Against the Wind (10 page)
“America’s interests are in the Orient. Japan will not let your country live in peace.”
“It would take something pretty big to blast the U.S. off the fence.”
Eben nodded, but I knew he did not agree with Murphy’s assessment. “As long as that is the case, American shipping remains neutral. There is opportunity to carry refugees—children—away from all this.”
Murphy shrugged. “Okay, Eben. So you’re thinking…maybe I can help. Along with Elisa’s tour. More publicity in America for the kids. If transport can be arranged from England.” I could see the wheels of determination turning in Murphy’s brain. Newspaper articles about the civilian devastation in England, broadcasts to America about homeless British children—all these things might open the floodgates for immigration. America had been deaf to the pleas of Eastern Europeans. What if the cries for refuge came from English-speaking children?
Eben nodded. “We know Elisa’s trip will help promote American support. Famous concert violinist. But we’re wondering: what if she is also an escort on board an evacuee ship? Photographs of British children in the American newspapers. This week, the Blitz has put the British government to the question. Why should the son of a rich man sleep in the safety of a New York hotel while the son of a poor man dozes in a tube station below a dangerous city?”
“How does Parliament answer?”
We slowly climbed the steps of St. Mark’s. “Churchill has agreed something must be done.”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Better late than never.”
The enormous double doors swung wide on the black and white marble floor of the foyer. Early morning light beamed through stained-glass windows taped against bomb blasts. Aromas of hot porridge, tea, and toast mingled with the clamor of refugees eating breakfast on tin plates.
“Come on, then.” Loralei led us to the back of the auditorium.
Something was different in the makeup of the crowd. St. Mark’s was more jammed than I had ever seen it. The usual babble of foreign languages was laced with Cockney accents from dust-caked Londoners who had lost everything in the bombing. The din of voices and tin spoons against tin bowls was deafening.
Eben shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Every center in London is the same this morning. Filled to capacity. Each refugee center would fill the cabins on every ship.” He waited for the sight to imprint upon our minds.
“There’s someone you must meet.” Loralei led the way beneath the solemn faces of stained-glass saints to a walnut-paneled meeting room. Mr. Geoffrey Shakespeare, newly appointed chairman of the Children’s Overseas Reception Board, called CORB, awaited us. At his side was Miss Lucinda Pike, hatchet-faced headmistress of a closed London girls’ school.
Mr. Shakespeare explained, “The task of the board is to select children of all classes, organize their passage overseas, and to see to their supervision on the passage and their reception and education until the war is over.”
Miss Pike eyed me sternly through thick spectacles. “We have received 100,000 applications within a few days. An impossible number, of course.”
Shakespeare continued, “No parents, relatives, or guardians are allowed to go. The children, ranging in age from five to fifteen, cannot travel alone. It has been decided to place them in the care of escorts, who will look after them on the voyage.”
Miss Pike lowered her chin and studied me. “Your name has been offered by the Jewish Agency as a possible escort.” She gave Eben a cursory nod. “We understand your expenses are already underwritten by…some Hollywood person. Your musical expertise and experience with the BBC might prove to be of benefit to the children in the crossing.”
Mr. Shakespeare quickly added, “And you have some public notoriety in the musical field. This will certainly be of benefit in publicizing the need of British children being placed in American homes for the duration.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I offered. “I want to be a voice for refugee children, regardless of their nationality.”
Mr. Shakespeare glanced at Miss Pike as if to ask if I would be suitable.
The woman pressed her thin lips together. “We are attempting to have a fair representation of various ethnic groups among the CORB children and their escorts. Yes. You fill a slot adequately, Missus Murphy. Or do you prefer your stage name—Linder, is it?”
“Please, call me Elisa.” I smiled.
She looked away. “Missus Murphy, we shall remain at all times on a professional plane. Your married name is Irish, but you’re actually…Jewish, aren’t you?”
I felt Murphy tense. He shifted uneasily beside me.
I said, “The crossing will only be six days.”
Miss Pike intoned. “We’ll hold religious services each day. You’ll be in charge of the music. And a musical hour…instruction…each day.”
I offered, “I’ll prepare a curriculum for the children.”
Miss Pike sniffed with disapproval. “There will be foreign children among the roster. The Jewish Agency has insisted upon this. Children of Jewish persuasion. I assume with your ethnic background that you will be able to keep the Jews entertained as well?”
Loralei’s eyes widened slightly at the coldness of the headmistress. She interrupted. “Well then, thank you, Mister Shakespeare, Miss Pike. It’s settled.”
Eben interjected, “As a member of the Jewish Agency, I grant my full approval of the selection. Elisa
Lindheim
Murphy will be sailing as an escort among the CORB volunteers. Perfect. Perfect.”
I was certain Miss Pike remained unconvinced of my suitability. Murphy and I stayed behind as Miss Pike and Mr. Shakespeare took their leave.
The actual departure date and time of the sailing would not be made public because of the danger of U-boats. Evacuee children would sail with us. I would be notified soon and must pack my bags for the journey.
I sent a wire to Mama with the news. Knowing I would be gone possibly for years, she traveled down to London to be with me one last time.
All that remained of my belongings was one black concert gown and pair of low-heeled black shoes that had been in my locker at the BBC. In my handbag were a few cosmetics: a precious bottle of Chanel No. 5 from prewar Paris, a compact, and a lipstick. Every other item of clothing, including my umbrella and raincoat, was borrowed from friends. What, I wondered, would I pack to take to America? And what would I pack in?
When my friends in the orchestra heard I was sailing for America, they took up a collection and presented me with a new leather valise with my name engraved on a brass plate, and a cheque with funds enough for a shopping trip to Harrods.
