Munich Signature (32 page)

Murphy agreed. Here was a beginning. The only thing that moved politicians was public opinion. A man like Cantor could influence the public more quickly than the headlines of a hundred newspapers.

Cantor smiled as if reading Murphy’s mind. “You know we already have a politician or two on our side.” Now Cantor looked over Murphy’s left shoulder toward the entrance of the lounge and waved. “For instance—”

Murphy turned to see the secretary of the interior return Cantor’s wave and walk right toward the table.

“Hullo, Eddie!” Harold Ickes pulled up a chair. “Mind if I join you?” He was already sitting. He nodded his large head in Murphy’s direction and waited for an introduction.

Cantor sat back and crossed his arms. He looked pleased with himself, as if he had arranged the meeting. “We were just talking about you, Harold.”

“Me?”

“Politicians in general. John Murphy here is a journalist. Interested in the refugee problem.”

Harold Ickes’ eyes lit up. Murphy was not expecting such an enthusiastic response. “Well, it would be nice if at least some of this made the papers!”

Cantor laughed. “You see, Mr. Murphy, there are one or two.”

Ickes clasped his hands together almost as if in prayer for thanks. “One or two, indeed. The State Department has an investigator in Germany right now to research the possibility that visas are being refused unfairly. The consuls are given the final authority, and they are simply turning applicants away out of hand.”

Murphy smiled wryly. “Someone has finally figured that out, have they?” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. “What will be done about it? Let’s start with the people on the coffin ship we nearly rammed this morning.”

At the mention of the
Darien
Ickes shook his head sadly. “Those people have left Germany without visas, no doubt. If they had the proper documents they would be onboard ship with us, wouldn’t they? Their fate is in the hands of the State Department. Ultimately Secretary of State Cordell Hull.”

“And we know how Hull feels about the refugee hoards,” Murphy interjected. It was at the order of Hull that thousands of visas had been tangled in bureaucratic red tape and ultimately denied for questionable reasons.

Ickes nodded. “There is powerful opposition against accepting any more immigrants.”

Cantor smiled grimly. “Especially Jewish immigrants.”

Ickes could not deny that fact. “For nine years our own citizens have suffered hunger and unemployment in the worst depression of our history. The president—all of us—have an obligation to see to our own first. Things are improving at home. If we move carefully the climate will change.”

“If we move too carefully,” Cantor said quietly, “it will be impossible for anyone to leave Germany. The climate has intensified in the Reich, Harold. We may have run out of time.”

“That is what I intend to say in my report.” Ickes bit his lip. He leveled his gaze at Murphy. “You fellows are always looking for a scoop. Well, I’ll give you one. I’ve combined business with pleasure on this trip. Looked into the caliber of people being turned away by our consuls in Europe. Doctors, lawyers. Professional men and women of every sort. Great talents. Artists and musicians. Merchants. Every kind of person it would take to build a great community.”

“Like a colony?” Murphy asked.

“Yes. In a way. We have an enormous area of largely unsettled land in Alaska. No one, it seems, want to live there. Alaska happens to fall into my authority as secretary of the interior, and so—”

“You are considering settling refugees in Alaska?”

“It will all have to be approved by Congress, of course.” Ickes frowned at the thought, then grinned. “The most vocal opposition we have are those biddies whose forefathers came over on the Mayflower. As far as they are concerned, settlement of the new world should have stopped with Plymouth Rock. Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty should be blown up.” He leaned forward. There was a twinkle in his eye. “But Alaska is the most enormous untapped wealth at our fingertips, and no one wants to live there.”

“Except people with no place else to go.” Cantor seemed pleased at the thought. The America-first crowd would certainly not be able to protest such a move.

“It is only a beginning, of course,” Ickes was quick to explain. “We were considering that applicants would agree to stay and work in Alaska for five years before they would be able to reapply for settlement inside the United States.” He spread his hands as if to invite opinion.

