Munich Signature (45 page)

Elisa did not answer as the old woman arrived with her arms laden with food. Thomas continued to gaze imploringly at Elisa throughout small talk about the veal and the vegetables. Steam floated up between them until at last Elisa answered him quietly.

“For myself . . . I would not choose to be here.” She smiled sadly now. “I did not choose this.” She waved a hand over the issue as if it were steam from the veal. “But here it is. And here I am. What can I tell them in London, Thomas, that might change things?”

***

“Burial
here
? Well it’s . . . it’s simply out of the question!” The State Department representative tugged on his bow tie and stretched his neck out as if the whole discussion was too dreadful for him to think about.

Rabbi Stephen Wise hesitated. He would be cautious now as he broached the next subject. “And what about the women among the refugees who are pregnant? Certainly the United States could grant them at least temporary asylum?”

The official coughed loudly in disbelief at such a suggestion. “My good man, this is none of our affair. Quite out of the question. Then we would have to face an issue of the citizenship of the child. Absolutely not—out of the question!”

“No room at the inn,” remarked Dr. Henry Lieper of the Federal Council of Churches. “Can it be?”

“What? What’s that you say?” Now the indignant official leaned forward. His face reddened. “This has nothing to do with sentimental hogwash! This is the law! No room at the inn, indeed!”

Wise and Lieper exchanged looks.

Murphy swallowed hard, imagining how Bubbe Rosenfelt would react to the news. He glanced at Mr. Trump, whose face showed that the headline of this story would be: “NO ROOM AT THE INN”—a 36-point banner headline on the front page of the evening edition.

The government official checked his watch against the clock above the door of the dusty shipping office. “We have already extended their time limit by six hours. Time enough for Burton to have the radio fixed. Time enough to load additional supplies. That is time enough, if you ask me. I will notify the captain that his ship will be escorted out of the harbor within the hour.” He shoved his papers into a well-worn briefcase and without another word he left the delegation in stunned silence.

“Well,” began Lieper in a choked voice.

“The law of Germany makes them homeless.” Trump spoke up. “The law of the United States keeps them that way. Strange edicts, these things that feed on the lives of the innocent and the helpless, the dead—even the unborn.”

Lieper attempted to speak again. “‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice,’ saith the Lord ”

Rabbi Wise ran a hand over his face in frustration. “Then we should consider how we can best show mercy to these people until we can find a way to get around the immigration statutes.”

“Evian is a start.” Trump nodded toward Murphy. “Murphy will be there. And I know the Jewish agency will have representatives there as well. Until we can find a permanent solution, I suggest that we continue to publish the plight of the
Darien
as well as set up a supply line for food and medical needs as they come up.”

“Mr. Trump.” Murphy tugged his ear thoughtfully. “I would like to suggest that perhaps an observer join the refugees. A reporter. I would like to volunteer to go along.”

Without a pause, Trump refused his offer. “You have other things to cover. The fate of this ship will be decided at Evian. We already know what sort of misery these people are living through. No, Murphy. I had the feeling it might come to this the other night. This is
my
story, son. And it’s not gonna be the
Darien
that gets blown out of the water by the time I’m finished!”

And so it was settled, irrevocably. Murphy might as well pack. Trump was on the phone within minutes of the final decision by the State Department. Points of contact would be established. Committees would need to be formed from the Jewish and Christian groups who had been so vocal about this issue. That evening the
New York Times
editorial spoke eloquently:

It is hard to imagine the bitterness of exile when it takes place over a faraway frontier. Helpless families driven from their homes to a barren island in the Danube, thrust over the Polish border, escaping in terror of their lives to Switzerland or France. These things are hard for us in a free country to visualize. But the exiles of the Darien have floated by our own shores. We have seen their faces, shared their grief at the loss of one little girl. Perhaps some of them may be added to the American quota list and return here. What is to happen to them in the meantime remains uncertain from hour to hour. We can only hope and pray that some hearts will soften somewhere, and that some refuge will be found. The rejection of the Darien by our government cries to high heaven of man’s inhumanity to man!