With a sense of celebration, Mama and I spent the morning together shopping the bargain racks for sensible traveling clothes. I selected three skirts: khaki cotton for warm days, a solid navy blue wool, and a black watch tartan. Three blouses, a heavy Aran cardigan, and a warm, double-breasted raincoat with a thick quilted lining completed my wardrobe.
Practical. Sensible. Durable. All these descriptive words made sense in my present circumstances. I was pleased.
Mama reviewed my purchases with satisfaction and possibly amusement. “Very good, Elisa. So sturdy you could hike across the Alps in such attire. And I see you’ve enough cash left over for a special gift for your husband.”
“Something for Murphy—oh yes, Mama! He could use a new pair of warm trousers. A new tie.”
Mama smiled and shook her head from side to side. “No, my darling. You and your husband will be apart for perhaps a very long time. I promise, John Murphy will need something more than new trousers to keep him warm after you have gone.” Mama took me by the hand and led me straight to the lingerie department. She ran her fingers gently over the soft silk of a floor-length azure negligee on the mannequin. It was something Claudette Colbert might have worn in the movies. The low-cut bodice was trimmed in lace. Spaghetti straps were not meant to hold anything up for very long. Mama winked at me. “Elisa, you will look lovely in this. However briefly you may wear it. It is the wrapping only. Be sure to let Murphy open his gift, eh?”
I embraced my mother for the last time at Kings Cross rail station, then hurried back to the Savoy.
That night I lay back in the warm water of the deep tub and closed my eyes. This would be my last chance for a good long soak in a bubble bath before I reached America, and I was in no hurry to finish.
Murphy called to me through the door, “Hope the Nazi air force will give you a little time before they come back. Otherwise it’s going to be an interesting jog to the air raid shelter.”
Steam fogged the mirror. My contented voice echoed in the pale green tiled bathroom. “I’m not budging even if the entire Luftwaffe buzzes past our room.”
I heard him mutter, “Yeah, well, if they spot you through the window, they’ll be parachuting onto the roof.”
I glanced toward the green Harrods box containing the negligee. I smiled. Little did he know…
Mama was always right. She knew my last night with Murphy needed to be special.
Murphy fiddled with the dial of the radio in search of romantic music. Instead, war news blared the disaster of a passenger ship sunk by a U-boat, mid-Atlantic. Two passengers out of nearly four hundred had been killed. All the rest had been rescued after a few hours. Only two lost out of the entire ship’s company seemed a victory of sorts. Never mind that the vessel was sunk, 398 souls had been rescued and would live to sail another day.
My mind was set on joining my children on the far side of the ocean. I was undaunted by the news of the U-boat attack, though Murphy seemed shaken.
“How did the torpedo miss the British navy and manage to sink a neutral passenger ship?”
“They were aiming for the British navy and missed,” I consoled.
“Like they’re aiming for factories and hitting churches. That’s a good indication of Nazi marksmanship. I guess we should be consoled in a weird sort of way.”
He paused and poked his head into the bathroom. Grinning at me through the steam, he gave a low whistle and cupped his hands around his eyes as if he were looking through binoculars. “One look at you on deck by a U-boat crew? It’ll be up-periscope and the whole wolf pack full steam ahead.”
I chucked a wet face cloth at him. “Out!”
He howled and dodged my missile, slamming the door behind him. We continued our playful conversation through the door panel. “Now I really don’t want you to leave!”
“My goal is to make you want to come with me to America.”
“Sooner or later? ’Cuz I’m ready to sail with you right now!”
“Patience. ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik first,’” I teased.
I slipped on Murphy’s oversized, red terry-cloth robe.
“I’d feel better with you sailing away across the Atlantic if the British navy had managed to sink the U-boat.”
“Turn off the news, Murphy.”
He tuned in to Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” “Better?” he called.
I heard our room service meal arrive and the voice of the waiter discussing the day’s air raid. I ran a comb through my wet hair and daubed my last drop of Chanel No. 5 on my throat. Discarding the robe and slipping on the azure silk negligee, I was determined that my last night in England with Murphy would be one he would never forget.
Cracking the door open a bit I said, “Close your eyes before I come out.” I smiled again at Mama’s insistence that I buy this extravagant, impractical nightgown and wrap myself in silk as a gift for Murphy. “I’ve got a present for you.”
A single red rose in a water glass shone beneath the lamp on the bedside table.
Where had Murphy found a rose blooming in all of blasted London? I wondered. My violin case and the valise were packed and ready for my morning rail journey to Liverpool. The table was set with silver and fine china heaped with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
Eyes squeezed tight, Murphy slouched in the wing-backed chair, grinned, and steepled his fingers with anticipation as I emerged from the bathroom.
“When can I look?” he asked. Catching a whiff of perfume he added, “Is that the scent of dessert?”
Lamplight shimmered on blue silk. I stood over him, studying his hands, imagining his touch. “Okay. You can look now.”
Murphy opened his eyes. His crooked grin dissolved, and his gaze filled with wonder. I felt him drink me in. Were those tears I saw brimming?
“Whew.” He did not move from the chair for a long moment but simply caressed me with his eyes. Then he stood and wrapped me in his arms. He lifted my chin. Our lips met and lingered.
His voice was husky. “Elisa. Dinner will be cold, I’m afraid.” Another kiss.
I felt the embers of desire warm me. “Oh, Murphy, darling. Tell me you’ll come to me soon.”
His cheek was moist against my face. His passion was desperate. “How…how can I ever let you go? How, Elisa?”
The wicked draw the sword and bend their bows to bring down the poor and needy, to slay those whose way is upright.
P
SALM
37:14
ESV
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
DECEMBER 20, 1937