Munich Signature (28 page)

The aromas of bacon and sausage and eggs benedict filled their senses. Waiters scurried across the rich, red floral carpet. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the room. The ceiling, twenty feet high, had leaded-glass skylights. An enormous buffet table was topped by an ice sculpture of dolphins leaping from a sea of delicacies. At one end, a portly chef carved roast beef; on the other, a huge ham was being served. Waiters scurried about the room pouring champagne for some and coffee for others. All the while, a string quartet played the lyric melodies of Mozart from a corner stage.

Charles gripped Murphy’s hand as the maitre d’ led them to their table. Murphy’s eyes scanned the crowded room for some glimpse of Eddie Cantor or Henry Ford. White tablecloths. Red cloth napkins. Sterling silver tableware and china dishes edged with gold. Murphy wondered if Cantor and Ford would air their differences in a public explosion, or simply simmer like the food in the buffet steamers.

“You are seated here, sir.” The head waiter bowed. Murphy barely heard him. He was still scanning the crowd.

“I hear Eddie Cantor is here,” Murphy said quietly. “He’s one of my favorite movie stars.”

The head waiter smiled as he glimpsed the five-dollar tip Murphy slipped into his hand. In such a vast room, guests often needed help spotting the movie stars and celebrities who often traveled on the
Queen.

“Mr. Cantor is just there, sir,” the head waiter nodded. “Table four. At the front near the string players.”

Murphy spotted him easily now, dark-eyed and smoldering in his velvet chair. Apparently Mr. Cantor had not only seen Henry Ford in the flesh, he had also seen the photos of Ford and Hitler. From there it was easy to spot Ford. His table was just opposite Cantor’s and filled with admiring yes-men and adoring women. Ford seemed to be enjoying himself. Ford had pretended not to see Cantor and was quite loudly making sure Cantor knew that the Ford magnate had no intention of seeing him, either.

The head waiter turned to go. Murphy stopped him with a question. “I understand Secretary of Interior Ickes is also onboard?”

“An interesting mix, eh, sir? Mr. Ickes is on his honeymoon, however, and will most likely come late to breakfast.”

“Right.” Murphy could certainly understand that. If Elisa had been here he would have skipped breakfast, too.

17

Fog

Aboard the
Darien
, First Mate Tucker was the eyes and ears of Captain Burton. Tucker, whose wind-weathered skin took on the appearance of tanned leather, was also the mouth of the captain. Orders from Captain Burton were, for the most part, relayed through this spindly, rubber-faced little man.

First Mate Tucker was from England—from Southampton, to be precise. He pronounced the name of his hometown with a thick cockney accent that sounded to Maria like, “Sow’ampton.” He called himself “Firs’ Mite.”

“Ah tol’ the cap’n we ought naught put in at London. Now, at Sow’ampton they’d ‘ave let us tike on s’plies!”

Maria, who in turn served as translator for the passengers, had to ask First Mate Tucker to restate each sentence several times before she caught the meaning. Even then she was unsure of his meaning except for those words borrowed from Yiddish.

“Nuthin’ but shlemozzl . . . ”

This meant confusion.

“Stumer an’ gazzump, ah tell y’!”

Nothing but a complete loss and confusion, he was saying. Maria translated the first mate’s anguish and embarrassment at having the
Darien
turn away from the port of London. She told the group clustered around her that the first mate believed they might have been allowed to dock in Southampton.

“Nae dou’ ’bout it! They’s all doolally in London!”

Maria considered this a moment longer. “The first mate says that there is no doubt about it. The officials in London are—”

Doolally? What is doolally?

Tucker had rolled his eyes and twirled his finger when he said the word. Such a sign could only mean . . .
crazy?
Confident in her interpretation, Maria reported that the London port authorities were
meshugge!
Everyone nodded in agreement.

This morning the wizened little man stood behind the table in the ship’s tiny galley as the cook ladled out portions of porridge.

“We got no ’am n’ h’eggs.”

“No ham and eggs,” Maria translated for those within earshot. Every Jew was grateful there was no ham.

“Ain’t no bu’er.”

“No butter.”

“Ain’t even got no ra’en toma’oes, neither.”

“Not even rotten tomatoes, thank God.”

“But y’ can ’ave all the porridge y’ can eats!”

