’s agreement to perform with the BBC were published in dozens of publications in England and even across the Channel in France where the BBC was listened to as well. Most of the news accounts published the photograph as well. However, Colonel Tedrick considered that his goal had been accomplished merely by the publication of the information. He made certain that a copy of the article was cut out of one of the lesser newspapers and tucked into an envelope with a personal letter for Murphy from Elisa. The letter was placed in a mail pouch bound for America onboard the Queen Mary.
***
Murphy was in good company on the express train from New York to Washington, D.C. Eddie Cantor and Rabbi Stephen Wise represented the American Jewish perspective along with Dr. Nahum Goldmann, the hard-driving founder of the World Jewish Congress. On the Christian end of the spectrum, Dr. Henry Lieper, secretary of the Federal Council of Churches, had come as spokesman of twenty-two million church members and twenty-four Protestant denominations. Catholic Bishop Bernard Sheil had come to represent Cardinal Mundelein of Chicago.
Along with the two hundred thousand signatures favoring assistance to the refugees onboard the Darien, these leaders of the American religious communities made up an impressive roster for the meeting scheduled with Secretary of State Hull in Washington.
True to his word, Secretary of the Interior Ickes had helped arrange the meeting. He had not forgotten his offer to help, which he made onboard the Queen Mary.
Secretary of State Hull was over seventy years old. He was a handsome, tall Tennessee congressman, who had become a senator, and finally Roosevelt’s secretary of state. He was known for his keen political sense—a real horse trader, some said with admiration. His political savvy, then, tempered whatever personal feelings he might have acted on in regard to the immigration policies. His wife was Jewish, yet Hull still had not been persuaded to soften the immigration restrictions that prevented so many desperate and qualified applicants to flee Nazi persecution.
Secretary Hull sat behind his desk and scanned the stacks of petitions as if he might somehow recognize the names. The distinguished committee sat silently before him, waiting for some reply.
“Impressive,” Hull drawled at last. “A moving show of unity. Jews. Catholics. Protestants. But the law of the land is still the law.”
Each man in the room took a turn at appealing to factors beyond the government, beyond restrictions—humanity, the cause of right and wrong, standing for what was right.
Bishop Sheil concluded quietly, “In providing these people sanctuary—especially the children—where they can grow up in the ways of peace and walk in the paths of freedom, we will help not only them but ourselves. If we suffer little children to come unto us, we will demonstrate to the world our own devotion to the sanctity of human life.”
Hull nodded thoughtfully and then replied to the men who had gathered to plead for those onboard the Darien—and for those who remained behind in the Reich. “At this point we cannot grant those refugees asylum.”
“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 b
een 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 dis
consolately 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.