Mila 18

The Luftwaffe, which had learned to violate open cities in Spain, turned all of Poland into one big turkey shoot. It shot down Polish troops fleeing for cover and Polish peasants working in the fields and Polish children in the schoolyards and Polish women nursing in maternity hospitals and Polish nuns at Mass.

Through the Carpathians from Czechoslovakia, List shoved his armor through the mountain passes and turned the Krakow flank at that place where the Gleiwitz radio station hoax was perpetrated. In the center, Reichenau was given the honor of unleashing the greatest mass of iron-treaded monsters, and on his left Blaskowitz enveloped a pocket on the flatlands near the industrial heart of Poznan. And Von Bock and Von Küchler lashed out from northern flanking positions in Prussia and Pomerania and there was no more pesky Polish Corridor.

Indeed, the book had been rewritten. It was the ultimate in mechanical and technical murder. The butchery of Poland—the slaughter of two hundred thousand of her army and scores of thousands of her civilians and the rape of her land—was a new German masterpiece.

Captain Andrei Androfski was knocked senseless by his first sergeant and dragged from the scene of the flaming death of Company A. With a half dozen survivors, they found horses and managed to get back to the Grudziadz base, where an even greater catastrophe had befallen the Ulanys. At Grudziadz, one third of Poland’s forces had been foolishly concentrated for a counterattack which was never delivered. The Germans enveloped them with ridiculous ease and, having trapped them, chopped them to bits. The large Westerplatte Saliant was formed by a double envelopment trapping the Polish marines. Soon, the last of Poland’s cavalry charges was made. With the Polish eagle still waving in defiance, a foolhardy attack tried to break the ring of iron around them. The Germans ungallantly ripped the Ulanys to shreds. The Westerplatte Saliant collapsed. The remaining Ulanys staggered back from Grudziadz to Torun. And ... a last weak gasp, one more charge at Wloclawek, and they were done.

There was no rest, for the German monster clamped its jaws tighter and the saber teeth pressed toward Warsaw at the end of only a week.

Captain Andrei Androfski had four horses shot out from under him in seven days. He was gored with arm and leg wounds and his body covered with bruises and filth. He and First Sergeant Styka were two of a handful of survivors when the brigade finally surrendered after Wloclawek.

On the night of September 7, before the Germans could fully organize prisoner compounds and complete the disarming of the Poles. Andrei, Styka, and four others broke out of their area and under cover of darkness gambled they could swim the treacherous upper Vistula River.

Two of them drowned. The remaining four hid in a forest the next day and at night crawled along the ditches of roads filled with German patrols.

At dawn on September 9 the four found refuge in a peasant’s hut on the outskirts of Plock, a third of the distance back to Warsaw. Beyond normal exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and close to death from his festering wounds, Captain Andrei Androfski allowed himself the luxury of collapsing.

Styka sent the other two men into Plock to fetch a doctor. He hovered over Andrei, who was terribly still and a chalky yellow shade. Andrei had spent the last ounce of reserve strength pulling Styka across the swift river. The soldier’s muddled mind remembered snatches of the past week since dragging Andrei from the burning forest. He saw the vision of his captain leading charge after charge and fighting on even after the end had occurred. He had never seen such anger in a man’s eyes as when they were put into the prisoner compound even though Andrei was barely able to stand. “We’re swimming the river, Styka, as soon as it turns dark.”

The peasant brought Styka bread and lentil soup. The soldier was too weak to lift the spoon or bite through the bread. He lay his head on Andrei’s chest. Yes, there were still heartbeats. His eyes began to shut. Must not sleep until the doctor comes ... must not sleep ...

“Who is he?” the doctor asked.

“My captain,” Styka answered through thick lips. His mind was fuzzy. An ignorant man, Styka was almost illiterate and too exhausted to put into words the horror he had seen in the past week. Only when the doctor promised to remain with Andrei did he fall on the floor by Andrei’s bed and drop off to sleep.

When Andrei blinked his eyes open twenty hours later, Styka was hovering over him. Styka managed a small smile. The doctor from Plock had gone and returned. Andrei managed to rise up on his elbows, looked around the cottage, and flopped back on the bed.

“We were wondering if you were ever going to wakeup,” the doctor said.

“Sure he would! I knew it all along!” Styka roared.

The peasant’s wife crossed herself innumerable times and wailed that all her prayers to the Blessed Virgin Mother had been answered.

“What’s the scorecard on me?” Andrei asked.

“The wounds are under control. The assortment of cuts and bruises will vanish. Your state of exhaustion will require rest. You are as thoroughly beaten up as any man I have ever examined. You have the constitution of a bull. I don’t see how you ever swam the river in your condition.”

Styka and the doctor helped him sit up. He took a stiff drink of home-brewed vodka and stuffed a half a loaf of bread into his stomach. Despite everyone’s objections, he remained sitting.

“Where are we?”

“Plock.”

“What is happening?”

“The news is bad all over. We are being beaten everywhere,” the doctor said.

“What about Warsaw?”

“The Germans have not reached Warsaw yet Radio Polskie says Warsaw will fight.”

Andrei tried to stand. His legs buckled and he tottered. “Where are the other two, Styka? They got across the river with us—where are they? We must get back to Warsaw and fight.”

The doctor and Styka exchanged glances.

“Well, where are they?”

“They have surrendered.”

“Surrendered?”

“The Germans have crossed the river in strength. All roads to Warsaw have been cut. I stayed here only until I knew you were all right, Captain, but there is no chance of reaching Warsaw. Every hour we stay here we put these good people in danger. The Germans have been shooting everyone harboring an escaped soldier.”

“I am a Pole,” the peasant announced. “I will never close my door to a Polish soldier.”

“Your sergeant is right,” the doctor said. “Now that he knows you are alive, it would be best for him to turn himself in. As for you, I can find you a hiding place for a few days until you get a little of your strength back, and then you must surrender yourself too.”

Andrei looked at all four of them. The woman was crossing herself and praying again. “If you will be kind enough to spare me a loaf of bread, a canteen of water, and perhaps some cheese, I will be on my way. I am going to Warsaw.”

Styka flopped his arms about helplessly. “Captain, we can’t make it.”

Andrei managed to walk to his sergeant and put a hand on his shoulder. Styka lowered his eyes. “Look at me, Styka—look at me, I said. You would surrender?”

The big homely man had been a good soldier for fifteen years. Dirt encrusted his once-proud mustache, and beads of sweat broke through the caked mud on his eyebrows and unshaved face. His face dropped in complete dismay.” “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

“Now you listen here,” the doctor said. “Warsaw is a hundred kilometers, the roads are cut, and the place is swarming with German patrols. If you were the strongest and healthiest man in Poland you could not make it. In your condition you won’t be strong enough to go ten kilometers.”

Styka began to cry, something Andrei had never seen him do. “Captain, sir. We have fought the best we know how. We have not disgraced ourselves.”

A sudden dizziness overcame Andrei. He pitched into Styka’s arms, then pushed himself free and stumbled into a chair.

Seven days and their war was over. Their fine beautiful brigade pulverized into a disorganized bloody pulp. The vision of the glazed eyes of the soldiers came to him, and he saw the line of thousands of corpses stretched beside the road outside Torun after their cavalry charge and the fields of lifeless horses.

The memory of battle ran together without day or night, beginning or end. The smells and the burns and the agonies. Kicking men to their feet to fire one more round ... one more round ... ear-splitting shellbursts and the tank treads cutting into walls of flesh and the cries of the wounded.

... The little village north of Rypin. What was its name? He had organized fifty strays for an attack. They stopped in the village for water. The children ran out of the school into the village square to cheer them. The priest came out and the women came out with bread in their hands.

No one heard the airplane, it came so fast Rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat—and it was gone, and five children lay bleeding in the square. The priest knelt over them, saying prayers, and the women wailed. The little girl dead, clutching the ragdoll. Rat-a-tat—and planes came in again.

“We have fought with honor,” Brigadier Zygmunt Bozakolski said. “I am surrendering the Seventh Brigade. I expect you gentlemen to conduct yourselves as Ulany officers.”

The prison pen. The accordions of barbed wire. The crisscross of German guards. “Styka, as soon as night falls we are going through the wire and swim the river.”

“I’m with you, Captain.”

Styka fell on the wire and made himself a human bridge, and the other five ran over the top of him. He followed after them. When they reached the riverbank the air was filled with whistles and sirens and shouts in German.

Flashlights probed the darkness.

The river was swift and pulling them back to shore. The lights streaked over the water. Blam! Blam! Swim for your life! Swim for your life!

A scream! One of them hit. He is dragged by the current like a limp rag.

“I’m going under, Captain. I can’t make it.”

Styka gurgled and thrashed hopelessly. “Relax, Styka—relax.” Andrei’s hand was under his chin, his free arm driving at the water.

“I’m drowning! I’m drowning! Mother of God!” Styka screamed.

“Stay calm, you son of a bitch ...”

Andrei pulled him up on the bank and knelt over him and pumped the water from his lungs and slapped his face until he came around.

... And then ... what happened then?

Andrei looked up. The peasant and his wife. The doctor. And Styka, crying.

“If you wish to surrender, Sergeant, you have my permission.”

“What about you, sir?”

Andrei shook his head.

“You are a damned fool!” the doctor said.

“Then I guess I am a damned fool too,” Styka said.

“You’re going with him? You know he can’t make it. Why?”

Styka tried to think. It was hard for him. He shrugged. “Because he is my captain,” he said.

Chapter Twelve

FOR THE FIRST FEW days after the war began, England and France desperately tried to get the German army to withdraw, ready to impose another Munich sellout on Poland.

When Germany refused, England and France had to do what they should have done years before; they declared war. With Poland’s doom more certain each day, the British and French embassies in Warsaw turned over much of their papers and duties to the neutral Americans.

The Americans were short-staffed, but the spirit remained excellent even with extra burdens.

Well into the second week, complete catastrophe for Poland was evident.

Gabriela left the Embassy after a shift of fourteen hours. Thompson insisted she get some rest Instead, she got one of the marine guards to drive her to Zoliborz to see the Bronski family, with whom she had lost contact for several days. When she arrived, Zoshia told her that both Rachael and Deborah were at the Bathyran Orphanage. She followed after them.

The bombing raids had increased in intensity as the German armies moved in on Warsaw. The city was determined to fight on. At the orphanage, Susan Geller had sent out an emergency call for help to move the facilities underground so they would at least have food, medicine, and sleeping places during the air raids. Gabriela worked alongside Deborah, Susan, Rachael, and Alex and Sylvia Brandel through the night and all the next day, helping move supplies underground, catching only a few naps whenever they could. She returned to the Embassy. Things had slowed down, and Thompson sent her home again.

She had reached a state of numbness. She looked up at her flat from the street. It was so lonely there. Several buildings near and on the square had been hit by bombs. She found herself doing what she always did when she was lonesome—she walked north to Leszno Street and climbed the four flights to Andrei’s flat. As always, the door was open. Just as she arrived the air-raid sirens began. She stood by the window, strangely fascinated by the leaping flames from the slums only a mile away. Some of the fire appeared to be coming from the Old Town. What a tragedy if anything happened to the old square, she thought.

An hour earlier the bombers had started the incendiary attacks to light their way over Warsaw during the night. This time the raiders were hitting acres of workers’ homes in Praga across the river.

On the streets below she could hear the confusion as firemen rushed to the slum area, where the houses were so tightly packed and inflammable that the fire could spread all over Warsaw if not contained quickly.

Dull booms from Praga.

There was neither a Polish gun nor a Polish plane to stop the Germans. But the raiders kept coming back to smash the will of the people to resist.

She shut the window and taped the blackout paper into place, then lit the room with a single lamp beside the bed and stretched out to read herself to sleep with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

A knock on the door startled her.

“Come in.”

Alexander Brandel entered the room. She was glad he had come. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I went to the Embassy and your place first.”

“Is everything all right at the orphanage?”

“Fine, fine. The children are so wonderful. We try to keep it like a game. I think they are smarter than we are.”

“How is it outside?”

“The whole northern end is burning. Praga is catching hell. So, Mayor Starzynski says to fight on—so, we fight on. Could I have some cognac?”

Gabriela took a bottle from the cabinet and looked at Alex with suspicion. He was mostly a teetotaler, except when Andrei was around. He drank it down very quickly. He coughed as the fire hit his stomach. Perhaps just the air raid, Gabriela thought. It is enough to make anyone nervous. Then Alex began to mop his brow. There was something serious on his mind.

“What is it?” Gabriela said.

“Andrei is in Warsaw.”

She closed her eyes and held her stomach as though she had been hit. She tried to ask questions, but her lips would not form words.

“Let me first say that he is all right.”

“You swear ... you swear it now?”

“I swear it. He has been wounded, but it is not serious. Please sit down.”

“Where was he wounded, Alex?”

“I tell you it’s not serious and I beg you to be calm.”

“Where is he?”

“Will you please get control of yourself?”

“Where is he!”

“Gabriela ... please ...”

“You’re lying! He’s been hurt.” And then she fought herself into control. “All right, tell me.”

“God only knows how he was able to get back to Warsaw. It was a miracle. No one will ever know what he has been through.”

“Alex ... I beg you ... the truth. How badly is he hurt?”

“His heart is broken, Gabriela.”

“Where is he?”

“At the bottom of the stairs.”

She lunged for the door, screaming his name. Alex caught her and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Now listen to me, Gabriela! He is broken, without spirit. You are going to have to be a very brave girl.”

“Andrei, Andrei,” she whimpered.

“He came to me first and asked me to come to you because ... he does not want you to look at him the way he is. Do you understand that?”

She nodded.

“Then make the room dark and I will send him up.”

She left the door open and turned out the light. There was a tiny ray from a hall light downstairs. Gabriela listened at the landing for Alexander to reach bottom. She heard Alex’s voice. She tensed, waiting for another sound. It seemed like forever. She fought off the agonizing desire to scream out his name and bolt down after him. Then ... a slow, clump, clump, clump. It labored up and up, each step seeming more painful than the last. Clump ... clump ... clump ... clump ...

Gabriela fell back into the room, her heart throbbing violently.

Clump ... clump ... clump ... Dragging and then a deep wheezing breathing.

His hulk cut a shadow on the landing. He stood wavering on his legs and fighting for his breath. He moved for the door, groping in the darkness.

“Andrei?” she whispered.

He groped into the room, stumbling like a blind man, and found the bed and crawled on it and groaned with pain and weariness.

Gabriela burst with desire to turn on the lights, but she dared not. She leaned over the bed quickly and her hand felt around his face. His eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth. They were all there. Arms, hands, fingers, legs. All of him was there!

He smelled putrid from the smokes of battle and dried blood and sweat, and his hair was matted with dirt. He lay and groaned weakly.

And then Gabriela became calm. She sat on the edge of the bed and lifted his head to her lap and petted him gently. His face burned with fever and he gripped the bedcover and convulsed.

“It’s all right, dear, it’s all right now.”

“Gaby ... Gaby ...”

“I’m right here, dear.”

And Andrei cried. “They killed my beautiful horse,” he sobbed. “They killed Batory.”

The shrill screams of the air-raid sirens erupted from Bielany to Rakowiec and from Praga to Kolo as new flames were about to be added to the old as the rape of Warsaw heightened.

“They killed my horse ... they killed my beautiful horse ... they killed him ...”

Chapter Thirteen

Journal Entry—September 17, 1939

THE PIE HAS BEEN cut. Poland, the historic whipping boy, is again acting out its ancient historical role. Hitler has paid off in his deal with Stalin. The Soviet armies have jumped us from the rear, obviously moving to preset borders.

The German invasion has awed the most advanced military thinkers. Smigly-Rydz, the government, and the foreign legations have fled. They say some of our army has been able to escape.

Somehow Warsaw continues to hold out, but I wonder if Polish courage does not prove that the bloodless collapse of Austria and Czechoslovakia was the better way out?

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Dateline, Warsaw

September 21, 1939

by Christopher de Monti

(Swiss News)

How long can Warsaw hold out? How long can Mayor Starzynski keep this city rallied? This is the question asked ten thousand times a day.

It is a strange battle, a commuters’ war. Soldiers and those civilians pressed into labor battalions take up their positions on Warsaw’s outer defense perimeter. When their relief comes, they catch a trolley car back to town to their homes.

Often the front lines begin where the trolley lines end. Troop movements are by red and yellow street cars, taxis, horse-drawn droshkas, and teamster wagons.

On the perimeter there is a strange conglomeration of humanity in the labor battalions digging trenches and preparing fortifications. Old bearded Orthodox Jews, secretaries, housewives in gaily colored babushkas, students in university class caps, children, bankers, bakers.

All over Warsaw long lines queue up for their ration on ever worsening shortages. Water, in some sections, is doled out by the bucketful. Water priority must go to the fire department for its round-the-clock fight to keep the city from going up in flames.

The women waiting in lines stay put despite artillery fire and air raids. Yesterday nearly a hundred were buried by a collapsing wall.

Around the city, both famous and unknown buildings and landmarks are pocked with shell holes. Warsaw’s only skyscraper, the fifteen-story Prudential building, a visible target for German long guns, has suffered better than eighty hits. It still stands intact, although only a single window on the tenth floor remains unshattered.

Poland’s pride, the Stare Miasto, the Old Town Square with meticulously preserved Renaissance houses and historic shrines, is being leveled lower each day.

Statues of Poland’s heroes which adorn her many squares and parks are now headless, armless, and swordless. The magnificent fountains of the Saxony Gardens and the Lazienki are dry; the swans that filled their lakes have fled, and no one seems to know where.

Despite the situation, a strange calm has fallen over the city. There are amazing semblances of normalcy, and the Poles have not lost their traditional sense of humor. Two papers manage to get published each day. Radio Polskie plays Chopin around the clock between dramatic urgings from Mayor Starzynski. The long-awaited German frontal assault must come sooner or later. How long can Warsaw hold?

Chris pulled his report from the typewriter, hastily marked over the errors with a green grease pencil, and put it into a large envelope.

When the phones went out a week before, Chris was able to obtain a wire until that was broken, then radio. Now Warsaw was completely cut off from communication with the outside world except for the one Radio Polskie station operating for the city on an emergency basis.

There was a sudden break for Chris when arrangements were made for a two-hour truce the next day to allow the balance of the American Embassy personnel to evacuate to Krakow. Chris went to Thompson, who agreed to carry out his reports and Rosy’s photos in a diplomatic pouch. Both of them worked feverishly, Rosy shooting up film and Chris doing a series of articles not requiring a dateline but which could run as an “eyewitness” account in papers around the world even after Warsaw’s fall. It would stand as a great scoop for Swiss News.

Rosy handed Chris a stack of photographs, and he went through them, marking them and checking their captions. Pictures of broken houses and twisted girders dangling in grotesque shapes and stunned mothers kneeling beside dead children and stunned children kneeling beside dead mothers. War’s harvest, a photographer’s field day. Dead, bloated animals whose curious expressions asked what they did to be caught in the middle of man’s folly, and the images of old ladies praying to Gods and Virgins who do not hear them and trench diggers and exhausted bucket brigades.

Ervin Rosenblum’s camera did justice to war. Chris put the pictures into folders.

“Where’re the rest of them?” he asked.

“The Kodak lab just went out of action. I’m going to see if I can’t get enough junk to rig up a darkroom in my basement.”

“Well, if you can’t make prints, you’ll have to let me send your negatives.”

