Against the Wind (30 page)
ON THE TRAIN TO KITZBŰHEL
LATE NIGHT
Leah and Shimon rang as we were leaving for the terminal. She says they have tickets and will cross into Switzerland and meet me in Innsbruck within the week.
Papa is asleep on the bed in our compartment. I watch him and wonder if he will be strong enough for the journey over the mountains. Murphy sits like a sentinel in front of the door.
The chance of escape is past, I think. The Western nations have allowed evil to gain a foothold. England is silent tonight as Austria crumbles. Murphy says there will be a war. The only real refuge will be America, so we must set our hopes on that distant shore. “You’re a strong woman, Elisa,” Murphy says. “Like strong tea, huh? You never know how strong until you’re in hot water.”
I tell him this is a compliment I hope to live up to. Only I am ready to climb out of the hot water.
He laughs and I laugh with him. Strange to be able to laugh at such a moment.
Tonight I know there is no time to think of what might have been. Though I see now that Murphy looks at me with longing, how can I speak of my love to him? I know what I feel is far more than gratitude. I love him, but outside the window the world descends into deep and terrible darkness. Will there come a time for love again? I pray it will come again.
The water grows hotter and, as with tea, I feel myself grow stronger.
EPILOGUE
SOUTHERN ENGLAND
DECEMBER 1940
I
t was almost Christmas when Murphy and I boarded a plane for the quick flight from western Ireland to Heston Aerodrome near London. It was at this same airfield that, after handing Czechoslovakia to Hitler in 1938, the British Prime Minister Chamberlain had returned to declare, “I believe it is peace for our time.” I thought of the mounting cost of Chamberlain’s appeasement policy as we circled low over the bomb-blasted landscape. Barrage balloons swam through the air beneath us like giant silver fish in the sea.
“Welcome to the war,” remarked a fellow passenger to no one in particular.
I knew there was only one real reason for me to return. Lindy’s notebook was safely wrapped in my rucksack. The lock of her hair was tucked into the volume of the
Book of Common Prayer.
I would at least bring that small fragment of Lindy back home to her mother. Lindy’s death was the direct result of a weak, deluded British politician who had feared to stand up to the Nazis.
I cried a little when I set foot on British soil. When I had left England three months earlier, none of us were certain how long the little island nation would survive. I remembered my girls on the
Newcastle.
Lindy’s bright smile as she joined in the singing, “There’ll Always Be an England.”
In my heart, I answered the chorus with a prayer:
So far, so good, Lord. England is still here. Thanks for watching over her.
Murphy and I spent the night at the Heston Aerodrome Hotel, which Murphy told me looked a lot like the American White House.
I replied that I hoped one day to see the American president’s home with my own eyes. We both knew it could not happen for a long time.
The next morning Murphy kissed me good-bye and headed into London while I caught the slow Southern Railway train to Lindy’s little village home of Lewes.
The jingle of bells sounded outside the Lewes railroad station as I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.
A 1920s-era cab rattled toward me. “Where headed, miss?”
“It’s missus. Missus Murphy.” I passed the address of Lindy’s mother to the driver. “This address in the village, please.”
He studied the handwriting briefly as I climbed into the carriage. Glancing at my Irish tweed traveling clothes in the rearview mirror he asked, “Not from round here, are you, Missus Murphy? A Yank, are you?”
I felt encouraged that my Teutonic accent was fading. “Yes. Yank. American. Nearly.”
“Well, may I ask y’ then? When are you Yanks going to come along and do your bit in this war? Things are pretty rough over here, you know.”
I did not answer but remembered the great hulk of the
Newcastle
as it slipped under the water. I could hear the cries of the dying rise up like the roar of a crowd in a sports stadium. I stared silently out the window at the frosty countryside as the little vehicle wound through the streets of Lewes, which must have been so familiar to beautiful Lindy. I pretended to see her memories. I imagined what Lindy’s future would have been if only Chamberlain had stood up to Hitler and refused to collapse at the tyrant’s threats.
But it was not to be. I organized my thoughts as we headed toward my rendezvous with heartache. What would I say to the woman to whom I had given my pledge of protection for her only daughter? I had failed. Should I ask for forgiveness that I had lived while this extraordinary child had perished?
I hugged my rucksack close to me.
What shall I say, God?
The taxi turned a corner onto a street of small row houses. The lane was decorated for Christmas—as though there was no war, as if Lindy had not perished on the sea. Imagine! Holly and wreaths on every door!
“Here we are, missus.” The house where Lindy lived was a tall, narrow structure with square-paned windows and a green enameled door. A bicycle leaned against the wall.
I paid the cabbie a few pence, then stood outside the picket fence to simply drink in Lindy’s street. It sloped steeply downward, and in the distance I could see Brighton, and beyond that, an angry gray sea. Would I ever lose my fear of the ocean?
I held the rucksack in my arms like a baby and wondered if I should have Lindy’s notebook out and ready to hand over when the door opened. It had only been a few months since the
Newcastle
sank. Would Lindy’s mother still be in mourning? Would she welcome me? Would she want to hear the details of her daughter’s death? Would she forgive me for my failure—or blame me that I had not stayed for Lindy to die in my arms?