“Lots of porridge to eat, however.”

Lots of porridge was not what the children wanted. Trudy rolled her eyes and put a hand to her squeamish stomach. She thought of all those in the hold below who had not even bothered to get out of their hammocks for the breakfast call. She looked up at the gaunt face of her father. He looked wind-blown and cold after his night on the top deck.

“Why me an’ me bruvver John was raised on such porridge, an’ y’ can see it ain’t done me no ’arm.” First Mate Tucker thumped his chest enthusiastically and grinned at a small, miserable little boy. “Auf wiff y’, now, laddie!”

“Off with you,” Maria mumbled in English, repeating the butchered phrase. Maria was next in line. She extended her tin plate to receive the ladle of sticky goo. “Thank you.” She mustered a trace of enthusiasm, although her stomach rebelled at the gob on her plate.

“Got no ’am n’ h’eggs.” First Mate Tucker began his spiel again; then he noticed that it was Maria who stood before him. “Poor blighters don’t speak a word of English, do they? Now, tha’s awright! Y’ can tells ’em fer ol’ Tuck that we’ll ’ave ’em talkin’ like the king’s own guard afore we reach port, eh?” He winked at Maria and dumped another helping of porridge onto her plate.

***

As the waiter poured her coffee cup full, Bubbe Rosenfelt raised her glasses for a better look at the little blond boy holding so tightly to the tall, handsome man’s hand. Something stirred her memory. Had she seen this child before? Bright blue eyes with long lashes. Straight blond hair poking out from a blue wool cap. Navy blue suit, cut in the fashion of an English schoolboy. The gray silk scarf. An aviator’s scarf. All the little boys seemed to want to wear them since pilots and airplanes had come of age. Indeed, there was something familiar about this handsome child.

The boy looked up at the man at his side. The man seemed quite preoccupied, looking everywhere about the dining room. Bubbe studied the man’s features now. If he seemed familiar, she reasoned, it was only because he slightly resembled the new American movie star, James Stewart. His face was a bit more angular, true, but he had a boyishness about him and a way of carrying himself that made him seem as if he might want to join a group of Brooklyn boys in a game of stickball.

The maitre d’ led them directly to her table. They were to fill the two empty chairs on her right. Bubbe smiled pleasantly at the child. It would be good to spend the lonely mealtimes in conversation with a little boy. How she missed the children! She thought of the peppermint candy in her reticule. She would find some reason to present a piece to him.

Introductions were made of the five others who shared the table. “And this is Mrs. Rosenfelt. May I present Mr. John and Master Charles Murphy.”

Bubbe Rosenfelt tried not to let her surprise show as Charles and Murphy took their seats. Of course. This boy’s picture had been plastered on every newspaper in Hamburg two years ago. He and his brother. What was his brother’s name? His father had published the newspaper. What was the child doing with this American fellow?

Charles sat at her right elbow. He searched the face of each adult around the table, finally letting his eyes examine the pince-nez glasses dangling from the button of Bubbe’s black dress. She smiled down at him and then broke her own taboo about speaking in German. She slowly lifted the glasses and perched them on the bridge of her nose.

“I must wear these to read the menu, you see,” she whispered to Charles in the precise accent of one who had lived in Hamburg for a long time.

His eyes warmed with the familiarity of that soft inflection. It had been a long time since he had heard words spoken with precisely that tone. It had been a long time since Louis had been gone, and longer still since Father had disappeared into the teeming masses of Vienna.

“Can you read the menu, Herr Charles?” she queried gently, now aware of why the boy wore his scarf even here. She did not wish to ask him anything that could not be answered with a nod or a shake of his head.

He answered with a negative shake of his head.

“Then shall I read for you?”

Charles nodded.

Murphy conversed lightly with the other passengers, keeping an eye on Charles and Mrs. Rosenfelt as he spoke. They had come too far to take any chances now.

Murphy watched as Bubbe read the choices from the menu card. Surely this dear old Jewish lady could be trusted with Charles! Surely here, on the
Queen Mary
, bound for America, Murphy could relax and not worry about being followed by Gestapo agents around every corner. Surely here, now, they were finally safe.