Rosy grumbled. The most horrible thought to any photographer was to surrender exposed film which could not be duplicated if ruined. But Chris was right. It would probably be the last chance to get the pictures out of Warsaw.

Rosy went into his familiar routine of jiggling flash bulbs in his pocket and playing with the shutter stops on his camera. “It’s going to be rough on the morale, watching the last of the Americans leave tomorrow,” he said. “It will affect us worse than a half dozen bombing raids. You know how it is—everyone has an uncle in Gary or a brother in Milwaukee.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, “it will be rough all right.”

“How come you’re not evacuating?”

“Why should I? I’ve got an Italian passport and this is a Swiss News Agency bureau. Switzerland isn’t at war. Maybe I want to be on the welcoming committee for my liberators.”

“Chris, you don’t even make a third-rate Fascist. You think those fellows at the Italian Embassy are going to vouch for you? You’re so American you may as well be wearing a sign.”

“It happens that America isn’t at war either. I’m keeping the bureau open.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Rosy answered. “I know that within two weeks the Germans will put us out of business.”

“I’ll get around it somehow.”

“Why?” Rosy persisted. “You won’t be able to get any news out but watered-down potato soup.”

“You know damned well why I’m staying!” Chris said angrily.

Rosy set his camera down and walked up behind Chris’s chair and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “It’s not like I don’t want you to stay, Chris. I have a good job. I’d really have to struggle if the bureau closed. But ... when a friend is in trouble, sometimes you don’t think too much about yourself. That’s why I tell you, pack up and leave with the Americans tomorrow.”

“I can’t leave her, Rosy.”

“My Susan has known Deborah Bronski since college days. When two people like you and she come from different ends of the earth there has to be a great ability on both parts to be able to give. She is controlled by inner forces that make it impossible to change, even if she wanted to.”

“It’s not true. Bronski has been cutting away at her beliefs for a decade.”

“Only on the surface. When the final showdown comes she’ll return to them. She doesn’t have the ability to do otherwise, and that is why you are walking down a blind alley.”

“Oh hell—women in Italy and Spain and Mexico and India and half the damned world are driven to a wall of mysticism and superstitions in order to be able to keep existing in a world which fights them every inch of the way. The trouble with you Jews is that you make yourselves believe you have the priority on suffering—”

“But there is a difference, Chris. In all of the world, no matter how sordid the life, no matter how evil and bare and fruitless, almost every man can open his eyes in the morning in a land in which he had his beginning and a heritage. We can’t. And I know what this does to women like Deborah Bronski. I know too many like her.”

“No, you’re wrong, Rosy. If you really know Deborah, then you’d understand that I am unable to ever leave her.”

The bell rang. Rosy answered. It was Andrei. In only a week he had made a remarkable recovery. Much of the pain was still with him and his face showed great weariness, but he pulled himself together for that last battle which had not been fought.

Two days after his return to Warsaw he reported to the commander at the Citadel and was given a spot promotion to the rank of major and placed in charge of a battalion on the southern perimeter. The truce to evacuate the Americans was to take place at his position.

“How is it out there?” Chris asked.

“The same,” Andrei answered. “The bastards won’t attack.”

“Why should they?” Chris said. “They can sit back and blast the city till kingdom come.”

“I want to get one more look at them,” Andrei said.

“We may be looking at them for a long, long time,” Rosy said. “And how are you feeling, Andrei?”

“Never better,” he answered, lifting the glass filled with scotch whisky that Chris had poured. “I’m only in for a few hours. I’ve got to get back. Something has come up that may be of interest to you on that truce tomorrow morning to evacuate the American Embassy personnel.”

They both nodded.

“The Germans contacted us a few hours ago by radio. One of our officers just finished speaking to them personally beyond the lines. The Germans have asked for a trade of prisoners of war at the same time the Americans are evacuated.”

“How many Germans do you have here?”

“A few hundred, more or less. Most of them are ethnics.”

“Seems like a normal procedure,” Chris said.

“No, there’s something fishy about it,” Andrei said. “The Germans are offering us five to one.”

“Why would they do that, I wonder?” Rosy asked.

“I don’t know—but something’s wrong with the whole business.”

“We might as well go down there and cover the truce,” Chris said. “There may be a story, although God knows when we’ll be able to get it out of Poland.”

Chapter Fourteen

THE AMERICAN EMBASSY WAS closed except for a half dozen token personnel. There had been a final tear-filled farewell with Thompson, who was to evacuate during the truce in the morning, and then Gabriela went to Andrei’s flat to wait for him as she had waited for two harrowing nights through shellfire and air raids.

It was just turning dark when he arrived after leaving Chris. They embraced wearily. He slumped into the big armchair while Gabriela poured the last of the vodka. The liquor felt good and warm going down. Gabriela stood behind him and rubbed the knots out of the muscles in his neck.

“I managed to save a large pail of water,” she said. “You will feel better when you have washed.”

He clumped into the bathroom and dunked his head, trying to wash away the exhaustion, then shaved with a cup of heated water.

Gabriela had the food ready. He shoved some stale bread into a bowl of beans.

“I’m sorry there isn’t more to eat,” she said. “When we closed down at the Embassy I came straight here. I didn’t want to risk standing in line and possibly miss you if you came in. I’ll go out and get some things at Tommy’s house later and fix you a good warm meal.”

“It’s fine,” Andrei muttered. “I can only stay a few hours anyhow.”

He chewed the hard bread without speaking. Gabriela became uneasy. “You’d better take a little nap. You look as if you’re ready to cave in.”

“Stop nagging me!”

The air-raid sirens cried out. Gabriela turned quickly from his testiness to draw the curtains and put out half the lights.

“Bastards,” Andrei mumbled. He pushed the bread through the beans. “Bastards.”

In a moment the sky was crackling with the sounds of the motors. Andrei listened for the first whistling screams of the dives and then bombs. He did not have to wait long.

“Mokotow,” Andrei said to himself, “the airdrome. Only there’s no airdrome left. They’re methodical. Every part of Warsaw is like a number on the clock. Mokotow, then Rakowiec, then Ochota, then Wola. Why not? We know where they’re coming, but we can’t shoot back. Why not? I’ve seen those sons of bitches face to face. I’ll see them again before this siege is over. They won’t break us with air raids—they’re going to have to make an attack, and when they do—”

“Stop it, please.”

Andrei ate and listened. The Germans were passing in from the north, starting their unimpeded diving patterns into the southern fringe of the city from directly over his apartment. As the Stukas and Messerschmitts screamed down on the undefended city, Gabriela became shaken. A miscalculated bombing run dropped a rack just a block away from Leszno Street. Andrei’s flat shook from the blast. “Perhaps we’d better get to the basement,” Gabriela said.

“Do I look like a mole or a gopher? I will not live under the ground.”

“That arrogant Polish Ulany pride will get us killed.”

“Go to the basement then!”

“No!”

“Well, make up your mind.”

It was not a long raid, for there was nothing of military value left to bomb in Warsaw. The Germans had had their sport for the day and departed. Gabriela examined the empty vodka bottle with disappointment. Andrei drew the curtains and watched the dancing flames in the distance. He turned back to her, and she became frightened. He had a strange look on his face that she had never seen before.

“I came to say good-by, Gabriela,” he said. “Go home and pack your things. You are allowed one suitcase. You are leaving with the Americans tomorrow.”

“I ... don’t believe I understand you.”

“Don’t make a scene.”

“How am I to get through the German lines? Perhaps I should sing ‘Swanee River’ for them to show them I am an American.”

“I spoke to Thompson. He has already made out an American diplomatic passport for you. There is no better way to travel. Tommy will get you to Krakow.”

“My, you’ve been a busy man. Here I thought you were defending Warsaw, and you’ve been out making diplomatic missions.”

“I said I don’t want a scene!”

“I’ll make up my own mind where and when I want to go.”

“So maybe I’ve condemned you to purgatory! America is such a horrible place? Only a crazy damned fool would want to keep their skinny neck in this city.”

“Since when do you tell me what to do?”

“Since now!” he answered, slamming his fist on the table with such force it rattled the bottles and dishes.

Gabriela watched his terrible temper with a bit of fright and a bit of awe. He seemed to be issuing an ultimatum that if she stayed he would not see her again. She dared not ask. Her eyes were filled with hurt. She whispered, “Andrei, what have I done to make you so angry?”

“You have a mother and a sister in America. That is where you are going.”

“Is this good-by?”

“One way or the other ...”

She waited for him to make some move, some sign. He stood like a lump, glaring at her, unwavering in his intensity.

“All right,” she whispered. She picked up her coat and put it on slowly and walked toward the door, waiting, praying for Andrei to call her name. He did not move a muscle or blink an eye. She opened the door and faced him. He was like a stranger. This cruel man was not Andrei ... to dismiss her as a nobleman dismisses a peasant.

If I walk down these steps I will die, Gabriela thought.

She closed the door and walked across the room to him. She put her arms around him and lay her head on his chest but he remained emotionless.

“Don’t try any female tricks on me.”

“All right,” she said, “but I didn’t believe the day would come when you would not touch me. I will leave you, but you cannot make me leave Warsaw. This happens to be my home too.”

“You must leave!”

“Don’t shout, Major Androfski. You may frighten away the Stukas.”

Andrei flopped his arms hopelessly, and the look of humanity returned to his eyes. “Goddamn but you are one stubborn woman,” he said. “I only tried to do it this way because, if I threatened never to see you, you might go. Now let me plead with you. This isn’t our country anymore. God only knows what the Germans are going to do with three and a half million Jews. I cannot live knowing that because of me harm will come to you. If you love me, then give me my pride. Let me know I have given you life, not taken it from you.”

“Oh, Andrei, I should have seen through you right away. I love you. I don’t know any other way to love. I cannot leave because I cannot do what I cannot do.”

“Oh God ... Gabriela. I don’t want you hurt.”

“Shhh, darling, shhh.”

“You are a little fool—a terrible little fool.”

Chapter Fifteen

WARSAW GAGGED. CLOUDS OF smoke billowed from the ground and then rained down a billion bits of dust and ground-up brick and mortar. An unearthly silence mingled with the fumes of war.

Christopher de Monti and Ervin Rosenblum were already interviewing the evacuees when Major Androfski drove up.

Thompson was the first to reach Andrei.

“Where is Gaby?”

Andrei beat his shoulders to ward off the pre-dawn cold and shifted his feet about. “She wouldn’t come, Tommy. Honest to God, I tried.”

“I really didn’t think she would. Take these papers, she may be able to use them later.”

“Thanks, Tommy. Thanks for everything. Gaby sends her love to Martha.”

“Take care of her. ...”

The second-in-command, a captain, approached them, and Andrei assumed a formal pose.

“Have you checked the credentials of all your people?” the captain asked Thompson.

“I have.”

“What’s the count?”

“Twenty American personnel. Fifteen personnel from mixed neutral embassies, and twelve civilians, miscellaneous.”

“Get back with them.” Andrei looked at his watch, then strained to see in the darkness. “It will be light in about fifteen minutes. Be ready to move out if everything goes well.”

Thompson nodded. They grasped hands, and the American turned and trotted back to the courtyard behind a shattered farmhouse where the evacuees huddled.

Andrei turned to his captain. “How many Germans?”

“We managed to get eighty of them.”

“Has this information been radioed to the Germans?”

“Yes, sir. They said they will return three hundred ninety of our people.”

Andrei walked down the road to where the German prisoners stamped around restlessly in the cutting chill. They were glum and humiliated. Their faces wore masks of hatred and arrogance. Andrei stared at them for awhile. They looked like people he had known all his life. A baker ... a gentleman with children ... a teacher ... What was it that had brought them to this place?

He turned on his heels, followed by the captain, and walked briskly to the forward trenches.

The distant thump-thump-thump of artillery never quit. It was still too dark to see across the field. Another eight minutes. Andrei gave a series of security commands.

Chris climbed down into the trench alongside him.

“Gaby staying?”

“Yes.”

“It was a safe bet.”

“I tried ...”

“Don’t blame yourself. Be thankful. Find out anything about the prisoner exchange?”

“They’re still paying us almost five to one. We’re watching for a trick. Lord knows what they’re up to.”

The thumping stopped.

All eyes strained for the sight of something moving in the ugly grayness over the field. Andrei held his field glasses up and crossed back and forth over the horizon ... back and forth.

There! A shadow emerging from the clump of trees. Barely make it out. Definitely coming into the field. He waited for five minutes while the figure grew more visible.

You son of a bitch, Andrei thought. How I’d like to blow your filthy head off! The figure stopped. He was holding a makeshift white truce flag.

Andrei jumped out of the trench and walked toward the German over what had once been a potato field. It was pocked with holes and littered with wreckage. From both sides, ten thousand eyes were on them. Andrei stopped a few feet from the German. He was a colonel, but neither beetle-browed nor blond Aryan, but rattier nondescript. He seemed uneasy in his exposed position. He and Andrei stared at each other for several moments without a word.

“You are in charge?” the German said at last.

“Yes.”

“What is your situation?”

Although Andrei spoke conversational German well, he addressed the colonel in Yiddish. He rattled his Yiddish, staring directly at his enemy.

“We have forty-seven mixed neutral nationals, American Embassy personnel, and eighty of your people. Credentials have been checked.”

“Bring them out here. I will escort them through our lines.”

“You owe us three hundred ninety Poles. I will bring the evacuees to this point when you bring my people here.”

Andrei’s implication that he mistrusted the Germans was obvious. There was more the two men wished to say to each other. Andrei longed to break the German’s neck with his hands, and the German’s eyes told a message of “don’t let me find you when we enter Warsaw, Jew boy.”

But this part of war was by the rule book. Restraint. The victor had to show majesty. The loser was given his pride.

“I have a message from our commander. He urges surrender of Warsaw to avoid further useless bloodshed.”

“I have a message from our mayor in the event that your commander asks Warsaw to surrender. No.”

The German broke off the conversation, looking at his watch. “It will take me approximately six minutes to have your people moving here. They have been assembled in the small woods there.”

“I’ll wait.”

The German snapped his heels together, made a curt short bow from the waist, and walked back across the field.

Andrei stood alone. He heaved a terrible sigh and bit his lip. He watched the figure of the German grow smaller and smaller, and now the thousands of eyes were on him alone. The last of the proud Poles ... erect as a statue. Still cursing beneath his breath, still praying for his enemy to fight him face to face.

Six minutes passed to the second. The German was efficient. Clusters of men began to emerge slowly from the woods and cross the field toward Andrei. Andrei turned to his own lines and raised his hand.

They came from his side in two groups, one led by Thompson, the other by a German officer in command of the German prisoners. The distance was far shorter to Andrei than to the woods. They came at a trot and were formed up quickly.

Andrei looked toward the woods again, annoyed by the slowness of the Polish prisoners in returning.

“Something is wrong out there,” Thompson said.

Andrei lifted his field glasses, and his hand dropped. He kicked a potato on the ground viciously. He lifted the glasses again, and his face contorted with quivers of rage.

“No wonder they wanted to give us five to one,” he said. “They’re sending back nothing but amputees.”

“Oh dear God.”

“Must they torment us!” Andrei cried.

“Maybe,” Tommy said, “if they torment enough, we will wake up and get off our dead prats in America. Can we leave, Andrei?”

“Go ahead, Tommy. Move slowly. I want to be sure those men are safely in before you reach the woods. They may ... try something if they were left exposed.”

The Americans walked toward the enemy lines, turning their eyes from the macabre marchers coming in the opposite direction.

Andrei returned to the trench.

“What’s going on out there?” Chris said.

“Look for yourself.”

He took Andrei’s glasses. Nearly four hundred armless or legless men straggled toward Warsaw. Men with one arm used their other to carry stretchers of men with no legs, and men with one leg hobbled and fell in the pitholes.

Andrei turned to the captain. “Get out there and help those people,” he said.

Polish soldiers dropped their weapons and ran over the field and the two forces came together, and in the distance the thump-thump-thump of the cannonading began once more and overhead the first flights of German warplanes ushered in a new day.

It was night when Christopher de Monti reached the Bronski home in Zoliborz. As he approached the house, the familiar sound of music reached his ears. Rachael was playing the piano. How wonderful! How wonderful that Deborah was able to keep them together and functioning, holding back the fear and gloom. Chris was a welcome face these days. Young Stephan let out a large sigh of relief when Chris hugged him, for he knew the duties of “manhood” would be relieved for the time he was there.

Deborah was in the kitchen with Zoshia, who wailed in uncontrolled grief, her fat body wobbling as she cried. Deborah looked up at Chris.

“Poor thing. Her sister was killed in the raid today.”

Chris went to the study and found some cognac and made the woman drink it. They helped Zoshia to her feet and led her to Deborah’s own bedroom and forced her to lie down and fetched Rachael and Stephan.

“Sit with her, children. Don’t let her get up.”

Zoshia cried out that she wanted to go to her sister.

“No, dear. It is not safe there. The walls are all tumbling. Now rest ... rest.”

Deborah found a sedative in Paul’s study among the medicines he kept for family use and after great difficulty got the maid to drink it. In a while her wails died down to a weaker cry.

Chris led Deborah to the study and locked the door, and for a moment he held her and soothed her. “Poor thing,” Deborah said, “poor thing. Her only sister. All she has left is that no-good son, and she may not even have him. Not a word since the war.”

“She has you and the children.”

Chris poured her a drink, but she refused it. “The children have been so brave—how long can this go on?”

“I talked with Mayor Starzynski just now. It may end at any moment.”

“Sometimes I think I will be glad when it is over. Even with the Germans in Warsaw it can’t get worse. Have you seen anybody?”

Chris nodded.

“I was at the orphanage,” Deborah continued. “Susan Geller is worried about Ervin. She hasn’t seen him in three days.”

“Rosy is all right. I just left him a few minutes ago.”

“That’s good. And Gabriela? Did you tell her to come out here with us? It’s much safer than in the center of town.”

“She won’t leave Andrei’s apartment. You know that.”

“Andrei?”

“I was with him this morning, Deborah. The evacuation truce took place through his position on the line. You heard?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “they gave us back limbless men ... I heard.”

“Deborah ... your husband was one of them.”

The long storage corridors beneath the National Museum were a crush of cots and mattresses stretched out on the floor. The depth of the cellar gave protection from the shelling. It was converted hastily into a hospital. The power in that section of Warsaw had been blasted out. Even the emergency generators were gone. The musty halls were dimly lit by kerosene lamps. It was damp and it smelled moldy and it was clammy-cold and the smell of wounded flesh and antiseptics mingled with the other smells, and there were the sounds of nurses moving in a gliding kind of silence and there was the sound of continual prayer and moans and now and then a shriek of agony.

In the makeshift maternity ward, infants sucked at empty breasts and screamed angrily at what life had dealt them in their few hours on earth.

Chris led Deborah through the maze of corridors, threading his way among the sick and the dying. He went down another dozen steps into a long corridor storing medieval armor from other, less efficient wars. Here lay the amputees and here knelt their bereaved relatives. A nurse held a flashlight close to Paul Bronski’s face.

“Paul ...”

“He is under heavy sedation.”

“Paul ...”

A legless man next to Bronski spoke. “I was there when he did it. He had operated on about twenty or thirty of us ... he was working with a flashlight only ... then he got it ... direct hit ... he was the only doctor left alive. He was conscious the whole time, directing the soldiers how to take his arm off. ...”

“Paul ...”

Paul Bronski blinked his eyes open. They were glazed, but a small smile cornered his lips to say he knew she was there. She held his hand until he fell back into the drug induced sleep.