Was it enough for me to tell her that Lindy’s last thoughts had been for her mother and home? This home?
The hinges of the gate groaned as I swung open the gate. An aged border collie barked from the porch and raised himself from the ground one leg at a time until he tottered fiercely, blocking my way.
I heard a woman’s voice scold the canine from inside as the green door opened. “Darby! What are you about then?”
Still hugging the rucksack, I managed a smile but remained rooted on the walk. “He won’t let me by,” I explained.
“He has no teeth.” The woman laughed. She was young, in her midthirties, with a mop of pale curly hair closely matching the lock I carried with me.
“He has a wicked bark,” I replied, unmoving.
Grasping his collar, she stroked his head. “Bark is worse than his bite…obviously. My protector. Nothing like a faithful dog. Man is gone with a wind, but a dog? Now he’ll stay with a soul through a howling gale.”
Protector.
The description stung me. Yes. A dog was more faithful and true than I.
I blurted, “I was on board the
Newcastle.
With your daughter. With Lindy.”
She released the dog, who resumed his place at her feet. Lindy’s mother straightened slowly. Her eyes considered me first with awe, followed by curiosity.
“I am…my name is Elisa Lindheim…Murphy.”
The woman’s expression filled with compassion. “Elisa. Yes. I would know you anywhere. You were…there.”
“Yes.” I patted my rucksack. “I have something that belonged to your daughter. Her diary. I’ve brought it. For you.”
Her eyes brimmed as she held out a hand to welcome me. “All this way you’ve come. I read in the newspaper you were rescued off the coast of Ireland. Please, please. Do come in. I’ll make a cuppa tea. My name is Dora. You must call me Dora.”
My chin quivered as I tucked my head and followed her into the small cluttered foyer. A garland of scented evergreen wound around the banister of a flight of stairs that rose abruptly from the tiled floor. A coal fire flickered in the sitting room to the left. A corridor led away to a kitchen in the back of the house. A pair of muddy shoes was beside the entry. A girl’s coat hung on the rack. I knew these were Lindy’s things, still in the place where she had last worn them.
I could hardly breathe. On the radio I heard the music of “Silent Night” playing softly.
Dora linked her arm in mine. “Elisa! You must have a lot to tell. So many days adrift. A miracle, they say. A miracle you survived. We read all about it in the papers. Please come along. I’m so glad to see you. I never expected—”
I breathed deeply at her welcome and inhaled the aroma of baking cinnamon apples. More relieved than I had been at any time since the sinking, I followed Dora into the kitchen and sat in the plain wooden chair at the table. I began to rummage in my rucksack, removing Lindy’s paper-wrapped journal and the
Book of Common Prayer
containing her golden curl.
My eyes upon the lock of hair, I relived in a moment the officer who had ordered me to run to the lifeboats while he stayed below with the dying child. I stammered, “I don’t know how much you would like me to tell you about what happened. She loved you so much.” The kettle whistled.
“Tell me everything. You must. I’ve heard only bits and pieces. ’Twas an angel carried my daughter though the waters, I’m sure of it…lifting Lindy up and up. The thought of it gives me such peace. Most who survived were rescued the first night, but you were lost, overlooked somehow.” She brewed the tea. “I like strong tea. You?”
I nodded my agreement. “Strong tea. Yes. Someone once told me…women are like tea. You never know how strong they are—”
Behind me a girl’s sweet voice finished the proverb, “Never know how strong until they’re in hot water.”
“And here’s my girl! Where’ve you been, darlin’?” Dora smiled over my shoulder.
I turned to follow her gaze and gasped.
“Hello, Elisa!” The beautiful child greeted me with her arms opened to enfold me.
Her mother exclaimed, “Look, Lindy! Look who’s come a-visitin’. It’s Elisa Murphy, darlin’. She’s come all this way to Lewes, just to return your diary!”
TAKING IT DEEPER…
Questions for individuals and groups
1. If you were going to write your “Last Will and Testament,” who would you address it to? What possessions would you list? What instructions would you give? What would you want to make sure that those left behind knew?
2 Elisa says, “I see one child who is a hero in this story” (
p. 10
). For her, it’s Connor Turner. Why is Connor so special to Elisa? In what way(s) does Elisa identify with Connor’s mother’s story? What person in your life do you see as a hero or a heroine? Why? Tell the story.
3. Psalm 91:11 says, “He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways” (
KJV
). Do you believe God’s angels have charge over you? Why or why not? Give an example from your own experience.
4. Elisa received a very special Christmas present from her mother in 1936—a red leather-bound diary stamped with roses. Of all the gifts you’ve received, what one special gift do you remember most? Why was that gift so significant?
5. In 1936 Elisa feels that “the whole world is crumbling around us. Do we still imagine that everything will return to normal somehow?” (
p. 16
). How does that statement apply to our world today? Do you have hope that “everything will return to normal somehow”? Why or why not?
6. If you were a parent living in London in summer 1940, would you:
risk sending your child on a ship to America, hoping for safety along the way?
Explain your answer.
7. Rudy Dorbransky, and later Elisa, take tremendous risks hiding visas for Jews in the case of the precious Guarnerius. If you had the opportunity to save lives by doing so today, would you take the risk—of what it might mean to you and to your family if you were discovered? Why or why not?