***

The U.S. Coast Guard cutter accompanied the
Darien
far beyond Sandy Hook Lighthouse, finally turning back twelve miles out to sea. They did not want the body of a dead Jewish child accidentally washing up on a beach somewhere. The burial of Ada-Marie would have to take place far from shore to prevent such a possibility.

***

Maria and Klaus sat in the cluttered office adjoining the captain’s cabin where the tiny jewel-box coffin of Ada-Marie had been placed. Maria’s eyes were dry now, dull with grief. Her child was to be immersed in the terrible ocean after all, cast loose among the sharks and fish and cold swirling currents of the Atlantic. What would they do with the tiny coffin now?

Captain Burton’s voice was low and yet gruff, as if he resisted the grief that threatened to founder his ship. “Go on now, Tucker. Cut a square of canvas for a shroud. There is nothing else to do . . . nothing else.”

Klaus held Maria’s fingers limply in his own. His eyebrows were slightly raised, causing his brow to furrow as he stared through the door at the casket. The last comfort had been demolished. There had been one glimmer of relief in the thought that Bubbe Rosenfelt might have been allowed to give their little one a proper burial. To imagine coming to stand beside a small headstone on a grassy knoll, to whisper sweet words of memory at such a place—somehow that thought had eased the broken heart of Ada-Marie’s father. But now . . .
Cut a square of canvas for a shroud!
Could no one see the sweetness that had been little Ada-Marie? Was the world so heartless that bright eyes and shining braids and laughter and little hands reaching up could now simply be stuffed into a square of canvas and dropped into the sea?

Klaus squeezed Maria’s hand and then stood to walk into the room where Ada-Marie lay.

Captain Burton would not—could not—look into the face of the grieving father. He could not bear the scene.

Klaus stood over the open coffin. Lovingly he traced the curve of his child’s smile with his eyes. Had he ever taken time to count the freckles on her pale skin before? Had he noticed her soft lashes when she slept? The small button nose that seemed always to be pointing up as she craned her neck to look into his face?

Her hair still shone. The ends of her honey-brown braids curled on the pillow where she lay. Klaus touched her forehead.
Cold.
He let his tears fall onto her pudgy little hands. All the ocean could not contain more grief than those tears.

“How can Papa say good-bye, Ada-Marie?” he whispered, smoothing back her bangs. “How many sleeps until I see you again?”

His breath was shallow as he tried to keep himself from breaking. His hands trembled. He turned to Captain Burton, who stared out through a porthole at the flat gray sea. “Do you have scissors?” Klaus managed to ask. “A lock of hair . . . for her mother to . . .” His voice failed him.

Captain Burton fetched scissors from a drawer and then turned quickly to the porthole again.Klaus carefully snipped the curl on the child’s right braid. He let himself smile for a moment at the memory of Ada-Marie trimming her own hair a year before. It had only just grown out.

The door to the cabin opened suddenly. Tucker stood in the doorway. He seemed suddenly awkward at the sight of Klaus beside the little girl’s body. In his hand was a frayed square of canvas from a tarp. Tucker tried to conceal the material. It was stained with oil.

Klaus let his eyes linger on the canvas. “She deserved so much more,” he said at last. Then he closed his fingers around the lock of hair.

Captain Burton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I . . . am ashamed today to be an American.”

For a long time no one spoke. Behind them the sound of Maria’s heavy sighs drifted through the door. At last Klaus nodded. “I will take Maria below now. Thank you for . . . trying.” There was nothing else to thank the captain for. He had tried. They all had done their best.

The face of the rabbi of Nuremberg appeared behind Tucker in that instant. He wore his white silk prayer shawl and carried his prayer book in his gnarled hand. The ancient eyes were red with grief. He had seen much in his lifetime. This act was a new kind of heartlessness. He bowed slightly to Tucker and inched past him into the room. “They say we must bury the child at sea.” He addressed Captain Burton but put a hand gently on the arm of Klaus.

Burton nodded once. “There is no choice.”

The rabbi looked into the sweet face of the child. “Sleeping,” he murmured. Then he examined the dirty square of canvas that would be her shroud. Carefully he removed his prayer shawl, its white silk and silver thread gleaming in the dim light. He placed it gently over the body of Ada-Marie, tucked it around her chin like a blanket, and bent low to whisper something.