“You Mrs. Bronski?” a doctor asked.

She nodded.

“Lucky he is a doctor. There’s every chance he’ll get through without infection or serious complication. He’s out of shock. He’ll pull through all right.”

Deborah walked from the house of misery.

Chris waited at the main door of the museum. There were sudden flashes of light, like summer lightning, from the cannon fire on the horizon. The shells arched above them, plunging down on the workers’ shacks across the river.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, taking her arm to lead her to his car.

She jerked free of him.

“Come on, Deborah. We’ll talk about it at home. If one of those shells falls short we’ll be blown to kingdom come.”

“Get away from me,” she snarled.

The skyline lit up in quick, brilliant flashes and he saw her face. Her eyes were those of a madwoman. He grabbed her hand.

“I want to die!”

“Control yourself!”

“We did this to Paul!”

Chris shook her till her head bobbed. “We didn’t make this war!”

“God is punishing me! Murderers! We are murderers!” She tore herself out of his grip and ran off into the darkness.

Part Two

DUSK

Chapter One

Journal Entry—September 27, 1939, Warsaw surrendered.

POLAND HAS BEEN DIVIDED into three parts. Germany annexed western Poland to the pre-1918 borders. Soviet Russia has grabbed eastern Poland. The third part has been designated as the General Government Area, which the Germans are going to administrate. It appears this has been set up as a buffer zone against Russia.

The streets of Warsaw trembled beneath the treads of hundreds of tanks moving up Jerusalem Boulevard and the Third of May Boulevard in parade array. These were followed by tens of thousands of goose-stepping soldiers moving in absolute precision, and overhead, squadron after squadron of planes flew in elements at house-top level.

It was an awesome display. The curbs were lined with stunned people. A few German flags fluttered from the homes of ethnics or cowards.

I think that Andrei and I were the only two of Warsaw’s three hundred thousand Jews who watched. The rest sat behind drawn curtains and locked doors. I could not resist the temptation of seeing Adolf Hitler. He glowered at us from an open Mercedes. He looks just like his pictures.

I had to watch after Andrei. He was so enraged I was afraid he might try something foolish and get himself killed. He behaved.

Well, we’re in it now, brother.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Franz Koenig wiped the peak of his cap with his sleeve to enhance the shine. What a pity Herr Liedendorf was not here for this moment. Liedendorf, long the leader of Warsaw’s ethnics, had been caught shining lights during German night-bombing raids and was shot by a Polish firing squad. He died a true son of Germany.

Franz Koenig, a brand-new official, had applied for Nazi membership. He was pure in birth, German all the way down to his great-grandparents. He was certain his membership would come through. He admired himself in the mirror and attached the swastika to his right sleeve and went into the bedroom to collect his plump Polish wife. She was too afraid to laugh when she saw the potbellied little professor decked out in a comic-opera uniform. Franz had changed since he began taking up with the Germans a few years before. Once she had had ambitions for him when he was at the university. She prodded him to try to win the chair of medicine. Now he had suddenly become a powerful man and was showing her a dark side she never knew existed, and she did not particularly like it.

Koenig’s wife looked like an over decorated Christmas tree or perhaps a clove-garnished pig ready for the oven. She made nearly two of him. Franz circled her, reckoned she would have to do, and they went out of their flat to the staff car waiting to take them to the grand ballroom of the Europa.

When they arrived the room was filled with uniformed generals of the land forces and admirals of the sea forces and generals of the sky forces and pin-striped, swallow-tailed, beribboned members of the diplomatic forces. Franz saw many old friends, also in new uniforms, and they looked neither more nor less ridiculous than he did, nor did their wives. There was a fantastic amount of heel clicking, square handshakes, bowing and hand kissing, glass clinking, and merry congratulations to the tune of soft Viennese waltzes ludicrously rendered by a German army band. Bottles popped and there was laughter and monocles. There was an entourage of new Polish mistresses, quick to serve new masters, and they were sized up for bed duty by the new administrators of Warsaw.

The orchestra stopped between two notes.

A single drum roll.

Everyone scrambled to set down his drink and line up on either side of the sweeping staircase.

Adolf Hitler appeared at the top of the stairs and as he stepped down, followed by a mass of black-uniformed men, the orchestra rendered a soul-stirring “Deutschland über Alles.” It was indeed a moment for German backs to be ramrod-stiff and German hearts to pound. Unable to contain himself, an overenthusiastic officer of lower rank cried out, “Sieg Heil!”

Hitler stopped and nodded and smiled.

“Sieg Heil!” cried the officer again.

And the room broke into spontaneous rhythmic chanting, right arms thrust forward.

“Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

Tears of joy streamed down the cheeks of Dr. Franz Koenig, the enthralled and the hypnotized.

Like the ethnic Germans of Austria and Czechoslovakia, the ethnics of Poland lined up for their reward for the service of spying on Poland and helping to destroy the country of their residence in advance of the German army. In the months before the invasion Dr. Koenig had grown powerful in the movement, second only to the late Liedendorf. He was made a special deputy to the new Kommissar of Warsaw, Rudolph Schreiker.

“Dr. Paul Bronski is here to see you, sir,” a secretary told Koenig.

Koenig looked up from his massive, gleaming desk in his new office in the city hall.

“Show him in.”

Paul was ushered in. Koenig pretended to be deep in meditation of a paper before him. He allowed Bronski to stand, neither offering recognition, a handshake, a seat, or sympathy for his missing right arm.

Paul Bronski had made a good recovery, but he was still very weak and in constant pain. He stood before Koenig’s desk for a full five minutes before the German looked up. He realized that Koenig was basking in the glory of retribution. Koenig looked around the lavish environment, as if to point out the distance he had traveled from the tiny cluttered room he had had at the university.

“Sit down,” Koenig said at last. He lit his pipe, rocking his chair back and forth, back and forth. Then, after another few moments, after insatiable sensations oozed from every pore, the delightful pleasures of revenge faded.

“Bronski, I summoned you here because we are in the process of forming a new Jewish Civil Authority. We are disbanding the old Jewish Council as of this afternoon. I am appointing you as deputy in charge of Jewish professionals.”

“But ... Franz ... my position at the university ...”

“As of tomorrow, there will be no more Jews at the university.”

“I have no choice?”

“That is correct. If you carry out our directives and cooperate, you will be much better off than the other Jews in Warsaw, I can assure you.”

“I ... don’t know what to say. It would certainly do no good to plead that ... I have been divorced from all things Jewish for many years.”

“The directives from Berlin clearly state that all new laws regarding Jews refer also to converts to Catholicism and people having one Jewish parent, grandparent, or great-grandparent. Active or inactive practice of Judaism is not a matter of consideration.”

“Franz ... I ... it is hard to believe what I hear.”

“Times have changed, Dr. Bronski. Get used to it quickly.”

“We have been friends a long, long time. ...”

“Never friends.”

“Professional colleagues, then. You have always been a compassionate man. You were here this last month. You saw what happened. You are an intelligent human being. I cannot believe that you have completely lost feeling for us.”

Koenig set his pipe down. “Yes, Bronski, I have made peace with myself, if that is what you mean. You see, I have been lied to by all those philosophers of righteousness who speak of truth and beauty and the triumph of the lambs. This is real, here and now. It is a victory of lions. Germany has given me in one instant more than a thousand years of piddling through mediocrity and finding comfort in the quotations of false wisdoms.”

“Franz ...”

“Just a minute, Bronski. Your way puts me below your cunning. This way makes me your master. I take it you will serve on the Jewish Civil Authority.”

Paul laughed ironically. “Yes, I’ll be happy to.”

“Very well, then. Tomorrow at ten you will report here to receive your first instructions from the Kommissar, Rudolph Schreiker.”

Paul stood up slowly and extended his hand.

Koenig refused it. “It would be wise if you got into the habit of dispensing with amenities which heretofore made us appear as equals. You will address me as Dr. Koenig at all times and otherwise show the respect due a superior.”

“Times have changed,” Paul said. He started from the room.

“Bronski. One more thing. The Zoliborz suburb is being commandeered for the exclusive use of German officials and officers. Jews are no longer permitted. I shall be moving into your house in about ten days, so you have that length of time to resituate yourself. Before you start crying, I might say that out of deference to past relationships I will make a reasonable settlement on your property, a courtesy that most of the other Jews in Zoliborz will be denied.”

Bronski felt weak. He leaned against the door to support himself, then opened it quickly.

“Tomorrow, here at ten to meet Rudolph Schreiker.”

Chapter Two

Journal Entry

WARSAW HAS BLOSSOMED WITH German uniforms of all colors. One must have a program to tell who is über who. The biggest uniform apparently belongs to the new Kommissar, Rudolph Schreiker. We don’t know too much about him, but obviously he is not going to try to win a popularity contest here. The old Jewish Council, a quasi-religious government, has been disbanded. A new instrument called the Jewish Civil Authority has been formed. Emanuel Goldman, the musician and a good Zionist, asked me to serve on the executive board. I ducked him because this so-called Civil Authority doesn’t seem quite kosher to me.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Rudolph Schreiker, the new Kommissar of Warsaw, had come from a small town in Bavaria. He did not wish to spend his life at a cobbler’s bench as had his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. It was doubtful that Rudolph would have made a good cobbler, anyhow, for he wasn’t very good at very much.

He reached maturity in that post-war Germany bitter over defeat, jobless, confused, floundering for direction. A malcontent in a time of malcontentment, he spent his energy berating a world he did not understand and was unable to cope with. Schreiker’s mediocrity left him with two divorces and four children and debts and alcoholic tantrums.

There were rumblings in Bavaria in the twenties which were music to Rudolph Schreiker and all of his breed. Obscure and insignificant people were being offered a status in life they could never have attained for themselves. His failures were explained to him in a way he liked to believe. He was not responsible for his plight but a victim of conspiracies by the world against his people. He became a Nazi at once.

This new status and this brown uniform and this striking insignia and this man who posed as the Christ of Germany did not demand that he earn his way through labor or through study or wisdom. If these had been demanded, then all the Schreikers would have remained anonymous and Nazism’s voice would not have sounded so jewel-toned, and that is why Nazism’s voice had such jewel-like tones to him.

All he had to do was exert brute force, the same kind of brute force he used in beating his wives. With little in the way of personality or mental capacity he was yet able to understand clearly that his only hope for success or recognition in the world lay in casting his lot with the Nazis.

He instinctively grasped the one basic rule: absolute obedience. In true German tradition he responded to discipline and power. As a drunkard and wife beater, he had demonstrated his absence of personal morality, so morality posed no problem.

All Rudolph Schreiker really wanted was to be somebody, and Adolf Hitler gave him that chance.

The Nazis took bullies and bums and made them heroes. In exchange, the bums gave absolute obedience. There was no qualm or remorse or inner conflicts of conscience when Schreiker was asked to destroy a synagogue or murder an enemy of the party.

And the Nazis did what Hitler promised. Germany became powerful and feared and, as it expanded, the loyal Schreikers were given their rewards. He had served un-questioningly for nearly two decades, and for this he was made the Kommissar of Warsaw in the General Government Area.

This was a large position for a man who had always been a deputy and whose greatest forte was following commands.

Certainly Schreiker was no mental giant and a great deal of the orders would come from Berlin or Krakow or Lublin, where his superiors held office. Nonetheless, it called for more administrative ability and more initiative and authority than he had ever believed he would possess. He did not want to fail. If he were a success in Warsaw, there might be no limit to how far he could advance.

Schreiker learned many lessons intuitively as a Nazi. One of the purest axioms was that intellectuals were weak men. They espoused noble ideas which he did not understand. They argued ideals, but they were not ready to die for them as he was for Nazism. These so-called thinkers were exactly opposite of what they posed to be. They were all talk. They were cowards.

He, Schreiker, could rule them because he could bully them. And they would not fight back. Moreover, he could use them to accomplish for him what he could not do for himself.

The moment he arrived in Warsaw he examined the lists of ethnics who had supported the Germans. Dr. Franz Koenig. Perfect. Middle-aged, physically inept, proven loyalty. A doctor and professor, highly educated, lover of classics, reader of philosophers. An intellectual who was completely controllable. Rudolph Schreiker gave Dr. Franz Koenig a uniform, a title, and nearly unlimited range and power in his operations.

A good little puppy dog who would help him rule his district.

Paul Bronski was led by Koenig through a series of connecting offices to that of the Kommissar of Warsaw. Rudolph Schreiker sat behind the desk. His personal vanity made him a striking figure. He was a large, strong man with square black German features. Franz Koenig took his place at Schreiker’s right.

“They are all here,” Koenig said.

Paul Bronski recognized the other men. Silberberg, the playwright. There was Marinski, who controlled most of the leather factories around lower Gensia Street, and Schoenfeld, the most brilliant of Warsaw’s Jewish lawyers and a former member of the Polish Parliament. Seidman, an engineer, was there and Colonel Weiss, one of the highest-ranking Jews of the Polish army. Goldman, an outstanding musician who had at one time taught both Deborah and Rachael. He was known as a strong Zionist among the intellectuals. Finally, there was Boris Presser. Presser seemed out of place in an otherwise distinguished gathering. He was a merchant, the owner of a large department store, but completely unnoted politically or socially in Warsaw.

The eight of them fidgeted before Schreiker’s desk. The Kommissar looked from one to the other slowly, examining each and playing the game of invoking his power and authority by deliberate mannerism.

“For reasons of racial inferiority,” Schreiker said, “we deem it necessary for the Jews to govern themselves separately from the other citizens, under our directives. You eight men have been selected as the executive board of the Jewish Civil Authority. Each one of you will be responsible for a specific department—welfare, health, professions, properties, and so forth. Which of you is Goldman?”

The famed musician and idealist stepped forward. Although aged, Goldman showed the flash and color of a virtuoso.

“You will be in charge, Goldman. You will report directly to me. You others will receive your directives from Dr. Koenig.”

Koenig spoke. “You will occupy the premises at Grzybowska 28 immediately and set up offices. Your first task will be to take a census of the Jews in the Warsaw district. As soon as each Jew registers with your Civil Authority he will be issued a Kennkarte, which will also serve as a basis for a ration book. Any Jew found at the end of three weeks without a Kennkarte will be punished by death.”

“I expect this registration to be carried out efficiently,” Schreiker added, “or there will be a new Civil Authority in short order. You will be advised of further directives. You are dismissed.”

They shuffled for the door, dazed.

“One more thing for now,” Schreiker said, standing up and walking around to the front of his desk. He was a large and obviously powerful man and wanted to make certain the others saw it. “We have thousands of young virile soldiers in our garrison who require diversion. You will supply a list of women who will take care of their requirements. We will need at least fifty or sixty to start; the choice ones will be fortunate to serve in an officers’ brothel.”

They looked from one to the other, desperate for one of them to have the courage to speak out.

Schreiker snatched a paper with their names. “Who is Silberberg?”

Silberberg stepped forward, trembling. All his courage went into the words he wrote. “You are a playwright! You must know actresses.” Silberberg’s thin chest was pained with fear. He drew a deep breath and spit on the floor. Schreiker ran across the room and stopped in front of him. The playwright closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. It came across the bridge of his nose. He sank to his knees, holding his gory face in his hands, temporarily blinded. Goldman knelt beside him quickly.

“Get away from him!”

“Go on, hit me too, you brave man,” Goldman challenged.

Schreiker spun around quickly, looking over the others. “You, cripple!” he said, pointing to Bronski. “You will take personal charge of getting the whores!”

“I am afraid I cannot serve under these conditions,” Paul Bronski said.

Franz Koenig sensed that Schreiker had gone too far, too fast. He stepped in quickly. “We shall discuss this in due time,” he said. “Now get out, all of you.”

Schreiker wanted to beat them all up, but he knew Koenig’s move was to save him from bumbling. He must not bumble. After they left he paced the room, livid with rage, and cursed every oath he knew, then slumped behind his desk, swearing he would show who was the authority. When he calmed down, Koenig spoke softly and calmly. “Herr Schreiker,” he said, “we have touched upon a very sensitive point.”

“But they defied me!”

“Herr Kommissar, never mind. Let us not give them issues to unify them. After all now, we have selected them to do a job for us—right?”

“They are privileged!”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” Koenig said. “In order for them to carry on for us, they must have a certain amount of authority and weight among the Jews. If we destroy their authority by forcing them to do something to make them lose face with the people—then they can’t do the job for us.”

Schreiker thought about that. Yes, he had done a stupid thing. He was going to create a power, then destroy it in the same blow. Koenig was shrewd. Intellectuals could always see those things. He would keep Koenig close at hand so he would not make mistakes.

“There are other ways to supply women for brothels,” Koenig said. “I suggest we drop the matter so far as the Civil Authority is concerned. That will make them think they have some importance.”

“Yes, of course,” Schreiker said. “I was only testing them to see if they had enough personal courage to carry out our directives—just testing them.”

Journal Entry

Well, we certainly did not have to wait long to find out what is in store for us and what kind of a man Rudolph Schreiker is.

The seat of the government for the General Government Area has been set up in Krakow, which is a surprise. We were certain it would be in Warsaw. A chap named Hans Frank is running the show down there. Each day he publishes a four-page paper called the General Government Gazette. Pages one, two, and three cover an assortment of things. Page four is dedicated to the “Jewish Problem.” We certainly are making news these days.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

DIRECTIVE

ALL JEWS MUST REGISTER IMMEDIATELY AT THE JEWISH CIVIL AUTHORITY AT GRZYBOWSKA 28 FOR ISSUANCE OF KENNKARTEN AND RATION BOOKS. FAILURE TO DO SO IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.

DIRECTIVE

THE ZOLIBORZ SUBURB IS OUT OF BOUNDS FOR FUTURE JEWISH RESIDENCE. THOSE JEWS LIVING RN ZOLIBORZ MUST FIND OTHER QUARTERS WITHIN ONE WEEK.

DIRECTIVE

FOR CLARIFICATION. ALL FUTURE DIRECTIVES PERTAINING TO JEWS ALSO PERTAIN TO THOSE WITH ONE JEWISH PARENT OR GRANDPARENT. JEWS WHO HAVE CONVERTED TO OTHER RELIGIONS ARE CONSIDERED JEWS.

DIRECTIVE

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN IN PUBLIC PARKS AND MUSEUMS. JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN IN PUBLIC RESTAURANTS IN NON-JEWISH DISTRICTS.

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO RIDE ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.

JEWISH CHILDREN ARE TO BE WITHDRAWN FROM PUBLIC SCHOOLS IMMEDIATELY.

DIRECTIVE

THE PRACTICE OF THE JEWISH RELIGION IS FORBIDDEN. ALL SYNAGOGUES ARE OUT OF BOUNDS. JEWISH RELIGIOUS SCHOOLING IS FORBIDDEN.

DIRECTIVE

THE FOLLOWING TRADES AND PROFESSIONS MAY BE PRACTICED BY JEWS ONLY AMONG THE JEWISH POPULATION: MEDICINE, LAW, JOURNALISM, MUSIC, ALL GOVERNMENTAL POSITIONS, ALL MUNICIPALLY OPERATED INDUSTRIES.

DIRECTIVE

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ATTEND THEATER OR CINEMA IN NON-JEWISH AREAS.

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ENTER NON-JEWISH HOSPITALS.