Cantor rolled his eyes and clapped Ickes on the back. “So this is how the secretary of the interior spends his honeymoon?”

Ickes shrugged off the jibe. He looked at Murphy, hoping for a positive response from this one member of the press.

“How long until such a plan could be in operation?” Murphy asked, the vision of the
Darien
fresh in his mind.

“It will have to go through Congress, Mr. Murphy. I am only one man.” He hesitated. “A year. Possibly two. We cannot simply dump people in such a hostile land without some preparation.” He sighed, wishing that there were more he could offer, some hope for those onboard the
Darien
. But there was nothing more. “Time—”

“Time is an enemy to these people, Mr. Ickes. They have run out of time.”

“President Roosevelt senses that. I believe that is why he has called the Evian Conference. Out of representatives from thirty-three nations, we should find room for the refugees.” He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that seemed to express both hope and approval. “It is a beginning, at any rate. A place to hang our hat.”

“Thirty-three countries,” Cantor added. “Civilized men. Even the thought of such a humanitarian meeting must make Hitler tremble.”

20

The Captor

Whenever he heard footsteps approaching, Charles looked up hopefully. When he saw that it was not Murphy coming for him, he ducked his head again and hid his mouth. He wished he had not run so far. If he had simply hidden on the same deck as the playroom, Murphy might have found him more easily. Now Charles was not even certain what deck he was on.

The thick-soled black shoes of an old woman approached. Charles looked away in disappointment as the hem of a black skirt passed by. Then the sound of footsteps hesitated and turned around.

“Charles?
Oy gevalt!
Is that you, Charles Kronenberger? Come out of the shadows so an old woman can see!”

Charles stood slowly and stepped out to face the old lady who had sat beside them at breakfast. Mrs. Rosenfelt. She looked much better than she had when she told Murphy all about her family. She was smiling now. A very kind smile as she unwound her black silk scarf and draped it around Charles’ shoulders. “Terribly windy out today. Such a wind! Did it steal your scarf? Use mine.” She stepped nearer. He did not look at her face now, only the strange little eyeglasses that dangled from a cord.

She gently lifted his chin and spoke in the familiar dialect of Hamburg.
So much like Father’s words. And Mommy too, I think.

“Well, Charles, did you eat your candy yet?”

Charles blinked at her. He reached his arms up to her and she held him in a quick hug. He let tears come. He was so glad she had come by. He wished he could tell her—

“This is such a very big boat,” said Bubbe Rosenfelt. “I was quite lost, but now I know my way around. Our cabins are near to each other. Would you like to walk with me?”

***

Murphy had just finished the story when the door of the stateroom opened slowly.

When he saw Mrs. Rosenfelt standing in the doorway with Charles beside her, he jumped up frowning. “Charles!”

“Mr. Murphy, you are busy I see. I just was seeing Charles home and I will not bother you.”

“Come in.” Murphy stood and offered her a chair. He looked at Charles. “I thought you were in the playroom. Are you okay, kid? I mean, you could have—” Murphy’s shoulders sagged as he considered the horrible possibilities.

There was an awkward silence. Charles could not explain, and Mrs. Rosenfelt had not known how he became lost.

Just then the nurse appeared behind Mrs. Rosenfelt in the doorway. “Mr. Murphy!” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been looking everywhere! He just ran out, and it’s such a big ship. I tried to find him, but—oh Mr. Murphy,” she finished in a rush, “I won’t lose my job over this, will I? I mean, you won’t tell—”

Murphy shook his head, still confused. “No, it’s all right. No harm done, I guess.”

Obviously relieved, the nurse disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. Bubbe Rosenfelt looked down at Charles and put a hand gently on his shoulder.

“He did not like it so much there.
Oy
! Such a big boy should not be penned up in the playroom with little children!” She paused and studied him. In her soft Hamburg accent she asked him, “Would you like to spend some time with me, Charles? While Mr. Murphy works, I would very much like to play shuffleboard.”