Bubbe held the menu card out at arms’ length, and it caught the light. The menu was inscribed in gold on stiff linen parchment with the logo of the
Queen Mary
at the top. “You can have any of those choices that the waiter will bring you, or perhaps Mr. Murphy would not mind if you accompany me over to the buffet table where we may choose anything we wish to eat?”

Charles nodded his head enthusiastically and tugged on Murphy’s sleeve for permission. Murphy, bombarded by the opinions of a businessman from New Jersey about the differences between the French liner
Normandie
and the
Queen Mary
, had to ask Mrs. Rosenfelt to repeat her question.

“Would you mind, Herr Murphy, if I take your . . . ah, your
son
to the buffet table?

At the word
son
, Murphy started. He studied the eyes that gazed deeply into his and saw compassion and understanding. “I am somewhat familiar with your
situation
, Herr Murphy,” Mrs. Rosenfelt said with a tone that carried a profound significance. “I will be happy to accompany Charles to the buffet; he is quite safe with me, I assure you.”

Murphy smiled. “Sure. There’s nothing to worry about here.” He turned to Charles. “You hungry, kid?”

Charles nodded. A muffled “uh-huh” ruffled the scarf.

He motioned toward the buffet table as Bubbe leaned toward Murphy. “I am from Hamburg,” she said. “I thought perhaps Charles and I might become acquainted since we will be sharing the same table for the crossing.”

“You’re from Hamburg, too?” Murphy’s face reflected a moment of apprehension.

“Originally from New York. I am leaving Hamburg for many of the same reasons as Charles, I imagine.” Her words conveyed that she knew whatever there was to know about the Kronenberger affair in Nazi Germany. She, too, was acquainted with grief. “Would you mind if Charles helped me at the buffet table?” She displayed her cane, an indication that buffet tables were somewhat difficult. “To manage a walking stick, one’s plate, and then to manage the serving spoon is somewhat complicated unless one has grandchildren nearby. My grandchildren are all en route to the States in a different way. Might I borrow Charles from you?” There was amusement in her eyes. Something about her made Murphy doubt that she needed a cane. Indeed, she hung the walking stick over her arm as she and Charles circled around the heaping table. Pointing at this tray or that tray, she held out her plate to Charles, who spooned the helpings for her. They admired the ice dolphins and then, together, they stopped to listen to the string quartet, paying special attention to the cellist.

Charles carried both heaping plates back to the table.

“. . . and I have five lovely great-granddaughters. Trudy, who is named after me, almost eight years old. Then Katrina, who is very serious. Then Louise. Louise is almost six and very pretty. How old are you?”

Charles held up five fingers. He was also almost six.

“Gretchen is almost five. And then the baby is Ada-Marie who is four next month. Oy! Such a handful.” Bubbe let a touch of Yiddish slip into her conversation. “Perhaps you will want to come and play with them when they come to New York. It would be nice to play with children from Hamburg, would it not, Charles?”

Charles frowned. He was not certain that he wanted to play with any children from Hamburg except for Louis. Every other playmate had been cruel. In the end he had not had any other friends but Louis, and only the company of his mother and brother. Then his father. Finally Leah and Elisa, and now . . .

“But then perhaps you would not wish to play with girls,
nu
? In Brooklyn where I come from, little boys play games called Kick the Can and stickball. You might enjoy that more. Still, there may come a time when you wish to meet some very pretty girls from Hamburg.” She reached into her reticule and fished out a round, paper-wrapped peppermint. “My thanks for helping such an old lady. Now eat your breakfast, and afterward you can have the candy.”

Eating in public was a difficult accomplishment for Charles. He bowed his head slightly and with his left hand he raised the scarf until it covered the bridge of his nose. He shielded his mouth with his hand as his mother had taught him, and then he chose very small bites. Soft things Bubbe Rosenfelt had said were good to eat.

Whenever any of the adults looked curiously at him, Bubbe Rosenfelt asked a question to distract them. Charles liked this old woman with her gray hair and her straight back and black dress and funny glasses and accent from Hamburg. She felt very much like someone from home. Comfortable. Like Louis and Father and . . . like Mommy. He wanted to ask her why her granddaughters were not on the boat with her. But then, none of his family was here either. Maybe it was just the way things were. Had they always been this way, he wondered? Some come to America on the
Queen Mary
and some on another ship while others cannot come at all.