As the registration commenced, each Kennkarte was stamped with a large J. A directive came out quickly, lowering the ration of Jews. This brought on a scramble to obtain illegal and false Aryan Kennkarten. In Zoliborz and other areas confiscated for German officials, the dispossessed Jews were forced to abandon their properties without compensation.

Each day a new directive.

Meanwhile Rudolph Schreiker returned to work with which he was more familiar. The old street fighter of the early Nazi days in Bavaria organized gangs of Polish hoodlums and put them on the German payroll with the order to terrorize the Jewish population. Within a few weeks of the German entry into Warsaw there was a rash of unmolested window smashing, shop looting, and the beating up of bearded Jews.

On the streets, loudspeaker trucks rolled up and down the Jewish areas, barking out the latest directives and page four of the General Government Gazette, and orders from the Warsaw Kommissar and the Jewish Civil Authority were plastered on walls on every street.

A special detachment of SS troopers rounded up people most likely to resist, Jews and non-Jews alike, who had been fingered in advance by Dr. Franz Koenig and other ethnics. They were marched into Pawiak Prison and shot down by firing squads.

On the radio, round-the-clock saturation to educate the Polish public on the causes of the war.

“Germany has come here to save Poland from Jewish war profiteers.”

And the billboards which once announced Irene Dunne movies found her replacement with drawings of bearded Jews violating nuns, bearded Jews using the blood of Christian babies for their rituals, bearded Jews sitting atop piles of money and knifing good honest Poles in the back.

For the most part, the German program met with universal success. The Polish people, who could not strike at their noblemen who had now vanished, nor at the Russians who had betrayed them, nor at the Germans who had massacred them, were willing to accept the traditional Jewish scapegoat as the true cause of their latest disaster.

Chapter Three

DIRECTIVE

ALL JEWISH TRADE UNIONS, PROFESSIONAL SOCIETIES, AND ZIONIST ORGANIZATIONS ARE, AS OF THIS DATE, ILLEGAL.

Journal Entry

The Bathyran Executive Council held an emergency session today to prepare to go underground. I must find some loopholes in the German directives which will keep us together and functioning, perhaps under a “front” organization.

Ana Grinspan

has made the most progress. She reports the Krakow Chapter is unified. She has a lot of spunk, that girl. Despite the new directives restricting travel by Jews, Ana has already obtained false travel papers (as a nonexistent Tanya Tartinski). Ana’s non-Jewish appearance will help her to move around unchallenged. She has contacted Tommy Thompson at the American Embassy now in Krakow, and he has agreed to receive American dollars from our people outside Poland (and especially our chapters in America) and pass the money on to her. Thank God for Tommy. He is a true friend. Ana is going to travel to all our major chapters at once to set up a system of underground communications which we have worked out.

Susan Geller

has the most urgent situation. She estimates that thirty thousand Jewish soldiers were killed in the invasion. (This figure seems fairly accurate. To the best of our estimates, a Polish total of two hundred thousand soldiers were killed, many thousands escaped over the border, and there are uncounted thousands in prisoner-of-war camps.) In addition, hundreds of children were left parentless during the siege of Warsaw. We must take our share of them. Susan has committed the Bathyran Orphanage to take in another two hundred children, which doubles our present capacity. Needless to say what this does to the budget. We need personnel. That means taking our best people off their outside jobs and sending them to work in the orphanage. God knows how we will manage it. With the cut in rations for the Jews, we must have an extra fifty ration cards from the Jewish Civil Authority for the children.

Tolek Alterman

after his usual speech on Zionism, promised Susan that he will open new acreage at the farm to take up the ration cut. He must be encouraged to increase production if the price of food gets out of hand. But to increase the farm’s load will take personnel too.

Ervin Rosenblum

is still working for Swiss News on the technicality that it is a neutral agency, while the letter of the German directive forbids Jews to work on non-Jewish Polish papers. (We expect the Jewish press will be closed down any minute, although Emanuel Goldman, the Authority chairman, sold the Germans on letting it run as a means of mass communication to implement German directives. How long can he hold this point?) Ervin does not believe that either he, Swiss News, or Chris de Monti will be around for long. It will be a great loss, because Ervin is very close to news sources and several times already has given us tips that gave us twenty-four hours of grace to set up defenses. One very sour note. I am distressed that Andrei was not present. I lied to the others, saying he was in Bialystok on business. Three or four members have reported he is planning to do something which will hurt us desperately. I must stop him. I close my entry now in order to find him.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Gabriela Rak opened the door for Alexander Brandel at her flat on the Square of the Three Crosses.

“Come in, Alex.” She closed the door behind him and took his overcoat and cap.

“Is he here?”

Gabriela nodded and pointed to the balcony.

“Before I see him ...”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Alex. Some days he paces like an animal and curses. Other days, like today, he sits and sulks and drinks without a word. Yesterday and today he has been out seeing people. I don’t know what for. He won’t confide in me.”

“I know,” Alex said.

“I have never known anyone could take defeat so hard, Alex. He has such a fierce pride—it seems as though he is taking it upon himself to suffer for thirty million Poles.”

She walked to the french doors and opened them. Andrei was looking aimlessly out at the battered ruins. “Andrei,” she called a half dozen times before she got his attention. “Alexander Brandel is here.”

He walked into the room. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed from too much drinking and too little sleep. He went directly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself some vodka.

“I’ll go fix you some tea, Alex,” Gabriela said nervously.

“No,” Andrei ordered, “you stay. I want you to hear the great dissertations of Zionist logic. Pearls of wisdom are about to drop like spring rain. We should have a bucket so we could catch them all.” He downed the vodka and poured himself another. Gabriela uncomfortably edged into a chair while Alexander walked to Andrei and took the glass out of his hand and set it down.

“Why weren’t you at the executive council meeting today?”

“Haven’t you heard? There are no more Bathyrans. Directive twenty-two by order of the Kommissar of Warsaw.”

“It was a terribly important meeting. We have to set up mechanisms to go underground.”

Andrei smacked his lips and clapped his hands together and walked to Gabriela. “Gaby, shall I tell you what they said today, verbatim? Let me see now. Susan Geller cried the loudest because the war gave her lots and lots of new orphans and our girl Susy is going to take them all in, each and every one. So tomorrow Herr Schreiker will issue a directive outlawing orphans. But! Don’t underestimate us. Our Alexander Brandel will bypass the directive ... he is a wily man. He finds loopholes in everything. ‘From now on,’ declares Alex, ‘we will call the orphans novitiates and the Bathyran Orphanage will become St. Alexander’s Convent.’ Now then, Tolek Alterman sprang to his feet. ‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘I will increase the production of the farm tenfold because it is living Zionism.’ And then Ana ... dear old Ana. ‘I would like to report that the Krakow group is singing “Solidarity Forever.” ’ ”

“Have you finished?”

“No, Alex. I’ve had a few meetings of my own.”

“So I hear. Very interesting plans you’ve made.”

“What plans?” Gabriela said.

“Why don’t you tell her, Andrei?” Andrei turned his back. “No? Well, then I’ll tell her. He is planning to take fifty of our best people and leave Warsaw.”

Andrei spun around. “Let Alex and the rest of that pack of idiots continue their debating societies while the Germans squeeze the life out of them. Yes, I’m taking fifty people and I’m going over the border to Russia and get arms and return and write a few little directives of my own on the Germans’ supply lines.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she demanded.

“I told you to go to Krakow with the Americans. Well, I still have your papers. It will be my present to you when I leave.”

“But why didn’t you tell me!”

“So you’d team up with him and schlogg me to death with arguments?”

“No one is going to argue, Andrei,” Alex said. “Here it is, straight and proper. You are forbidden to do what you plan.”

“Listen to him! The new Kommissar has issued a directive.”

“You are not going to take fifty of our best people. We need them desperately to keep other people alive.”

“Sing, Brother Brandel!”

“Through us and other Zionist groups the people have organizations prepared to function in their behalf. If you and a hundred others like you take fifty men and women away, you’re stripping three and a half million Jews of the only buffer they have to protect them.”

“Alex, try and stop me.”

“We have worked together for a long, long time, Andrei, but I will not hesitate to throw you out of the Bathyrans in disgrace.”

“Then you’ll have to throw out the other fifty, because they will follow me.”

They stopped suddenly, each building to a point of no return. There was anger in Andrei that defied logic. Alex was stunned. He turned to Gaby, who threw up her hands in helplessness.

“I prayed to God that my son Wolf would be half the man Andrei Androfski was. When I saw you crawl in on your hands and knees from battle I said, ‘This is the most gallant man who ever lived. No matter what happens in the days to come, we will pull through so long as Andrei is with us.’ Now ... I see you for what you are. A man without true courage.”

Gabriela threw herself between them, looking from one to the other in desperation, and suddenly it was Alex who received her wrath. “How dare you say that to him!”

Alex brushed by her and slapped Andrei across the face. He did not even blink.

“Stop it!” Gabriela cried.

“It’s all right, Gaby. He hits like a woman and he knows I will not strike him back.”

“But the Germans do not hit like women and you do not have the courage to take their blows and keep your hands at your side.”

Andrei walked across the room to the sofa. “I will not let it be said that I destroyed the Bathyrans. Keep them here. I will go alone. There are a hundred thousand Polish soldiers who escaped over the borders who will fight again. There will be one more.”

Alex hovered over him. “You are a selfish, vengeful man with only desire to fill this great thirst of yours for personal revenge. Forget the woman who loves you ... forget your sister and her children ... forget your friends ... forget the people to whom you’re obligated. When we need you the most, run off to join your roving band of Robin Hoods. Hail and farewell to the gallant Major Androfski of the Seventh Ulanys.”

“Stop tormenting him,” Gabriela cried.

“For God’s sake, Alex,” Andrei screamed. “I cannot fight your kind of war. I am not a traitor! I cannot fight your kind of war!”

“You have fought your war your way and it was no good. Now the battle is even more unbalanced. This is not strong men against strong men. We are a few people who have in our hands the responsibility of three and a half million helpless people. We have no weapons but faith in each other. Andrei, you’ve always wanted to know what Zionism is. This is Zionism, helping Jews survive. You must give yourself to us. We cannot do without you.”

Andrei sighed and grunted. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, “what kind of a battle is this?” He looked up at them. “In all those years I carried the pose of being the great Androfski—and I know why. Because we were fighting a hypothetical battle. Everyone was our enemy—yet, no one. We talked about a dream, we talked about our longings, but now ... I am no longer in a dubious battle. Can’t you understand I have seen the enemy face to face? I want to fight him with these,” he said, holding up his hamlike fists. “I want to smash in the faces of those German bastards.”

“Will that keep us alive?”

“I don’t know if I have the courage you speak of, Alex—to watch murder and not lift my hand.”

“Don’t leave us, Andrei.”

Gabriela knelt beside him and tried to comfort him.

“Alex is right,” she said. “You must stand by your people.”

“Didn’t you know, Gaby, Alex is always right—didn’t you know?”

Andrei looked from one to the other. Yes ... his war was over. In his war he had been trampled and humiliated. Now he must try to fight Alexander Brandel’s war.

“I will try,” he muttered at last. “I will try.”

Chapter Four

AS A MEMBER OF the executive board of the Jewish Civil Authority, Paul Bronski had several privileges and immunities. The ration for his family was equal to that of a Polish official, half again as much as the Jewish ration. Franz Koenig convinced Kommissar Schreiker that such generosity to the JCA would pay off.

Paul was able to secure a lovely apartment on Sienna Street, which was a mixed district of upper-middle-class professionals and long one of the fashionable streets in Warsaw. Bronski was not truly discomfited by the German occupation. His fortune was intact in Switzerland, beyond German reach, and he had quickly achieved the top status the new society allowed. So long as Chris stayed in Warsaw, it was an easy matter for him to advance Paul money which he was able to import on Swiss News accounts.

Nevertheless, moving day brought a terrible uneasiness in him. Deborah seemed delighted at the idea of leaving Zoliborz to move into a predominantly Jewish area. It was as though their forced identification as Jews gave her some sort of victory. While the boxes and crates were piled high, Paul closed himself in his study because he could not stand another question from the children.

On his desk were armbands his family had to wear from now on. The Germans were so damned thorough, he thought. Their directive called for the armband to be white in color with a blue Star of David no less than three centimeters in height. Paul laughed at the irony of it all and put the armband on, feeling that at least he cheated somewhat by losing the specified arm and having to wear the band on his left arm.

There was a knock on the door and Andrei entered.

“Well, hello, brother-in-law,” Bronski said. “Deborah is about the house somewhere, packing.”

“As a matter of fact, I came to see you, Paul.”

“To gloat over your victory? To tell me how foolish I look wearing a Star of David? To raise your finger and tell me how your ill-fated prediction came to pass—‘Bronski, you are a Jew whether you want to be or not’—or to ask if I gave the Germans a lesson on galloping Zionism, which I abhor, and tried to convince them I wasn’t really a Jew? Dammit all, the most difficult part of having one arm is trying to load and light a pipe—that and buttoning your fly.”

Andrei struck a match and held it over the bowl of Paul’s pipe while he drew in the fire.

“How do you feel, Paul?”

“Fine. I discovered I’m still a hell of a good doctor. Did you ever give directions to a corporal on how to amputate your arm by flashlight? Good trick if I say so myself. You look fine. Mere bullet wounds wouldn’t annoy you.”

“How are Deborah and the children taking this move?”

“Deborah? I think she’s delighted. The Lord is making divine retribution for the years I forced her to be an agnostic. I am going to brush up on my Hebrew, read the Torah nightly, and spend the rest of my life saying, ‘I shall be a good Jew,’ so help me Stawki Street.”

“I came here to ask you if you and I shouldn’t call a truce.”

Paul looked surprised. “You are a gallant winner, sir.”

“No, it’s just that times have grown so serious we don’t have the luxury of battling each other for a point already proven. You’re sitting in the JCA. You know just how bad things are.”

“Oh, no doubt they are bad. It is going to be a rough transition.”

Andrei had his opening. He pressed his point “Are you certain it is only a transition? No one really knows what the Germans are up to or when they will quit.”

Paul looked at Andrei with suspicion. The truce was merely a mask behind which he was operating. “And?” he asked.

“Now that the Jews, the half Jews, the converts, and the unadmitting Jews have been labeled, there is a tremendous need to unify all the loose ends.”

“Go on,” Paul said.

“Paul, we are trying very hard to get a meeting together of every faction of the community, regardless of philosophy, to map out some sort of master policy. You are sitting in one of the key positions. We want to know if you can be counted in.”

“Counted in on what?”

“We can’t stand by idly and let the Germans keep pouring these directives at us and beating up our people in the streets. We must go to them as a single body to let them know we are going to resist further abuse.”

Paul sighed and lay his pipe in the ash tray and rocked his chair back and forth, back and forth. “I might have known you’d still be trying to lead a cavalry charge.”

Andrei, who swore to himself he would not get angry, held his temper. “How much do you have to take from them before you show your spine? Where are all your fine students now? Where are all your colleagues from the university now?”

“Andrei,” Paul said softly, “you are not the only one who has meditated about this problem. When I lost my right arm, my body underwent a shock but, as you see, I am well recovered. So, the Jews in Warsaw are losing their right arms. It is painful, but the shock will pass and they will live. Not so well as before, perhaps, but that is the way things are, and nothing we can do will change them.”

“Are you willing to guarantee me that the Germans are going to stop at merely taking an arm? Can you tell me honestly the directives won’t take the other arm, then both legs?”

“I’ll tell you what I am willing to do, Andrei. I am willing to accept life for what it is. The Germans are the law. They have won a war. I see no alternative.”

“You really think you can do business with them?”

“I really think I have no choice, Andrei. Andrei ... Andrei ... You are always charging windmills—you are always looking for the mystical enemy. Before the Germans, you fought Poland. You cannot accept life for what it is. Yes, I’ve compromised, but I know reality. I’ve not chased ghosts. I compromise now because I was suddenly made a Jew again and I have no alternative. Andrei, I’ve been put into a position of responsibility to this community. Didn’t ask for it—didn’t want it. But I must, you see, I also have a wife and two children to keep alive—”

“And for that you’ll forfeit your soul and honor!”

“Try out the catch phrases elsewhere. I know what you are up to. Insurrection ... agitation ... an underground. Break your head against a wall just as you did before the war. I know the reality of what is here now and I’m going to bring my family through it.”

Andrei was about to roar that Paul was a coward, always looking for the easy path out. The cat who always lands on his feet. The first to sell his soul. It took all the strength he had, but he restrained himself.

“And, so long as we are talking about it, Andrei, your activities are bound to be known. For the safety of Deborah and the children, it may be best if you stay away from us.”

“Let my sister decide that!”

“Oh, nothing her darling brother does can be wrong.”

Andrei spun around on his heels and stamped out. He was unable to resist slamming the door as a sign that he had not entirely lost his restraint.

Paul tapped the pipe against his teeth and shook his head. There he goes, Paul thought. Still looking for a fight. Still at the head of a cavalry charge. How long would Andrei last in this atmosphere before he was dragged up before a firing squad?

But then, Andrei would laugh at them while he was being shot. And for a moment Paul was envious of that reckless courage that was unable to give quarter. He, Paul Bronski, had shown an instinctive courage in a single instant when the German bully Rudolph Schreiker demanded Jewish women for prostitutes. There would be other moments of crisis in the days ahead. How he would like to be Andrei Androfski in those moments. Would he be defiant when the challenge came the next time? He did not know. If only he could store that second of courage in a little box and open it again when he needed it.

A ruckus from the direction of the kitchen sent Paul running from his study. Deborah was standing over Zoshia, yelling at her.

“What is going on here?”

“Zoshia stole our silver. Rachael saw her pass it over the fence to that rotten son of hers.”

Paul stepped between the two of them.

“Is this true, Zoshia?” he demanded.

“It is true and I’m not sorry,” Zoshia screamed.

“She is a dirty thief,” Deborah snarled.

“It is mine and more than mine for the years I have cleaned your Jew dirt.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Deborah said, “we have treated you kinder than your own son, whom we’ve bailed out of jail every time he went into one of his drunken rages. I paid the doctor bills for you and your sister when you couldn’t work.”

“You brought the Germans to Poland,” Zoshia cried. “The priest told us so! It is all the fault of the Jews!” She spit in hatred in their faces and waddled from the room.

Deborah leaned against Paul and cried softly, and he tried to comfort her. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it ...”

“There is nothing we can do. The Germans are encouraging them to do what she did.”

One of the moving men came in.

“We have a wagonload. You said you wanted to come with us to Sienna Street and show us where the things go.”

“Mrs. Bronski will be out in a moment. She will follow you over.”

The teamster tipped his cap and left.

Deborah dried her eyes. He walked to his office and returned with the armbands. “You and the children will have to wear these,” he said.

She took them and stared at them, then put one on her right arm. “Isn’t it a shame,” she said, “that the first time we really must tell the children they are Jews ... it must be like this. ...”

Chapter Five

Journal Entry

ANDREI WARNED ME THAT we could not depend on Paul Bronski. How right he was. We continue to canvass the Jewish community to see who among us will come together for a leadership meeting. We are picking up strength, but not fast enough. A few more of these German directives will do more to convince them than any of our arguments.

I am going to see Rabbi Solomon. If we can win his support, it could well put us over the top.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

The Rabbi Solomon’s name was most often preceded by the word “great.” He was one of the most learned men not only of Warsaw but of all Poland, and that constituted the heartland of religious Jewry.

He was a humble man who was beloved for giving his life to study and devotion and teaching. His rulings set the vogues among the religious Jews.