Charles nodded eagerly. He had found a friend.

Murphy looked up and saw Bubbe Rosenfelt smiling down at Charles. She, certainly, was harmless enough. And he did need to get his story in. “Would you like to go, Charles?”

They boy nodded vigorously.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Impose! You think I don’t know a little something about boys? I raised two myself. I would enjoy the company of a young man from Hamburg!”

Murphy dashed off to file his story and Charles joined Bubbe Rosenfelt on the shuffleboard court.

***

Two days passed and still Elisa had not seen anyone. Three times a day meals were slipped through a small metal slot at the bottom of the door while she shouted demands for an explanation. No one answered her except to ask for the empty tray of the previous meal. Apparently there was to be no explanation.

She had a sense that she was being watched. She rigged a curtain in the corner using her blanket and two loose springs she’d taken from her cot. With the heel of her shoe she hammered the springs into the crumbling mortar, then asked for another blanket, soap, and a towel. Those items were silently slipped into the room along with the next meal.

The newspapers which had been stacked beside the door that first long night now became a source of relief from the racking boredom of solitary confinement. The publications and periodicals were, without exception, American. They included issues of newspapers such as the Detroit
Daily Times
and the
Chicago Tribune
, as well as a sampling of minor publications from everywhere in the country.

Elisa read them at first only hoping to keep her sanity. Later as she scanned the pages fearfully, she saw that there was a similarity in each publication. They were American, and yet they were not from the same America that Murphy had told her about. They were American, and yet they spoke of the country in the same way Hitler had spoken about Germany! Names she had heard from Murphy were splashed across the front pages of the nation’s major newspapers. Famous people she had heard of before were associated with groups called America First, German-American Bund, and Christian Front.

Beneath these banners Elisa read words that made her tremble.

America must join the trend toward fascism as a member of world momentum. America may undergo a brief bath of violence, but it will be the same cleansing bath that awakened Italy, that awakened Spain, that awakened Germany. It will awaken thousands of Americans to a realization of menace. Let us understand that if civil war comes to this country it will not be a war to overthrow the American government, but to overthrow the Jewish usurpers who have seized the government and thought to make it a branch of Moscow!

Here were the writings of an American priest named Father Coughlin who claimed that the Jews wanted war and profited from war. The government of the Czechs was castigated. The cause of isolationism was championed. The cry was sent out in dozens of American newspapers to close off all immigration to the dreaded Jews.

From early morning until the last rays of evening, Elisa pored over the newspapers. The latest showed a photo of the Detroit auto maker Henry Ford shaking hands with Adolf Hitler. Yet another showed a smiling, boyish Charles Lindbergh wearing his German medal and looking very pleased as he stood between Goebbels and Göring at an airfield.

One article in
The New York Times
compared the quotations of Father Coughlin and Goebbels about the Jews. The quotations were identical. Yet another showed members of the Christian Front parading in their brown shirts and carrying swastika banners.

Elisa shook with the cold of fear by the time she finished reading. These were the voices of hatred even in the beloved Promised Land Murphy had told her about. What difference would it make for a man like her father if they obtained visas to America? The hatred of Jews was just as strong there as anywhere.

She shuddered again as she read the pages of a newspaper published in Arlington, Virginia. Arlington? Hadn’t Murphy told her that was across the river from the nation’s capital?

Rich Jews have hired big buck niggers to attack white women. These Jews give the niggers plenty of money and tell them to go after the white women. Yes, these fellows down there are going to kill every Jew in their section of the South. Doesn’t sound very nice, does it? Call it a pogrom if you want to, but it is the language the Jews understand. The Jews, you see, are guilty of sex crimes just like the niggers. I don’t see any way out except a pogrom. We have got to kill the Jews!

The floor of her cell was littered with the refuse of her dreams. She let this final scrap fall to the heap. Her food remained untouched beside the slot in the door. She stood slowly and gazed fiercely at the lock.