His eyes shining, he straightened and turned to face Klaus. “She loved my tallith. Silver and silk. And so this shall be her shroud.”

Klaus closed his eyes in gratitude at such a gesture.

Then the rabbi of Nuremberg reached out his hand to take the canvas from Tucker. “And this—” the old man draped the canvas over his head where silk and silver had been— “This shall be my prayer shawl.” He lowered his eyes, and his lips moved silently behind his beard. He shuffled toward the door of the office. “Maria.” His voice was gentle. “Look at me, Maria.”

She raised her eyes and cried, “Oh, Rabbi! She is so little. To leave her in this dark sea . . .”

The old man nodded. “When our fathers crossed the Red Sea from bondage to freedom they took with them the coffin of Joseph as he had instructed them.” He sighed and glanced toward the child. “They wandered forty years without destination until all that generation was gone. And when they crossed the Jordan at last, the bones of Joseph were also carried to the shores of the Promised Land.” Now he gazed imploringly into the face of Captain Burton. The question was clear even before words formed on his lips. “How can we leave Ada-Marie behind? If all of us should wander homeless, still this child should have a plot of ground; a very small piece of soil will do.”

The stern facade of the captain cracked at last. His eyes were bright with emotion. He gave the order quietly to Tucker. “Make the casket airtight. A lead seal. The child will have a proper burial.”

The rabbi smiled as Maria wept tears of relief. “Like Joseph, Ada-Marie shall go with us and before us, wherever our Promised Land may be.”

***

From the first hour after the
Darien
was escorted from New York, the shadow of U.S. Coast Guard cutter 177 was never far away. Sometimes it was a small gray shape on the horizon between the ship and the vast land of America. Other times it was near enough to the
Darien
that the shapes of men could easily be made out. But alway, the cutter stood guard on American soil. Day and night it crept slowly behind the rusty hulk to make certain that none of the refugees jumped into the water or attempted to swim to shore.

30

Wait Until Morning

Dressed in new pajamas, Charles sat cross-legged on the hospital bed as Murphy tried very hard to explain it all to him. English wasn’t working, so Murphy tried German:

“Doc says the surgery won’t be tough at all. Maybe you’ll feel like you had your tonsils out. I had my tonsils out, and it wasn’t so bad. Got all the ice cream I wanted, and after a week I was home.”

To this last statement, Charles looked curiously at Murphy. Home? Where would Charles go after a week in the hospital? He had no home to go to, and now that Murphy was returning to Europe, who would come to visit him?

Murphy cleared his throat uncomfortably. The cello case stood open in the corner of the small, sterile room—a reminder of Louis, of Leah Feldstein, of Vienna. Murphy scratched his head and ran a hand over his face.
I’m not handling this very well
, he thought. He felt guilty about it all, but what choice was there now? How could he explain? “Mrs. Rosenfelt . . . Bubbe Rosenfelt . . . can’t be here, Charles, because she’s . . . in mourning. You know what mourning is?”

Charles nodded his understanding. Murphy blinked at his own stupidity. Of course Charles Kronenberger knew about mourning. He had spent his entire life in mourning.

“Well, I wish I could stay. You know I just wish I could put this off long enough—but I know you’re going to be okay. Take it like a man, and pretty soon you’ll be saying
hot dog!
And
Let’s go to the movies
, and all sorts of great stuff.” The combination of German and American slang sounded funny, but Murphy didn’t smile.

“Uh-huh,” Charles said quietly. He wanted to ask when Murphy would come back. Or when Murphy would send for him. And if Murphy would find his brother Louis and tell Leah that her cello was in New York with Charles.

“Okay.” Murphy patted the shoulder of the frail little boy. “And I’ll be praying for you, Charles.” The promise fell flat. Murphy could see the brave front was only a front. Both of them felt it. “Mr. Trump and the rest of the guys from the newsroom promised to come visit. I don’t know how long Bubbe Rosenfelt will be out of commission. Poor old lady; she took it pretty hard. But I want you to understand that all this . . . with the ships . . . is the reason I have to leave, Charles. You understand? They’re having this big meeting in Evian to see if maybe some country might not have a place for them.”