Not the least of the man’s many qualities was a political agility. When one came to earth from Talmudic and ethical writings to things real, deftness was required in order to be able to get along with all the diversified factions of Jewish opinion and philosophy. It was because of this wizardry that he was often called upon to use his good offices to mediate between extreme thinkers, from Communists to neo-fascists.

All organized Zionists believed that only they were the true standardbearers of Zionism and that the others outside their ranks were merely pseudo Zionists. It was the same with Rabbi Solomon. His Zionism, he felt, was certainly the purest form, for it came from the books of the Bible which told him a “Messiah” would return to earth and lead the scattered children of Israel back to their “Promised Land.” This was not so much Zionism to him but rather fundamental Judaism.

All the new ideas—revisionist, socialist, communist, intellectualism—were merely expedient and radical ideas which took the place of the true basic faith.

Although he did not agree with the new ideas, he was compassionate toward them. He understood that it took enormous inner strength not to be able to rebel against the abuses the Jews had suffered. These new forms of Zionism, therefore, were rebellions by weak men who could not suffer in silence and dignity, to pray and to accept as part of life the penalties imposed by God for being worthy of being the chosen guardians of the Holy Law.

After the Germans shut his synagogue, he worked harder than ever keeping up the morale of his people. During the storm of directives his quiet strength and counsel were constantly sought.

It was after such a strenuous day that Alexander Brandel arrived in his study. The old man looked forward to the relaxation and verbal swordplay with the learned Zionist historian.

They recounted the terrible things of the day with mutual sadness, went through all the accepted amenities, then Alex got down to business.

“We feel the urgencies of the day call for us to set aside the things which divide us,” Alex said carefully, “and unite in those upon which we agree.”

“But, Alexander, two Jews never agree on anything.”

“On certain things, Rabbi Solomon. On taking care of orphans. On helping each other.”

“And what shall we do on those things which you claim we agree?”

“We shall first hold a meeting. I have many diversified leaders who have agreed to attend. If you would come, it would be a signal for most of the rabbis in Warsaw to follow suit.”

“Do you have support from the Bund?”

“Yes.”

“And the Federation of Labor Zionists?”

“Yes.”

“And the Communists?”

“Yes.”

“Such a meeting will be a mess.”

“There is another intention.”

“Aha.”

“We must try to present a unified front to stop these German directives.”

“So? Well, Alexander, I am not a social worker. I am also not a politician. I am merely a teacher. As for civil problems, we have a Civil Authority to cope with most of the problems which you pose.”

Alex promised himself not to become discouraged. He started again. “The Jewish Civil Authority was hand picked by the Germans. We feel they merely wish to use it as an instrument to carry out their policy.”

“But surely with good Zionists like Emanuel Goldman and Schoenfeld and Silberberg on the Authority—”

“But, Rabbi, they are truly without power. These are extraordinary times and call for extraordinary measures.”

“What is so extraordinary about these times, Alex?”

“We could be possibly engaged in a struggle for our very survival.”

The old man smiled and stroked his big bushy white beard. How dramatic these young people were! “Alexander. Tell me, learned historian, when in the history of the Jewish people has survival not been an issue? Sometimes the degrees varies. What is happening today in Poland has happened many times in our history. Now tell me, Brandel the historian, have we not outlived every tyrant in the past?”

“I think there is a difference.”

“So?”

“From the time of the First Temple we have been massacred because of scapegoatism, expedience for the ruling politicians, passion outbursts, ignorance. The Crusades, the Inquisition, the Worms massacre, the Cossack uprisings. Never before have we been faced with a cold-blooded, organized, calculated, and deliberate plot to destroy us.”

“And how does the learned historian know this to be true?”

“I read Adolf Hitler.”

“Aha. Tell me, Alexander, what do you suppose the Germans stand to gain by destroying the Jews? Will they gain territory? Will they gain more than token wealth? What can be the ultimate goal in doing away with some of the world’s finest doctors, musicians, craftsmen, scientists, writers? What is the point that they will win by doing it?”

“It is not the matter of winning a point. They started on us the same way a hundred others started on us, but in the case of the Germans, I do not know if they will be able to stop themselves. Like no other people in history, they are psychologically geared to destroy merely for destroying.”

“So, what you are saying is that the Nazis are evil. As a historian, surely you know that evil destroys itself.”

“It may also destroy us while it is destroying itself. Where does it say in the Talmud and Torah, Rabbi, that we are not supposed to defend ourselves?”

“But we do defend ourselves. We defend ourselves by living in the faith which has kept us alive all of the centuries. We defend ourselves by remaining good Jews. It will bring us through this hour as it has through all the rest of our crises. And the Messiah will come, as He has promised.”

“And how do you suppose we will recognize Him?”

“It is not if we recognize Him. It is if He will recognize us.”

The argument was at a dead end. The old man would not budge.

Alex took his armband off and held it in front of the Rabbi’s eyes. “Can you wear this with pride?”

“It was good enough for King David.”

“But he did not wear it as a badge of humility!”

“Alexander, why must all Zionists shout? The gates of heaven are barred to those who pick up weapons of death. That is what will come ultimately to you if you form a band of rabble. Learn to suffer in humility and faith. That alone will be our salvation.”

Chapter Six

DIRECTIVE

ALL GOVERNMENT PENSIONS FOR JEWS ARE HEREBY SUSPENDED.

DIRECTIVE

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO PATRONIZE NON-JEWISH FOOD MARKETS AND DEPARTMENT STORES.

DIRECTIVE

TRAVEL PERMITS ARE REQUIRED FOR JEWS LEAVING WARSAW. JEWS ARE RESTRICTED TO SPECIAL COACHES MARKED “JEWISH.”

DIRECTIVE

JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO STAND IN RATION LINES EXCEPT AT SPECIFIED JEWISH STATIONS.

Alexander Brandel’s quest for solidarity was frustrating. There was confusion among the people. Most of them were not connected with organizations. They wanted merely to be able to take care of their families. The few men whose power and influence could have rallied everyone were marched to Pawiak Prison and shot.

Mayor Starzynski, who had made the epic fight for Warsaw and was one of the few Poles in high positions to give the Jews credit for their contribution to the defense of the country, disappeared. Like many another, he was taken off in the middle of the night without explanation and never returned.

Alex watched his fellow intellectuals disintegrate. These men who had once gushed forth waterfalls of idealism seemed unable to put their words into practice.

He courted Rodel, the Communist, who controlled an important organization. The baldheaded, chain-smoking leader of the Communists spent most of the time explaining how the Soviet Union truly saved eastern Poland by jumping her from the back while the Polish army fought for its life. Rodel was always amusing to Alex. He had an amazing range of verbal dexterity and political acrobatics. In the spring of that year Rodel had been violently anti-Nazi. In the summer, after the Russian-German pact, he decided the Germans weren’t so bad, after all—it was the Western powers who had really sold everyone down the river. Now he was violently anti-German once more but spent most of his time explaining away Russian treachery. Rodel had no use for Zionism simply because he had no use for anything that was not communism. Nonetheless, Alex needed Rodel. To ignore the Communists would be worse than to be refused by them. The Communists, with their non-Jewish members, boasted the closest-knit group for the Jews. But Rodel was having his hands full. The Communists were being hounded by the Nazis even more unmercifully than the Jews. The Gestapo had a single order covering them: FIND THEM AND SHOOT THEM.

Alex couldn’t even get to talk with the leader of the Revisionists, Samson Ben Horin. They were traditionally loners who wanted no part of a plan committing them to act with the group. Alex reckoned they were girding for street fighting.

The businessmen were racked with problems. Shelves were bare, prices were rising, there was a continuing pressure by the new directives. They considered Alex’s quest for unity as asking for charity. For them, anything outside of normal business activities was deemed “charity.” Charity could be considered only after profits, and they were doubtful these days.

The largest single entity, the religious community, simply refused to budge. They took their cue from Rabbi Solomon to resort to the traditional weapons of prayer and patience.

The Jewish Civil Authority treated Alex as though he were a leper. He was branded as a harbinger of doom by Silberberg, the playwright, who had had all the fight knocked out of him by the single blow delivered in the office of Rudolph Schreiker. Silberberg, whose plays had once reeked with slogans of courage ... The rest of them were jealous of their stations. Only Emanuel Goldman, the pianist, could be counted on.

Outside the Jewish community, pickings were lean. The gentile intellectuals were as terrified as the Jewish intellectuals. Paul Bronski proved a classic example. From the time he returned to Warsaw till the time he moved to Sienna Street, he did not receive a single call from his colleagues or students at the university.

The majority of the population wanted no part of the German-Jewish war. A minority were actively against the Jews.

The one great voice of power and conscience, the Church, remained silent.

As a clever tactician, Alexander realized early that unity was impossible, so he carefully formulated a secondary objective. When it was all thought out, he called together three of the most reliable strong men. These were people who understood the urgency without being preached to and who, like him, were groping for a way to hang together and bypass the dreaded directives.

The four of them picked each other’s brains in a series of secret meetings.

There was Alex, and there was Simon Eden, the iron-handed ruler of the Joint Federation of Labor Zionists. He alone was able to form and control ten different middle-to left-wing factions. His Joint Federation accounted for more than sixty per cent of all organized Zionists. Simon had the best qualities of Alexander and Andrei combined and few of their faults. Like Andrei, he had been an officer in the army and was a large and strong man who could rise to fierceness. Like Alex, he was a cool and deliberate thinker. Andrei respected Simon more than any man in Warsaw except Alex.

The third man was Emanuel Goldman, the aging but still flamboyant artist of the piano who had been appointed head of the Jewish Civil Authority.

Goldman was Dr. Franz Koenig’s one error in judgment. Koenig believed correctly that the famed musician had a “name” value to the Jews but certainly underestimated his devotion to humanitarian causes. Goldman was realistic. He knew he could not last long on the Civil Authority. The Germans wanted a weak man to carry out their orders. He was grimly determined to find a route for the community before he was dispossessed.

The fourth man was David Zemba, director of the American Relief Society, an organization supported by American Jews. Zemba, a Polish Jew, was small in stature, with a closely cropped beard and a mild manner, but he was utterly fearless and brilliantly shrewd. With Poland occupied, the American dollars which he controlled had to be one of the foundations of any adventure.

Together, they worked out a formula.

Stage one: Emanuel Goldman, as head of the Jewish Civil Authority, received an appointment with Dr. Franz Koenig.

“We are faced with a problem, Herr Doktor. By tradition, we Jews have always taken care of our own. Social work was formerly handled by the old Jewish Council, which has been disbanded. As you know, the war has compounded this problem. We have no legal instrument through which to take care of welfare problems.”

“I take it you are petitioning me to set up a welfare department in the Jewish Civil Authority?”

“Not exactly. The Authority does not have either trained personnel or funds and we are too busy taking the census.”

“I am certain you did not come here without a proposal.”

“So. My proposal is such. There are many professional do-gooders. They can collect the money—they can find the people—they can run orphanages and old-age homes.”

“Are you suggesting an independent agency?”

“I am.”

“Not as a branch of the Civil Authority?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“On matters of self-help the Jews are nearly always unified, no matter what their philosophy. Having this traditional service operated by a government agency would cause tremendous grumbling among diverse elements. The raising of funds would be extremely hard, for people are naturally suspicious of government. There would be untold confusion, duplication of work, and administrative hassles which could be avoided by establishment of an independent agency.”

Koenig saw sense in Goldman’s arguments. He could assign the Civil Authority to watch over this new agency. On the other hand, if the Civil Authority were running welfare work he would always have Goldman fighting with him for more funds. Yet it was not all so black and white. Dr. Koenig was learning that Goldman was a man of character, and although it appeared on the surface that it was a simple matter, he was not coming in with a proposal that would benefit the Germans.

Emanuel Goldman also knew he was not up against a robot like Schreiker. Koenig was probing, looking for a trap.

“Who do you propose to head this new agency?”

“Oh, there are lots of people. Mainly, we must find a man acceptable to all elements. Say, Alexander Brandel.”

“Brandel? With his Zionist background?”

Goldman shrugged. “The Bathyrans as a group never achieved Brandel’s personal stature. They are disbanded now. He is mild and inoffensive and quite trusted.”

“Suppose I let you have your agency, but on one condition?”

“And that condition, Herr Doktor?”

“Brandel does not run the agency.”

They had come to the impasse. Goldman had hoped he could push it through without this moment. Now he had to make his gamble. He reached inside his breast pocket and placed a small envelope on Koenig’s desk. “The full plans for the agency are in here, Herr Doktor,” he said. I beg you to study them carefully and give me your answer tomorrow.”

The old man left the city hall, not knowing whether he was about to spend his last day on earth.

When Koenig opened the envelope he took out five one-thousand-dollar bills.

It was quite clear to him. The Jews wanted to run this agency away from prying eyes. His first inclination was of anger. He snatched the envelope from the desk and started for Rudolph Schreiker’s office. Then he stopped. Schreiker would laugh at him and pocket the money.

The very idea that a good German official would accept a bribe! He walked back to his desk slowly. The last few weeks had plunged him from the dreamworld to Teutonic purity. At this moment Schreiker was organizing hoodlum gangs to begin looting Jewish-owned warehouses.

Why shouldn’t the Jews play the game also? But where did he fit in? Five thousand dollars! More in a snap of the finger than he had made in an entire year at the university.

While everyone was playing cutthroat, wouldn’t it be utterly ridiculous for him to stand alone as a paragon of virtue? And if he did, how long would he last with Schreiker? Schreiker had been playing him for a fool.

Think it over, Franz. Schreiker needs you. You can make yourself indispensable to him. And this game. It is a rough game. The war was rough. The business here is rough.

He paced the floor of his home taken from Bronski in the Zoliborz suburb. Everyone is scheming and conniving. But he, Koenig, was in a key position. This is only the beginning. He was in a position to amass fantastic wealth in the days ahead.

Play the game ... five thousand dollars ... play the game ... Bit by bit the moral foundations upon which Dr. Franz Koenig had built his life had been nibbled away. From the moment he had cast his lot with the ethnics before the war he began compromising and rephrasing the wisdoms and rethinking the thoughts and justifying.

The next day.

“Emanuel Goldman is here to see you, Herr Doktor.”

“Send him in.”

“I have spoken to the Kommissar. I was able to convince him that a separate agency for Jewish welfare cases would be the best solution for all concerned. Your Civil Authority is authorized to issue a license for its operation.”

Goldman nodded.

“I have taken under consideration the appointment of Alexander Brandel. I think he is an excellent choice. He will deal with me directly on matters of rations, personnel, and privileges.”

Goldman nodded again. Dr. Koenig was cutting himself in for a nice big slice, he thought Now he could not back down. Koenig had pocketed the first bribe. He could be had. The gamble was won. In the future the money would come harder to Koenig, for the five thousand dollars had not only bought his silence but had stuck his neck out. There will be some more for you, you rat, Goldman thought, but not so much as you think, or we may tell your friend Schreiker how you have been stealing from him.

Stage two: Formation of the Orphans and Self-Help Society. Alexander Brandel was made its director.

Stage three: American Relief turned over tens of thousands of dollars of emergency funds to Brandel. In the name of the Orphans and Self-Help Society he leased fifteen pieces of property in the northern section of the Jewish area of Warsaw, where it was less expensive.

The houses were set up as soup kitchens, ration stations, aid and medical stations, orphanages, and for whatever welfare work came under the society’s jurisdiction.

Although these places functioned legitimately, each one in fact served the secondary purpose as a screen for the continued activities of the Zionist groups, which the Germans had ordered disbanded.

The Zionists had successfully changed their name but in fact were still intact. Personnel for the Orphans and Self-Help Society were all key people from the Zionist groups. They were given special armbands and special immunities. Another thousand dollars to Dr. Koenig made certain the Orphans and Self-Help Society staff was not screened.

One of the master reasons for the Orphans and Self-Help Society was to get money from American Relief to its welfare objectives without first passing through the hands of the Jewish Civil Authority for disbursement. Goldman was certain that if the Authority touched the money it would become an object of graft.

Brandel now had bases of operations, the Zionists intact, money to pay personnel to run the farms, to increase the capacity of the former Bathyran Orphanage, and to get the hungry and homeless fed and clothed.

There was a final purpose. Only some of the houses were used for welfare work. Brandel was able to get choice jobs for his people, and many of them moved into the headquarters house and worked under the authority of the Orphans and Self-Help Society and donated their wages back into a communal pool. This, Tolek Alterman proclaimed, was “living Zionism.”

Journal Entry

The Orphans and Self-Help Society is a reality. All of our key people in Warsaw are working for us.

I took the five-story building at Mila 19 as our headquarters. Twenty of our Bathyran youngsters have left their homes and are living on the premises and donating all their earnings into a communal. This makes me terribly proud! Six of the buildings were handed over to Simon Eden’s Federated Zionists as “Orphan and Self-Help Agencies”. ... Simon chose Leszno 92 as his headquarters. He also reports communals in all six of his places. We are reserving the other places, for we are certain some of the reluctant divergent groups who did not want to unify will come over to us now.

Self-help has always been our one great source of unity in the past. It will bring us together now. Incidentally, at my last meeting I asked Goldman, Zemba, and Eden if they would mind jotting down notes on things they see and hear. So many things are happening these days I cannot keep track of them all. I want their impressions to set down in the journal. May I say that they are tolerant of this historian. They all promised to collect notes and turn them over to me at our weekly meetings.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Chapter Seven

Journal Entry

I HAD A LONG talk today with Ervin Rosenblum. I wanted his opinion about what the Germans were really up to and who was actually running Poland.

Ervin says Hans Frank, the Governor General of Krakow, is not the real boss. His background indicates he is a civil administrator mainly here to exploit Poland for the German economy.

Lublin, not Krakow, is the real capital. The German political police, concentration-camp administrators, criminal police, special-duty squads, and all of that personal Nazi contingent of Hitler’s, independent of the German army, have their organizations and duties so intermixed it is nearly impossible to determine where one ends and the other begins. We do know that there is one boss in Lublin of SD, SS, and Gestapo for the General Government Area. He is Gruppenführer Odilo Globocnik. He is an Austrian (like Hitler) and has a background as a Jew baiter. As an SS major general, he has only to answer to three people over him—Hitler, Himmler, and the SD chief in Berlin, Reinhard Heydrich.

I think Ervin is right. It is a cinch he has more power than Hans Frank.

As for the true aim of the Germans? There is a Department 4B of the Gestapo in Berlin which handles “Jewish Affairs.” It is being run by a Lieutenant Colonel Adolf Eichmann, who, I understand, has been to Palestine and speaks Hebrew. Ervin is sure the directives are all part of a master plan coming from Department 4B from blueprints drawn up by Reinhard Heydrich.

It certainly appears they are going to start draining Jewish wealth systematically, throw the leaders and intellectuals into concentration camps. No one doubts but that the Germans will strike again. Like Pharaoh and Rome, they will need slave labor. I believe the three and a half million Jews in Poland are marked for this.

Ervin thinks Swiss News will be closed any day. Among the new arrivals is a Nazi named Horst von Epp, who will run the Department of Propaganda and Press. It is only a matter of time until Chris de Monti’s credentials are checked.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Horst von Epp joined the influx of Nazi officials to Warsaw in the winter of 1939. Completely unlike most of his fellow Nazis, he was a sophisticated man with continental charm and a sparkling sense of humor. He did not wear any of the several choices of uniforms but had tailor-made clothing in the latest fashions and bemoaned the fact that war with England caused him to lose his Bond Street clothier.

The scion of a wealthy family of former nobility, he had little in common with fellow Nazis. He found their violent methods personally distasteful, had little regard for their mentality, and thought all the nonsense of super-men theories, geopolitics, land to live and joy through labor completely ridiculous.

He was far more at home in Paris, on the Riviera, or in New York than in Munich (but he adored Berlin). Yet he was a devoted Nazi and promoted the very principles he abhorred. Denied most of his family holdings by mismanagement and overspending, he was shrewd enough to recognize the irresistible and unstoppable surge of Nazism in the early thirties and simply drifted into the stream. He had few ideals and convictions to deter him from the pursuit of his own pleasures. He wanted the most for the least exertion of effort. He knew the bumbling mentality of most of the early Nazis would call for men like him to think for them.

He was a good-looking man in his early forties, a first-rate libertine who was never faithful to his wife for more than a month or so, and he was a genuine snob, intellectually superior to the majority of his confederates.

Horst von Epp grated the nerves of men like Rudolph Schreiker. He made them feel insignificant, and no Nazi should be made to feel that way. Many would have loved to get rid of Von Epp, but those in power realized he was needed for his particular talents and therefore worth the annoyance he caused.

The German propaganda instrument had effects which had never been duplicated. They knew the basic premise that if a lie was repeated often enough even those who knew it was a lie would soon regard it as truth. Then there were half truths based on masterful distortions of facts. Horst von Epp had helped engineer for Josef Goebbels one of the most brilliant propaganda coups of any age during the Spanish civil war, which was no civil war at all. He was able to clutter the true issues so neatly that the world soon came to believe that the Loyalist government was a Communist government and therefore the Spanish war was a war against communism.

While the Propaganda Ministry poured out fantastic distortions, it became Horst von Epp’s job to water down the vitriol. In Berlin, clever and unsatisfied newsmen from the outside world always stood ready to pounce on the validity of the Propaganda Ministry’s statements and charges. It was impossible to evict all of the journalists who questioned them and still keep world opinion in check.

Horst stilled the troubled waters. He became the pal of the newspapermen. He was always the swell guy, despite the fact that he was a Nazi. The Nazis were never known for being personality boys, so Horst’s personal charm was a luxurious departure from the Nazi bureaucrats. He became the front man who shielded the curious from the inner circle. Horst von Epp could fix anything for a journalist, from a speeding citation to a fräulein, any size or specification—for his friends.

Warsaw became a focal point of world observation. World opinion had to be kept in bounds.

During the winter of 1939, France and England engaged in a make-believe war with Germany on the western front. Not a single shot was fired by either side. Trains moved along the border unmolested. Germany embarked on a massive campaign to try to talk England and France out of continuing the war, now that the “Polish issue was settled.”

It therefore became a priority issue in the Propaganda Ministry to keep adverse news from getting out of Poland, which could upset their plans. Legions of neutral journalists had descended on the General Government Area from Italy, Switzerland, Sweden, the Orient. A few Americans and South Americans got in. A slick operator like Horst von Epp was needed to “keep things quiet.”

He arrived in Warsaw and established an elaborate headquarters in the Bristol Hotel, commandeering half a floor. He stocked his personal suites with the best liquors and foods. Within two weeks he had a line on every model and actress in Warsaw who was not stricken with Polish nationalism and made the propositions very attractive to them. Twenty-five of the most ravishing specimens were set aside for the pleasure of the top foreign newsmen and diplomats. He made up a second-string team of coeds from the university, secretaries, professional women, and attractive wives seeking to augment their incomes.

After the humorless, dull, blustering Rudolph Schreiker, Von Epp was making things bearable for the foreign journalists. Everything was conducted in a rather informal atmosphere, which both eased the tension and tranquilized the extent of their probing.

Chris was just finishing dressing when the doorbell of his flat on Jerusalem Boulevard rang. He opened the door, and Horst von Epp stood before him. The man was immaculately dressed and wore a pleasant smile.

“Hello there,” he said. “I am Horst von Epp.”

“Come in.”

The German looked around. “Lovely ... lovely. Ah! That jacket you are wearing.” He looked at the label. “Feinberg of Bond Street. The finest tailor in London. I was his customer right up to the war. Of course I had to switch the labels because he’s Jewish, but most of those lunkheads can’t tell a fine piece of material when they see one. Uniforms! Uniforms! The tailors in Berlin are butchers. Do you suppose you could get me a few things through Switzerland from Feinberg?”

“You didn’t come here for that.”

“No. I had a reception for the foreign press corps yesterday. I was particularly looking for you.”

“Sorry, I was driving back from Krakow. I phoned in my regrets.”

“No matter.”

“I just finished reading your love letters,” Chris said, referring to the new set of censorship regulations and procedures for filing dispatches.

“Oh, that,” Von Epp scoffed. “Nazi bureaucracy. You see, we have to put a hundred people to work making orders and then another hundred countermanding them. Another hundred sorting paper clips. That pays off our obligations to the party faithful. We shall rule the world in triplicate. Cigarette?”

“Matter of fact, yes. I drove back from Krakow so fast I forgot to buy some.” Chris was impressed with the package of American Camels.

“I’ll send you a case, my compliments. I’ve also made arrangements for certain members of the press corps to draw food supplies, personal articles, liquor, and so forth, from the SS officers’ stores at the Citadel.”

Well, Chris thought, this is something new in Nazi public relations. He studied Von Epp. Why had he been singled out for special treatment? He had heard Von Epp was coming to Warsaw and was a regular guy. Smooth—very smooth. Yet certainly likable.

“I didn’t mean to break in on you,” Von Epp said, “but I did want to get acquainted and I have a few matters to take up with you.”

“Shoot.”

“If you want to keep your offices in the Bristol, I probably can arrange it, but frankly, the place is overrun with Nazis. Needless to say, we must put men to work tapping switchboards and phones, but you’ll probably be more comfortable elsewhere.”

“I can work right here in my apartment. There’s an empty storeroom connected to my kitchen. It will work fine.” Chris was relieved at the idea that Von Epp was going to let him stay in Warsaw. He had dreaded this moment Now it had come and gone—just like that.

“Now, the phone lines are open to Switzerland. I’ll get you a direct connection with your agency—Swiss News, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Fine agency. I know your boss, Oscar Pecora, quite well. We’re putting up a message center for the press corps at the Bristol so you’ll be able to have twenty-four-hour service—you might as well let us see your incoming messages first, because we’ll see them sooner or later. Now, anything particular that you want?”

“What’s the price?”

Horst von Epp smiled. “You’re a big boy—you know what you can and can’t do. All I want is your gentleman’s agreement to keep within reasonable limitations. I don’t want to work hard, and the best way to make things easy for myself is to make them easy for you. What do you say?”

Chris shrugged. “I’ve never had it better.”

“I am afraid there is one unpleasant bit of business on the agenda. So far as I am concerned a Jew can take a photograph as well as a blond Aryan and certainly report a story—but—”

“Rosenblum.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He offered to quit several days ago. He knew this would happen.”

Horst von Epp flopped his arms. “I wish I knew what to do. It appears that Berlin simply won’t let me have room to maneuver on Jewish matters.”

Chris wanted to press the point. Rosy knew it would happen. But Rosy had been wrong about the Germans closing out Swiss News. Better hold his tongue ...

“It’s not your fault,” Chris said.

“I have an idea. How about dinner tonight? My suite?”

Chris shrugged. Why not? He had nothing better to do.

“Perhaps ... a little company later on?”

Chris walked to the window. So many times he had seen Deborah standing before that same window ... had watched her from the alcove. The last time he had looked at Deborah her eyes were mad and she plunged into darkness. Sienna Street was only four blocks away. So near ... so damned near. She was there with Paul now, on Sienna Street. Another lonely night, and another, and another. Would there ever be a moment of peace for him? He didn’t want to face the darkness alone again. Nagging, longing. Lonely. He would stand at the window and look toward Sienna Street and think about her. Rosy told him he was a fool, she would never leave Paul Bronski.

Chris turned and faced the German. “Ladies? Sure, why not? That’s just fine with me.”

Chris approached the dinner engagement with Horst von Epp with suspicion. It had all come too easily. He thought he would be on a train to Switzerland by this time, booted from Poland. Instead, he and Swiss News were still alive and operating in the middle of a German occupation.

Chris suspected that Horst von Epp would be a perfect host. He was. In fact, he was more comfortable with the German than he had been with anyone for months. Horst knew all the latest stories and had vast amounts of gossip about mutual friends in the newsmen’s world. Chris’s suspicions began to fade as the evening wore on. For a while he hung on every word, looking for some telltale sign of what Von Epp really wanted from him. The German would not tip his hand. Further, Chris was constantly amazed at Von Epp’s open expressions of disdain for many Nazis.

“Well,” Von Epp said, “speaking with realism, I am committed to Hitler’s policies. If he wins, I shall be an enormous man. If he loses, I’ll become a gigolo on the Riviera. I have one terrible aversion, and that is to perform honest labor. I’ll do anything to avoid it, and frankly, I’m not suited for much.”

Chris admired his candor.

“Now!” Horst said. “I have a surprise for you. Surprises should always go with dessert.”

The German handed a Kennkarte over the table. Chris opened it. It was a document signed by Kommissar Rudolph Schreiker. Ervin Rosenblum was to be allowed to continue his position with Swiss News. He was not obliged to wear an armband with a Star of David.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Please understand that I can’t guarantee that this won’t be revoked, but ... for the time being ...”

Chris waved away the after-dinner cognac and loaded his glass with scotch. He pocketed Rosy’s Kennkarte with amused perplexion. The inevitable cigar smoke came from the direction of Von Epp.

“Herr von Epp,” Chris said, raising his glass, “I salute a perfect but confusing host. You know, I am a professional observer of the cat-and-mouse game that diplomats play. I am first rate at deciphering the meaning of double talk. Yet here I am in the middle of a squeeze play and I am completely puzzled. Pardon me for not being subtle, but what the hell are you up to? What’s your deal? What are the strings? What do you want from me?”

“Bravo, De Monti. All journalists must be suspicious by nature.”

“Are you queer? Do you have designs on me?”

Von Epp roared with laughter. “God, no—but confidentially, the city hall is loaded with them. Chris, you see these Nazi clots around here. They bow stiffly from the waist, kiss a lady’s hand like a pig, and walk in those ridiculous uniforms as though they had broomsticks up their rectums. You are my kind of man. We drink scotch and have the same tailor in London. I believe your handshake is better than a Nazi pact. I want to be friends.”

“No orders?”

Horst shrugged. “You have friends among the Jews. I would guess that everyone in Warsaw does. Just use a reasonable amount of common sense.”

“What do your files say about De Monti?” Chris asked.

“Well, now, let me see. According to your passport, you are an Italian national. Your mother is an American. We are certain your leanings are American. The gentlemen at the Italian Embassy think you are a bad Fascist. However, you’ve covered both the Ethiopian and the Spanish affairs from the Italian side of the lines. You are cautious not to editorialize but only to report news. That is commendable. What else would you like to know about yourself?”

Chris flipped his napkin on the table. “I’ll be a son of a bitch! You take the cake.”

“Do we understand each other, Chris.”

Chris smiled and held his glass up in salute. “To friendship.”

“A good toast.”

The ladies of the evening arrived.

They were, as Horst promised, two of Warsaw’s loveliest courtesans. Chris knew both of them, in bed. They were minor European film actresses and belonged to a small social clique that ran in a continual circle in Warsaw. Hildie Solna was a striking blonde. He had had an affair with her before he met Deborah. The other one ... a few one-night adventures ... her name slipped his mind—Wanda some-thing-or-other.

Horst von Epp kissed their hands in the accepted fashion. Chris was amused. Yes, he thought, Hildie would be quick to jump on the band wagon and switch masters. He wondered if Von Epp knew how shopworn Hildie was under the paint. Well, she still had enough tricks left to get her through one more war.

“Darling!” Hildie cried in delight at seeing Chris. Dear Hildie ... the body without a soul. Soft words without meaning. He looked at her. Could he lie in bed tonight with her or Wanda something-or-other and not cry out for his true love?

No ... It was better to spend the night in agony, longing for Deborah, than with one of them. He turned quickly to Von Epp and spoke in Italian. “I think I will take a rain check. Pretend that I am not your guest. I am sure you can dig up a good German officer to take my place. I shall act as though I were an intruder and beg my leave.”

“Go ahead,” Von Epp answered. “I will arrange everything.” Horst watched Chris pat Hildie’s cheeks and tell her he was sorry he could not stay, but another time ... Why would he run off, Von Epp thought? It is as I surmised—De Monti has something going for him here in Warsaw and he does not want to leave—almost certainly a Jewess. If it is so, I have found his price.

Chapter Eight

ERVIN ROSENBLUM WAS HOMELIER than usual when he opened the door to let Chris in. Aroused from a deep sleep, he yawned and stretched in a half-tied monstrous old robe and paddled to the mantel clock in a pair of worn slippers. He squinted at the clock.

“My God, past midnight! Something terrible has happened?”

Chris handed him the Kennkarte. Ervin was nearly blind without his glasses. He held it to his nose but could not read it. “Wait, I’ll get my glasses.”

He returned from the bedroom with a look of complete puzzlement.

“How in the name of God did you arrange this? I thought sure you had come to tell me good-by.”

Momma Rosenblum was up with a monstrous old robe to equal Ervin’s. She kissed Chris on the cheek. “Bad news?”

“No, Momma, good news. Chris will be able to keep the agency open, and I have a special work permit.”

“A miracle ... a miracle.”

Chris knew better than to try to stop her from making tea and putting out a feed.

He recounted the day with Horst von Epp to Ervin. Rosy kept looking at the Kennkarte, shaking his head.

“You’re the analyst, Rosy. What do you make of it?”

“Well, you have covered the Italian side of two wars. You have never been caught slipping reports out to the free press, but a man like Von Epp should surely know you pass tips and information to others who can use them. Maybe he is neutralizing you. He knows your word is sound and you won’t double-cross him.”

“I’ve thought about that. But why would he let me stay here in the first place?”

“To get you on his side. To make a deal with you sooner or later. To use you, somehow.”

“That’s possible too. He put on a real show for me. Even tried to soften me up with Hildie Solna tonight.”

Rosy laughed. “Hildie sure has good instincts. The smoke from battle has not yet cleared and the old girl is in German headquarters. So you had a party?”

“I pulled out.”

“Before or after?”

“Before. I begged off.”

“Maybe that wasn’t so smart, Chris.”

“Hildie’s a good lay, but—you know.”

“And by this time so does Von Epp. Why does an unattached bachelor walk out on a party with the most expensive whore in Warsaw? Because he’s carrying a torch for a woman. You might as well be wearing a sign.”

The whistle of the teakettle sounded from the kitchen. Momma Rosenblum summoned them in. There was enough on the table for ten men to eat.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming. There’s practically nothing here,” she said.

“You shouldn’t be so extravagant with the ration on, Momma Rosenblum,” Chris said.

“I’m only serving an iota of what you’ve sent over to us the past month. You could stand a little babying.” She knew that Chris and Ervin wanted to speak in confidence and took her leave.

Ervin stirred his tea slowly. “The trouble with a man like Von Epp is that you never know what is really going on in his head. We all know what Schreiker wants and what he is. Von Epp is twice as dangerous.”

“No one—positively no one—knows about me and Deborah but you. Perhaps Andrei and Gabriela suspect Perhaps even Bronski suspects, but no one really knows.”

“Don’t be lulled to sleep by Von Epp’s smooth talk. He’s a Nazi. If he ever knew, he could blackmail you into doing anything for him. He’ll let you stay on now because he thinks he’s discovered a blind spot and he wants to know what it is. Keep away from his parties, and for God’s sake be careful when you see Deborah. You’ll have to find another place to meet.”

“Rosy, I haven’t seen her for over a month. Can’t you see I’m going out of my mind!”

“I know, Chris, but I also know you’re going to try to see her.”

“Have you seen her?” Chris whispered.

“Yes. She works most of the day at the orphanage in Powazki. Susan is with her most of the time.”

“Does she ... ask for me?”

“No.”

Chris gave a hurt little laugh. “Funny, damned funny.

I make secret meetings with Paul Bronski to give him his money—funny, isn’t it, Rosy?”

“Not particularly. From now on you’d better give me the envelopes to deliver to him.”

“Maybe you’re right. Rosy, see her for me. She’s got relatives in Krakow. She could make an excuse to see them. I’ve got to go there in a few days. Sorenson from the Stockholm Press has a place there. He’ll let me use it.”

Rosy gripped his arm and stopped him. “If you were my own brother I couldn’t love you more, Chris. Don’t ask me to do this.”

Chris pulled away. “I’ll wait. I’ve got time on my side now. Something will happen.”

“Drink some tea. Momma will be offended.”

Chris drank slowly, drowning his churning anger.

“So long as you are going to Krakow, would you see Thompson at the American Embassy? He has a package for us.”

“I wish you wouldn’t ask me to carry any more packages,” Chris said sharply.

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“I made a deal with Von Epp.”

“My, you’re a regular boy scout. You don’t mind being a messenger boy for Paul Bronski.”

“That’s different. It’s coming through on company funds—it can’t be traced.”

“So what are we doing with the money from Thompson? Feeding orphans. This has become a crime?”

“Rosy, this Bathyran business is your own fault. I don’t want to know anything about it. I’m not getting involved.”

Chris got up from the table. Rosy wanted to rip the Kennkarte in half and throw it in his face, but he could not. It was too important to all of them. He had to continue working on the outside as long as he was able.

“See you in the office in the morning,” Chris said.

“Good night, boss.”

Chris flopped on his bed and gazed into nothingness. The soft melodiousness of Chopin on Radio Polskie had been largely replaced by a thumping, clanging Wagner. Chris snapped the radio off.

He walked to the window. Only a few blocks away from Deborah. What was she doing now? Combing Rachael’s hair ... keeping time as Rachael played the piano ... helping Stephan with his studies? No, it was late. Almost one o’clock. She and Paul would be in bed together.

He closed the curtains abruptly.

He lay back on the bed again. Andrei! Good old Andrei! We’ll hang one on! He rolled over and had a hand on his phone. No ... wait Andrei was wearing that damned Star of David. He couldn’t go into any of the hotels or bars. What’s the difference? Andrei could take off the armband. They could hit some dives, have a real blowout. Hell, Andrei would get mad and try to take on the German army. He let his hand drop from the phone.

Maybe I should have stayed with Von Epp, Chris thought. Hildie Solna is good for a few laughs. Von Epp is good company. If I had met Von Epp anywhere else in the world, we would have been friends. Isn’t that reason enough to trust a man? No ... Von Epp couldn’t be trusted.

Just how much does he really know about me? He knows about mother. ... They must have a file on me a foot thick.

Chris’s thoughts began to drift back and back and back in time. All the way back to the beginning.

Chapter Nine

FLORA SLOAN HAD BEEN described at various times as enchanting, fetching, witty and gay, terribly, terribly chic, charming, clever, empty-headed, flighty, hyperthyroid, and so forth. All of these descriptions fitted in one way or another, at one time or another. She was never still long enough for a comprehensive composite to be made.

Her background was mysterious. Midwesterner, most people thought Indiana ... small town in Wisconsin ... or something like that.

No one knew when she came to Manhattan or about her early failures and affairs. She was suddenly there. Eminently successful as a fashion executive, a financial wizard, a magazine editor, and later as the queen bee in a hive of social-climbers.

The most successful of her profitable ventures was a pair of marriages and subsequent divorce settlements, first with her magazine-publishing husband, then with a real estate operator from whom she extracted a commendable hunk of mid-Manhattan. After the second coup she retired to become a patron of the arts and grand matron of the Flora Sloan clique.

She did nothing worthy with her independent wealth, but Flora had the ability to do nothing in extremely good taste. Her only true dedication was to keep her face unwrinkled and her body beautiful. She ran through a succession of lovers, with whom she became bored in days, weeks, and occasionally months. The moment they began to ooze around to talking stocks and bonds, they were through.

It was inevitable that sooner or later she would get a pasting. She fell in love with a young artist. His paintings showed a rather sketchy talent, but he did have a positive talent in bed. For the first time in her life she behaved silly, lavished her lover with expensive gifts, became fiendishly jealous, and allowed herself to be pushed around. She sponsored a one-man art show at a time when her expression of like or dislike was a command, and he became a “rage.”

Everyone seemed to know that Flora was being had, but how does one tell a queen bee? She woke one rainy morning to find her lover flown from the nest after skinning her out of a small mint. When the detectives dragged him back for a tear-filled showdown, there came the revelation that he had a wife and three children “somewhere in Maine.”

Comforting friends soothed her. A trip to Europe would be the remedy for her shattering experience. She pulled herself together for “their” sake. Yes, they were right. An ocean voyage and the long-overdue grand tour to put the broken pieces together.

Flora, her traveling companion, secretary, Irish maid, and two poodles got no farther than the second stop, Monaco. In barreled the Count Alphonse de Monti at a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a red Ferrari. He saddled up to a chair opposite her at the Casino and began throwing around ten-thousand-lira notes like kleenex at the baccarat, table.

From the second he bowed and kissed her hand Flora knew what a hell of an elegant gentleman he was. And with a title to boot. She shrieked with exhilaration as he buzzed around hairpin turns in his red Ferrari. She listened breathlessly, as he whispered his way through Verdi love arias.

“God damn,” she told her traveling companion, “this continental charm is the living end. I checked his financial rating and the bastard’s loaded to boot.”

Since European titles and rich American divorcees were fascinating subjects, when Flora became the Countess de Monti it almost knocked the World Series off the front pages.

The glitter lasted through two spaghetti dinners. She found that Italians had very very funny ideas about their womenfolk. His old Kentucky home outside Rome was big and marbly enough, but although she had investigated his solvency she had failed to check into a stable of mistresses stashed in villas all over southern France. Now that she was properly the Countess de Monti, his charm became reserved for rivers yet uncrossed.

In fact, in many respects, he proved a slob.

He had peculiarities that she had not tested before in men. He was saturated with pride from head to foot. He bathed in old tradition. He professed to be deeply religious. And, like many normal and healthy Italian men of means, he fully expected his wife to stay in the old Kentucky home and get quietly plump while he barreled around Europe in his red Ferrari.

One more thing! An heir! Italians considered the production of a male offspring as some sort of monumental feat. With Flora as his mate, it was—but he managed.

She went into wild scenes about her treatment. Alphonse was proud because his wife was so spicy. But when she blurted out her plan to get rid of the unborn baby, it was another matter. He promptly slapped her into a private apartment under lock and key and the watchful eyes of a pair of matrons, then barreled off in his red Ferrari.

The result of this happy union was Christopher de Monti.

The proud father came home and celebrated long and hard. In fact, he dropped his guard so low that Flora was able to bundle Chris up and flee to the United States.

This time the divorce and custody battle did knock the World Series off the front pages.

Final judgment Momma got another splendid settlement mostly in olive groves. Chris was to spend summers with Poppa in Italy.

Flora never quite forgave little Chris for lowering her breasts, ruining her eighteen-inch waistline, and turning her stomach muscles to jelly. Unfortunately a society larger than her personal clique imposed certain conditions which called for her to be a “good mother.” She smothered Chris in a sea of motherliness—in full view of her friends.

He remembered being displayed by Flora, led into the parlor where she held court, listening to the “ohs” and “ahs” from the waxen-faced people posed about the room. Momma would tussle his hair. Momma would squeeze him. He hated that, because she was always nervous when he was around and her fingernails always dug into his flesh.

But summer! That was different! In summer he would get on a big ship with his current “Nana” and cross the ocean to Italy and Poppa. He traveled with Poppa in the red Ferrari, and they went to museums and the opera and to the Riviera. He loved his father deeply. He did not think he loved his mother. He cried and Poppa cried when summer was over and he had to return to America to school. Flora took Alphonse’s pleas to keep the boy as a personal vendetta against her “motherliness.”

And so Chris was kept in America nine months of the year. A veteran Atlantic traveler by the age of twelve, he was also an habitué of fashionable schools with names that all sounded like either Exeter or Briarwood.

He was a very quiet boy and a determined student. His true character was formed by teachers who taught in a day when political liberalism, sense of social conscience, and ideals were not frowned upon. He loved Poppa more than anyone in the world—but somehow, Italy was always a playland.

He read Lincoln and Paine and Jefferson. He completely identified himself as an American. He did not like the way the rich people treated poor people in Italy.

The American dream—the American ideal—became the guidepost in his life.

When he was old enough, Chris overlooked Poppa’s weakness for women, and often a new mistress formed a threesome on their travels in the summer. And as he grew older he began to see his father’s human frailties. Poppa was vain. Poppa was a snob. Poppa was unmoved by the poverty in Naples. Poppa guarded the iniquities of the class system.

Poppa was a Fascist.

Chris did not know what it meant at first, but each year it came more and more into focus and it rubbed against the grain of his American education.

Poppa would get a little drunk and talk about Benito Mussolini returning them to the glory of ancient Rome. Chris knew Mussolini—a pompous ass—but he never said anything to his father about that. The Italian people were warm and kind and they liked to sing and eat and drink and strut and believe they were great lovers. Years of privation as a second-rate power had allowed evil men to perpetrate the hoax of fascism upon them.

Chris was seventeen. At the end of the summer he would return to America and begin college.

Poppa was particularly perplexed. “I was hoping that your mother would let you study here. She promises her usual scandal if you don’t return.”

Chris said nothing. He wanted very much to return to America to study.

“I think it is time you and I had a long and serious talk about many things. Although an American education will be satisfactory, it is not really what I hoped for you. Where are you planning to go?”

“Columbia University in New York City.”

“Hmmm. I trust they have a good college in business administration and law. For the next four years you should be preparing yourself to take over our estates. I have only done a so-so job. I count on you to make the De Monti fortunes what they were when your grandfather was alive.”

“Poppa, you don’t understand. I am going to Columbia because of their school of journalism.”

“Journalism? But what good will journalism do you in running the De Monti estate?”

“Journalism is one of the greatest ways to translate your ideals. It is a way to bring truth to the world.”

“What kind of nonsense is this? You are my son. You will take over my duties just as I took them over from my father and his father before him. And while you are about it you will join the Young Student Fascist League in your college. It is important you begin to identify yourself as a good Italian boy.”

“But I don’t believe in fascism.”

Alphonse de Monti shrieked. He ranted angrily at Flora for what she had done to the boy’s education. “You will understand, Chris, what Mussolini has done for us. The Italian people have work now. He will lead us to a grandeur we have not seen in two thousand years!”

Chris held his tongue. He knew that Poppa didn’t give a damn about the Italian people working, and Chris felt that fascism would lead them to destruction.

“You are my son and you will do as you are ordered!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Chris said. “I am going to be a journalist.”

Alphonse struck Chris across the face ... then again ... and again and again. The boy stood rigid but unflinching. And then his father began to cry. “Since you were a baby, all I have wanted is for my son. My Christopher—a nobleman—to take over our great traditions—to live to see you as an officer in the Italian army bringing us back our glory—all I wanted is for you, Chris.”

What traditions? Those poor bastards slaving in Poppa’s olive groves? Whoring all over Europe in ten-thousand-dollar cars? Sitting at the Casino, a portrait of decadence? Trying to resurrect a ghost of ancient Rome which would take them on a path to hell?

Chris was sad because he loved his Poppa so.

“Chris ... Chris ... my bambino,” the old man pleaded.

“I am sorry, Poppa, that I cannot be the son you want.”

Even in anguish there was that deep stubborn pride. “Get out of my house and never come back!”

Chris was a brilliant student in journalism at Columbia. He wrote many letters to Poppa, but they were all returned unopened. He knew the deep pain he had caused his father and he hated himself for it, but he knew that he could not live as an instrument of a thing he hated. He was cut off without a cent.

In his junior year things brightened with an athletic scholarship. He was a first-rate forward on the varsity basketball team and highly successful in the new, experimental one-hand shots.

And Flora? She had taken a dumping in the stock market, but Chris didn’t want a thing from her, anyhow. Christmas passed without so much as a greeting from her. She did not like to have Chris around at all these days because he served as a reminder that she was turning ripe fast. She had lovers almost as young as her son.

Eileen Burns was a commercial-art major as vibrant as Chris was quiet. She was completely taken by the lean, handsome right forward on the basketball team and his grimish ways.

Perhaps Chris was far more intense about Eileen than a college romance would have implied, but with her all his lonely years and frustrations seemed to pour out. There had been other girls before. He was fifteen when he started with the daughter of one of Poppa’s housekeepers.

But with Eileen he could talk about things he only remembered speaking about to instructors in private schools a long time ago. It was different, because Eileen became a part of his hopes. He could say, “I want to be a great journalist—it’s a wonderful way to serve mankind.” And Eileen understood—she understood so well.

In his senior year Chris met Oscar Pecora. Oscar was standing by the window in his room when he came in from basketball practice late one evening. Pecora was a strange-looking little fellow. Stiff Hoover collar, four-in-hand cravat, bowler hat, pin-striped suit. He had the stamp of a European all over him.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Pecora said in Italian. “Your door was open.”

Chris looked at him for a while. Ten to one he was from the Italian Legation. “If you’re here to ask me to join the Student Fascist League, don’t waste either of our time.”

Pecora opened his wallet neatly and snapped a card to Chris, OSCAR PECORA: INTERNATIONAL DIRECTOR, SWISS NEWS AGENCY, GENEVA.

Chris flung the dirty laundry off one of the room’s two chairs. “Sit down, sir.”

“You are familiar with Swiss News?”

“Yes, sir.” He knew it was a small agency with one of the very best reputations for journalistic standards in the world.

“I shall get right to the point. We are expanding our operations in America. We will need an extra man for overloaded work in our New York and Washington bureaus. If you are familiar with Swiss News you know we select our people carefully. We find you are one of three students in this country whom we wish to train and put on our staff. When you graduate you will immediately leave for Geneva for a training course to get rid of the bad habits you’ve picked up in college.”

Chris and Eileen were married three days before graduation. A week later they were aboard ship for a honeymoon trip.

No more idyllic four months were ever lived by two people. They loved each other with an energy reserved for the young in a fairyland setting of snowy mountains and roaring fireplaces. Although half oblivious with thoughts of Eileen, Chris managed to learn the practical methods of journalism taught by the veteran Swiss News staff.

At the end of the schooling Chris was assigned, as promised, as a relief man between New York and Washington. Eileen was homesick to return, which seemed entirely natural for a girl who had lived her life in New Jersey.

There was but one short detour he had to take home, and that was through Rome.

The Count Alphonse de Monti had aged. He was a somewhat seedy representative of faded nobility. Yet he put up a lavish front: the cars and the servants and the women were still there. So were the debts. All his failures seemed to make him a more devout Fascist, for it was easy to blame enemies who did not exist.

Alphonse de Monti was a gentleman to the core. He was polite to his son and his son’s bride, but his coolness made it completely obvious he would never accept the fact that his son would not be the things he wanted.

Chris left Italy with a feeling that he might never see Poppa again.

Chris and Eileen became members of those faceless legions of Manhattan cliff dwellers who rushed to dinner and theater, washed down too many martinis at lunch, and made certain their “new love and independence” would not be marred by the sudden announcement that a child was on the way. Chris thrived on all of it.

Eileen didn’t tell Chris how lonely it was when he was away in Washington. He was happy—so happy. And a new marriage is something large and powerful, the little flaws and cracks often invisible in the over-all magnitude. Each reunion after a week in Washington buried the loneliness.

Six months of it. Then, while he was away in Washington, he was suddenly called to a conference in Denver. Next time she tried tagging along in Washington. It was worse than staying in New York. She was in his way. A journalist had to have mobility and no limitation on hours, no worries about a wife waiting in a hotel room.

“Chris honey, why don’t I take a job? You know, Mom and Dad did spend a fortune getting me through Columbia and—”

Enough of the old-country pride had rubbed off on him to make the idea of a De Monti wife working unthinkable.

Oscar Pecora arrived just in time.

“You are one of our bright young stars, Christopher. We have an extraordinary opportunity. Bureau chief in Rio de Janeiro.”

Rio! And less than a year with Swiss News!

Chris was so happy that Eileen covered her disappointment, as a good wife will do. This was his life and it was a great opportunity. She was planning to have a talk with Chris about buying a place in Jersey, near Mom and Dad. Maybe starting a family. They’d had their fun. ...

But Eileen held her tongue and packed and went along.

Chris fitted in every newsmen’s bar and in the lobbies of the capitols and in the offices of prime ministers and at the scenes of the disasters. Hours of light and darkness and light and spaces of great distance had lost meaning to him when a story was involved.

They had a beautiful apartment on the Avenida Beira Mar that hugged the bay. She came to learn every corner of it and how many squares were in the marble of the entrance hall and how many different colors there were in the drapes.

She tried very, very hard to assimilate herself into that circle of diplomats who seemed to spend their entire lives holding a cocktail glass for the incoming attaché of culture or the outgoing second secretary.

Eileen got a pair of cats and stroked them and paced the floor in lounging pajamas and waited until Chris got back.

And then one day she broke. He wrote:

Dear Oscar,

I must resign this bureau for personal reasons. I should like to return to New York if you’ve a spot for me there. Otherwise, I am afraid I must quit the agency and find a job in New York.

Dear Christopher,

I understand your plight and I sympathize with it. Try to understand mine. Hold on another six or eight weeks and I’ll get things shifted around so that you can break someone in and I’ll make an opening in New York.

“Honey, why don’t you go on back to the States ahead of me? See your folks. It will do you good.”

Eileen was relieved and frightened at the same time. It was an omen, she knew it. The little flaws were turning to deepening cracks.

And Chris was worried, too, because when Eileen left he did not miss her as much as he believed he should. At first he dreaded the thought of coming back from a trip with Eileen not there. But ... it wasn’t so bad. There was always a poker game going at the press club or the Embassy, always a party in session with an open invitation to him.

Dear Chris,

I have taken a job in an advertising firm here. I know how much you are against this, but you won’t be when you see how happy I am. It won’t interfere with a moment of our being together. ... I made that clear to them. But, I just can’t keep on feeling so useless. Please, darling, don’t be angry.

Chris swallowed his pride. Why not? Eileen was too vital to be locked up in a lonely flat. She was too sensible to become a partner to a wasteland of women’s clubs. That’s one of the things he admired about her from the first. Her desire to be useful—not like his mother.

When he returned to New York there was a wonderful reunion. Oscar Pecora had given him the New York Bureau permanently! He had enough help so that he would have to make only an occasional trip to Washington. For a moment they seemed to have recaptured those first days of their marriage.

And then, the scene:

“Eileen, be reasonable, honey. The conference in Quebec is one of the most important international meetings of the year.”

“You promised and Oscar promised. No more traveling.”

“Eileen! Dan is sick. He can’t work. He’s in the hospital.”

“Then let them send someone else.”

“Swiss News is a small outfit. We haven’t got that many men.”

“You don’t need any more. Good old Christopher de Monti will always go.”

“Don’t make it so dramatic. It’s only ten days.”

“Ten days in Quebec ... ten days in Washington ... ten days in San Francisco. Do you know what it’s like alone here for ten days? I don’t ask terribly much, Chris—to work until we decide to have a home and a baby—but what’s the use of having a baby who won’t know his father! We have so much fun together when you’re here. I don’t ask much, Chris—”

“Christ! You’re making a world revolution out of this. How can you ask me to let Oscar down after all he’s done for me?”

“How about me, Chris? Haven’t I done something for you too? Do you ever think about letting me down?”

Chris didn’t answer. He went into the bedroom.

Eileen trailed in slowly. “Your things are all packed,” she said with tears falling into the corners of her mouth. “Your gray suit didn’t get back from the cleaner’s in time.”

“Eileen ... honey ...”

“Hurry, Chris. You’ll miss your plane.”

When he returned from Canada his reception was one of polite coldness. For the first time in their marriage Eileen did not want to be loved when he returned from a trip. It was doubly bad when she played out the role of the accommodating wife.

“I guess we’re in a lot of trouble,” Chris said the next morning.

Eileen’s silence was answer enough.

“I thought about it all during the time in Quebec. About us and where we are going. I’ve been pretty damned selfish. I guess I’ve done all the taking ... none of the giving.”

“That’s not true, Chris. You’ve tried. So have I. I really wanted to be the kind of woman you need.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes ... and I think, in your way, you love me too. But I’m kind of jealous, I guess, because what you have away from me means more to you than I ever will. It’s not your fault or mine.”

“Let’s try, Eileen, please let’s try. I know most of this has been my fault.”

“Don’t let that Italian pride of yours compound a mistake.”

“Why don’t we take a ride over to Jersey and look at some of that real estate? Then I’ll get a letter off to Oscar—”

“Chris ... Chris. I do love you, but if I take you away from that world of yours out there you’ll grow to hate me.”

Both of them tried hard to pull it together. Eileen never did buy that house in New Jersey and she was terribly cautious about having a child.

Restraint and all its murderous aspects came between them.

There were more trips—there always would be, but she never made another scene or shed another tear—and there were no more wild reunions.

For a year they drifted and grew more and more indifferent to each other.

And one day Christopher de Monti had to face that moment when a man’s pride grovels to its lowest depths. He found it out by accident, by returning home from a trip early and taking a phone call not meant for him. Eileen had begun sleeping with another man.

Chris never spoke to her about it. He waited until a weekend when she was visiting her parents, and he packed his things and left with only a brief note.

Dear Eileen,

I have learned about you and Daniels at your office. There is absolutely no use of discussing anything. For my part of the guilt, I am sorry, but it will be best for us both if I never see you again. If you will arrange the divorce as quickly and quietly as possible on some semi-civilized grounds, I would be obliged.

After a month of trying to drown his pride across every bar in England and Europe, Chris got himself steamed out and reported to Oscar Pecora in Geneva.

“That’s quite a little bar bill you’ve run up, Christopher. It’s a wonder you have a liver left,” Pecora said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Oscar, save the sermon.”

“Tell me, Chris. Was the pain because you loved Eileen so much, or has your Italian nobility been offended?”

“I don’t know, Oscar.”

“If you still love Eileen you can have her back. She’s written to me a half dozen times. Of course you’ve got this stack of letters you’ve never opened. She’ll come to you on any condition—on her hands and knees. Now, if your love is so great, it must find forgiveness for her.”

“I don’t know if I can, Oscar. Besides, the same thing will happen again. She’s a fine woman, Oscar. She really tried. I’ve got no right to butcher her life up—”

“And deep in your heart you really don’t want her back. Except for the blow to your vanity, you are happy to be free.”

For a moment Chris looked offended.

“That’s hitting below the belt, Oscar.”

“Truth does not offend you, Christopher.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, there’s no use of both Eileen and me losing you. I saw it coming for a long time. One of us had to be the big loser, and I’m glad it’s not me.”

“Let me get back to work, Oscar, right away.”

“Fine. How does Ethiopia sound? The legions of Rome are on the march. That Italian passport of yours will come in handy.”

“You know how I feel about the Fascists. I can’t stomach covering their side of a war against defenseless little black men with spears.”

“You are a journalist, Christopher. Leave your personal politics out of it. We can get you attached to the Italian command. Get the best you can out of the latitude they give you to operate.”

Chris walked slowly to the big wall map behind Oscar Pecora’s desk. “Ethiopia? Why not? That’s about as far away as I can get from the goddamned mess I’ve made.”

Chapter Ten

MUSSOLINI’S CAMPAIGN IN ETHIOPIA was a pleasant little war. Sort of reminded one of when the colonizers of the last century directed their armies from campaign chairs in the shade of banana trees with a tall, cool gin and tonic in their hands as they brought “civilization” to the Zulus.

It was, indeed, good practical experience for the aspiring new legions of Rome. The little clay townships made excellent targets for the artillery gunners. The infantry could zigzag about the tall brush, boning up on their efficiency without too much danger, for the natives were mostly armed with spears and the few Ethiopian riflemen were dreadful shots.

Chris made peace with himself and played it straight. He could stand nearly everything except when he interviewed the bragging, strutting aviators after they had returned from their missions of bombing and strafing undefended villages of thatched huts.

Ethiopia was not the real battleground.

The British fleet ordered a muscle-flexing maneuver in the Mediterranean. Mussolini called the bluff. There were indignant pickets in Paris and New York and London against Italian legations by people who had learned only in the last month or so that there was actually a country named Ethiopia.

For one fleeting moment the world had a twinge of conscience. An embargo was called against Italy, but it was really not an embargo at all.

Then, for all its inept and ill-fated existence, the League of Nations was honored by one great moment of human dignity. A small black man who was named the Lion of Judah, Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, made a plea to the souls of men for his people. But Ethiopia was a long way from about everywhere, and who the hell really cared about Addis Ababa?

Apathy of free men. This was the real victory. The scent of blood made the legions of Rome hungry.

On the Yangtze River an American gunboat named the Panay was sunk. Some Americans were able to convince other Americans that the Panay had no right being there in the first place. Yellow men in the Orient were battling yellow men—but that was far away too.

There followed the era of appeasement. The Versailles Treaty was broken by the tramping of German boots into the Rhineland.

The bullies grew brave.

The crucible: Spain.

“Christopher, you did a magnificent job in Ethiopia. Your restraint was remarkable. Now, Christopher! Your Italian passport is really going to come in handy,” Oscar Pecora said. “I’ve gotten you credentials to cover the Insurgent side in Spain.”

Christopher de Monti went to Spain on the Fascist side as a man obsessed with a mission. This was the climax of his life. This was the meaning of every word he had read about freedom and truth. Spain was not Ethiopia. Now the world would listen!

He joined Franco’s forces just after the conquest of Malaga. He became a man with a split personality. On the surface, Christopher de Monti sent out routine dispatches and stories expected of a competent journalist.

All his skill and ingenuity were used in smuggling stories to the free world. Using daring and cunning, he risked his life time and again to get reports over the border to the “neutral” embassies in self-exile in France.

Christopher de Monti secretly reported the arrival of millions of tons of German and Italian war materials—cannons, tanks, airplanes.

Christopher de Monti secretly reported the arrival of the first contingents of German and Italian aviators fighting for Franco.

Christopher de Monti secretly reported that Germany and Italy were using Spain as a testing ground for personnel and equipment.

Christopher de Monti secretly reported the arrival of masses of Italian ground forces.

Christopher de Monti secretly reported the atrocities committed by Franco’s Moroccan hordes and wrote the true reports that the ranks of the Catholic Church were, in actuality, with the Loyalist government.

Christopher de Monti was the first to send through a secret report that the “unidentified” submarines blockading Loyalist ports were Italian.

He was the first to send through documentary evidence that the Italian air force was murdering women and children in undefended open cities.

And he watched his work drown in a cesspool of German propaganda. The rape of Spain, the first of the great sellouts in an age of sellouts, left him a disillusioned man. Fainthearted democracies hid behind shallow words and non-intervention pacts and embargoes which penalized a democracy fighting for its life.

The world did not want to hear what Christopher de Monti risked his life to tell them.

Oscar Pecora kept a close eye on Chris and finally decided that he could not go on smuggling out his stories from the Franco side. Afraid for Chris’s life, he recalled him from Spain early in 1938.

Christopher de Monti, a quiet boy who had formed a love of truth long before he was a man, had been betrayed by his mother and disillusioned by his father. He had destroyed his own relations with a fine woman and he hated himself for that. But this was to be the crudest disillusion of all.

He left Spain with his faith in the human race gone.

Chris had always been a sensible and hard-working journalist. He was particularly sober and responsible in a fraternity of the not-so-sober and sometimes irresponsible. His one binge had been with reason—when he broke his marriage with Eileen.

His second was worse. Oscar Pecora bailed him out of a Paris police station after a month’s solid drinking and packed him off to his villa on the lake at Lausanne.

Oscar Pecora was a patient man who loved Christopher. Christopher was his own protégé. Like a son, Chris sulked bitterly until the boiling within him could not be contained.

And one night it all exploded.

Chris was drunk. Madame Pecora, Oscar’s beautiful former-opera-singing wife, had retired. They were sitting on the balcony and there was a full moon on the lake and Chris was coming to the end of a fifth of scotch whisky.

“Why, Oscar, why! Why did they do that?”

“Tell me about it, Chris.”

“Saw them killing women and children. Dirty bastard Italian fliers sitting in their dirty bastard clubs bragging about it ... Watched them torture soldiers. Ever seen a Moroccan torture someone? By putting his testicles in a squeezer ... Oscar ... God dammit ... I got all that over the border to the Americans!”

“Christopher. Every report that you sneaked out of Spain was planted in newspapers and wire services. All we can do is give the facts to the people. We cannot force them to stage a rebellion in righteous wrath.”

“You are so right, Oscar. The whole goddamned human race sat on its hands and watched them murder Spain. Lemme tell you something, brother. They’ll pay for not stopping Mussolini and Hitler in Spain. Pretty soon they’ll run out of hiding room and, Jesus Christ, will they get clobbered!”

Oscar Pecora’s sympathetic hand fell on Chris’s shoulder. “We journalists are like garbage cans, Chris. Everybody sends us their filth. Through us comes all that is rotten in man. Christopher, what you are going through now ... You were a single small voice that cried out for justice in a dark and angry sea and no one heard you. Until a man is struck in his own face he does not want to believe the attack on his brother concerns him.”

Chris stumbled from his chair, staggered to the rail, and hung onto it. “Shall I tell you why I became a journalist? Do you know Thomas Paine? ‘The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren ... to do good is my religion.’ ”

Oscar Pecora recited, “ ‘In a chariot of light from the region of day, The Goddess of Liberty came. Ten thousand celestials directed the way. And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love, And the plant she named Liberty Tree ... from the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms! Through the land let the sound of it flee; Let the far and the near all unite, with a cheer ... in defense of our Liberty Tree.’ ”

“Bravo, Brother Pecora! Bravo! And now I give you William Lloyd Garrison ...” Chris stood upright and thrust his finger into the air. “ ‘With reasonable men, I will reason; with humane men I will plead; but to tyrants I will give no quarter ...’ Now how’s that for a goddamn quote?”

Chris reeled into his seat. “Little Jefferson ... we need a little Jefferson to round it out ... Oscar, I’m drunk ... God damn I’m drunk.”

“Come, Christopher. You’re tired. You have lost a hard battle, but you are my best soldier and tomorrow we must go out to the field again.”

“She’s in Jersey ... married that guy. They’ve got two kids ... nice little home, I hear. Me ... I’m the real winner, Oscar. I get to bring truth to the people.”

Chapter Eleven

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AFTER Chris awoke from a deep sixteen-hour slumber, he found his way to Oscar Pecora’s study sheepishly.

“Boy, did I hang one on,” he said in an apologetic voice.

“For talent, nearly anything can be forgiven.”

“It has all been a pretty startling lesson, Oscar. I can see why the men in our business turn crass and cynical. We sound the great trumpet and no one hears us. Free men with full bellies don’t want to believe that a black native in Ethiopia concerns them or that the bombing of an open city in Spain is the prelude to the bombing of London.”

“Christopher, you’ve eaten my food, drunk my liquor, and now Madame Pecora is giving you flirtatious glances. I think it is high time you got back to work.”

“Doing what, Oscar? Can I go on being a journalist under these conditions? I have learned now that truth is not truth. Truth is only what people want to believe and nothing more.”

“But you will continue to seek it as a journalist or as a streetcar driver in Geneva. You have lost sight of the fact that there is a world of decent human beings and a lot of them are listening. They depend on the Christopher de Montis to be their eyes. You are not a man to abandon the human race because you have lost a battle. Now, what do you say, Christopher?”

Chris laughed ironically. “When you come right down to it, I’m not much good for anything else. I can’t even operate a streetcar.”

“I’ve called in men from our European bureaus for the past month. We are trying to determine how events will shift. What do you think, Christopher?”

Chris shrugged. “Spain is Italy’s show, mainly. The republican government will fall sooner or later. Franco is it.” Chris looked at the wall map behind Oscar. “Hitler will start up next.”

“Bergman in Berlin thinks so too. How does Warsaw sound to you? We have a small bureau there.”

“If you still want me, why not? One place is as good as another.”

“Settled. You go to Poland. We have a free-lance man we’ve been using off and on. An Ervin Rosenblum.”

“Photographer, too, isn’t he?”

“Yes, a good man. Take him on with you and try him out. Christopher, don’t try anything foolish in Poland. Keep us in business as long as you can there.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve had my fill of playing cops and robbers. It won’t do any more good in Poland than in Spain. Don’t worry, Oscar. All you’ll get are the straight reports.”

Dear Oscar,

Warsaw has been like a tonic. I’m glad one of us had some sense and I thank you. It’s like a little Paris here.

Ervin Rosenblum is a crackajack. I want to keep him on permanently. The bureau is in good shape. The usual government red tape, but nothing earth-shaking. Next week I hope to have a direct phone connection to Geneva. That will speed things up considerably.

Although I’m getting along O.K. in French and English, I’m taking an hour a day of Polish. And—can you believe it?—I’ve taken on the hobby of coach of several of the army basketball teams.

Chris blew a whistle. He talked to Andrei Androfski in French, and Andrei translated into Polish that the basketball practice for the day was over. The members of the newly formed Seventh Ulany Brigade team thanked their coach and trotted from the floor of the Citadel gymnasium.

Andrei, the team captain, worked with Chris for another half hour. He was intrigued by Chris’s wizardry in dribbling and hook shooting. Chris showed him the variations of passing the ball while being guarded and how to fake his pass moving in one direction, flipping the ball in the other.

They sat down drenched with sweat after the brisk workout. Chris wiped his face with a towel and lit a cigarette. “I’m pooped. I haven’t done this in years.”

“Those cigarettes are no good,” Andrei said. “They wind you. Such a wonderful game. I did not realize there were so many fine points to it. But what can I do with these dumb oxen? They have no finesse.”

“They’re coming along fine. By the end of the season they’ll play like the Harlem Globetrotters.”

Chris slapped Andrei’s knee. “Well, to the showers.”

“I think I’ll practice foul shots for a while,” Andrei said. “Say, by the way, what do you have on tonight?”

“I can be had.”

“Good. My colonel gave me his box at the opera. La Bohème.”

Opera! It struck a note of joy in Chris. He had neglected it so much lately. It had been a religion with him in New York and with Poppa in Italy.

“You'll have dinner with Gabriela and me and then we’ll pick up my sister. She would join us for dinner, but she wants to bring the children and her daughter has a late piano lesson.”

“I didn’t know you had a married sister.”

“Yes, my one and only.”

Chris hedged. “Look, I’ll be a third wheel breaking in on a family party.”

“Nonsense. Her husband is in Copenhagen at a medical convention. Besides, the children will be thrilled to have a real live Italian explain the libretto to them. Settled! Be at Gabriela’s apartment at six.”

“This is my sister, Deborah Bronski. And my niece Rachael, and the schmendrick is Stephan.”

“How do you do, Mr. de Monti.”

“Call me Chris ... please.”

It was the most strange and awesome sensation Chris had ever experienced. Even as he walked from the car to the house he felt it come over him. The instant he saw her eyes she understood that he was reading a message of a deep inner sadness and frustration.

Good God, she was beautiful!

Chris was an experienced, sophisticated man. He was too wise to be felled suddenly like this. Yet his stability seemed shot. This strange feeling had never happened—not even with Eileen.

During the opera they were both uncomfortable in their awareness of each other. It was as though ectoplasm were leaping from the body of one to the other. There was a quick succession of stolen glances. There was the first accidental brushing of arms that made them twinge. And a few less accidental touchings.

Between the second and third acts Chris and Deborah found themselves standing away from the others, oblivious of the pomp and finery around them. Deborah turned completely pale as they stared wordlessly at each other.

The bell rang and the audience began to drift in to their seats.

Deborah suddenly broke and turned. Chris automatically touched her elbow. “I must see you,” he blurted. “Please phone me at Swiss News at the Bristol.”

Andrei called across the lobby for them to hurry.

Four days passed.

Chris started each time the phone rang. Then he began to resign himself to the fact that she would never call him and that he had done something foolish. Flirtations were flirtations, but this wasn’t. There was in this none of the game men and women play. It was something serious from the very first second. Even though he realized she would not call, he could not shake that strange feeling.

“Hello ...”

“Is this the Swiss News Agency?”

“Yes ...”

“Christopher de Monti?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Deborah Bronski.”

Chris’s hand became wet on the phone.

“I will be in the Saxony Gardens in an hour, along the benches beside the swan lake.”

They were both quiet and confused and feeling guilty and foolish as they found themselves sitting opposite each other.

“I feel absolutely silly,” Deborah said. “I am respectfully married and I want you to know I have never done anything like this before.”

“It is all so strange.”

“I cannot lie about the fact that I wanted to see you again and I don’t know why.”

“You know what I think? I think that you and I are a couple of magnets made out of some sort of unique metal. I think I was irresistibly pulled to Warsaw.”

And then they were awkwardly quiet, groping for a logical thought.

“Why don’t we take a walk,” Chris said, “and talk about things?”

She lay awake that night. And she met him again and she lay awake again. All of those little things that make a romance the most wonderful exploration of one human by another had been denied Deborah. Now suddenly she was flooded with them. Flooded with emotions she never believed she would have or knew existed.

The touch of a man’s hand. The little duels of small talk to inflict small hurts on each other. The instantaneous thrill the moment he appeared coming down the path. The pangs of jealousy. The color of eyes, the way his dark hair fell over his forehead, the long strong hands, the sensitive expressions, the lanky careless stature.

The pain of being away from him.

The first kiss. She did not know what a kiss was. She did not believe feelings from a kiss were part of the human experience.

“Deborah, I love you.”

Each new adventure was like nothing that had ever happened to her before.

“I am not quite certain I know what love is, Chris. I do know that seeing you is wrong and we will get into trouble if we keep it up. But I know I want to see you, regardless. Because ... being away from you is becoming more and more unbearable. Is this what love is, Chris?”

Chapter Twelve

Journal Entry

TODAY, MY SON WAS born. Susan Geller was in attendance with Dr. Glazer from our orphanage. Sylvia came through beautifully for a woman of forty.

Outwardly, I must exhibit unabashed joy. Inwardly, I am worried. This is a bad time for a Jewish child to be born.

Moses is a common name, but I think the historian in me weighed my decision. The first Moses was also born in an era of duress, and when Pharaoh ordered all Jewish male infants slain he was hidden in the bulrushes. With this sentimentality and much luck, Moses Brandel will come through the difficult days ahead.

ALEXANDER BRANDEL

Despite the austerity and the outlawing of religious ceremonies, nothing could diminish the collective happiness of the Bathyrans. Moses Brandel was born to be spoiled by them all. He was their baby, and they were damned well going to have a blowout at the bris.

Tolek Alterman closed down the farm and brought in all the workers, thirty boys and ten girls, to Warsaw with an extravagance of food.

Momma Rosenblum took charge of cooking the traditional dishes. Rabbi Solomon would personally conduct the prayers at the ceremony.

The event took place at the Writer’s Club on Tlomatskie Street, near Alex’s flat, which the Orphans and Self-Help Society had “leased” as an agency.

On the eighth day after his birth Moses Brandel was passed around on an ornate velvet pillow from relative to relative, from Bathyran to Bathyran, and finally ended up in the arms of his godfather, Andrei Androfski.

Down the street, the Great Tlomatskie Synagogue was boarded up at the doors and windows and guards posted around it, but in the Writer’s Club a covenant with God was made by this child in a ceremony over four thousand years old from the command in Genesis, “He that is eight days old among you shall be circumcised, every male throughout your generations.”

As in ancient times when Abraham circumcised Isaac, symbolic of a covenant with God, so did Finkelstein, the professional mohel, circumcise Moses Brandel. It is probable that Finkelstein did a better job, as he had had far more practice. He had been mohel at some two thousand brisim.

Little Moses lost his composure and shrieked.

“Blessed are you, Lord our God, Master of the Universe, who have made us holy with your commands, and have commanded us to bring Moses, the son of Alexander and Sylvia, into the covenant of Abraham our father,” chanted Rabbi Solomon.

When Moses’ ordeal was over, the infant was returned to his mother in their flat down the street and the celebration began.

“Mozeltoff!” everyone congratulated the proud father.

“Mozeltoff!”

And the toasts began.

And singing.

And dancing.

And soon the Writer’s Club reeled under the impact of a dancing hora ring. The “proud father” was pulled into the center, and one by one the young Bathyran girls whirled with him around the circle in unison with the clapping and stamping. He danced and danced until he could dance no more. It didn’t take much wine to get him high; he had been heady since the birth of the baby.

At last he staggered from the dance floor, sweating and gasping for breath.

Ervin Rosenblum and Andrei hooked their hands under Alex’s arms and dragged him off to a side room, where he flopped down, wiped his face, and fanned himself.

“Why do Jews have to make such a tsimmes about the birth of a son?” Alex asked.

“Our kids have been pent up so long, they are about to explode with tension,” Rosy said. “This party is doing everybody good.”

“So!” roared Andrei. “How does the new father feel now?”

“At my age, to have a son is an unexpected bonus.”

Then he looked up glumly from Andrei to Ervin. They could hear the hilarity outside, but they were never a second away from the times. Even in the middle of the celebration it lurked in Alex’s mind. “Have you seen the new set of German directives?”

They nodded.

“So, they may as well celebrate tonight.”

“Why don’t you forget it for a night too, Alex?” Andrei said.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I am at the headquarters at Mila 19 most of the time now, day and night. As soon as Sylvia is on her feet she’ll be working at the orphanage again. I think we will give up our apartment and move to Mila 19. Susan Geller has indicated she’ll move over too. I think it will be encouraging for our youngsters to have us living there. We are only using the first floor for offices and the dispensary. We could divide the place into dormitories for boys and girls and bring in another sixty or seventy people.”