Against the Wind

I had come to believe the words of Psalm 91: “A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.”³

In the midst of danger, my heart was at peace in the belief that every step I took was ordered by the Lord. When I rose in the morning and lay down at night, I asked God to keep me and my loved ones within the palm of His hand.

Lori Kalner, her heart broken, wrote me often from Wales, where she recuperated with the help of my mother’s loving care.

Day and night, the Luftwaffe reduced whole city blocks of London to rubble by their relentless pounding. As the numbers of dead and wounded grew, so did the numbers of us who were left homeless.

I made the Evensong service at Westminster Abbey a part of my daily worship. It was at the Abbey, during one such air raid, when I first was officially introduced to seven-year-old Connor and the choirboys I came to know as “The Four Apostles.” I could not have imagined that afternoon how intertwined our lives would become through tragedy.

The warning siren blared as Murphy and I left the service at the thousand-year-old church and began to walk back toward our boardinghouse.

Murphy pointed skyward where the first rank of Luftwaffe fighters preceded the bombers. High above the greenswards of London, in a sort of imitation of medieval jousts, outnumbered RAF Spitfire pilots engaged in combat against swarms of German planes.

Murphy and I paused to watch the life-and-death drama played out among mountainous clouds. A Spitfire dove out of the high reaches directly toward a German Messerschmitt. They seemed destined for a head-on collision.

I shut my eyes. When I opened them again the ME-109 was limping away eastward, trailing a plume of white vapor.

“Coolant,” Murphy said knowledgeably. “Got him! Bet he’ll have to bail out over the Channel. Go on, boys, give it to them!” My husband shook himself as if suddenly recollecting that we were in danger. “We’ve only got moments before the Dorniers arrive,” he remarked. “There’s a shelter in the Abbey crypt.” Murphy took my arm, and we hurried back into the ancient house of worship.

SHELTER THIS WAY. The fresh yellow paint was stenciled on the venerable stone blocks of the ancient church. It seemed altogether right to me that we would take refuge in this place. The Abbey had been a spiritual refuge since a monastery had been established there in the seventh century.

A Thames fisherman had a vision of St. Peter on the north bank of the river. This was the spot where the Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster was established. Over the centuries it had been expanded and remodeled. Kings and queens, poets and playwrights were buried there. It was a magnificent edifice in which the sound of angelic voices rose to the vaulted ceilings.

How many prayers had risen from this holy place since the first Christians had laid the cornerstone? I felt surrounded by a great cloud of heavenly witnesses whenever I entered the Abbey. The earth, foundations, the building blocks, the high vaults of the sanctuary, the tombs of the saints, must surely be saturated with God’s presence. The air seemed to echo with generations of hymns and the Word of God spoken daily for many centuries. Westminster Abbey seemed to me like an earthly gate opening into heaven.

I considered that a German bomb might fall upon this holy ground today. I might never leave this place alive. And if I were killed in that hour? Surely many believers who had gone before would be waiting beyond this portal to welcome me.

Murphy and I joined the steady stream of choirboys, still dressed in their red and white choral robes, as they tramped down the worn stone steps into the dark bowels of the crypt. As I was surrounded by the laughter and excited chatter, it was though we had been transported into another century.

The cherubic faces of the boys in the choir stalls had become familiar to me. I knew their voices well and had asked the docent for a roster so I might learn their names. The Westminster choir school provided the finest education for boys from all ranks of British society. Selected for their singing talent and academic potential, they received full tuition, room, and board in return for agreeing to a rigorous schedule of rehearsal and performance. Westminster Abbey Choir School existed solely to educate and care for the thirty or so boys who sang as choristers in the Abbey choir. The purpose-built school, set in the heart of the Abbey precincts, offered a superior education tailored precisely to the needs of choristers. Like many schools in the great cathedrals of Europe, academic lessons, musical tuition, sports, activities, and games were carefully arranged around the boys’ various singing commitments.

In Berlin, Vienna, and Prague I knew of several parochial choir schools that had been dissolved and the boys forced to become part of the Hitler Youth. Among the thirty choristers of Westminster Abbey I recognized two brothers with Czech surnames: Peter and Tomas Svitek. Both had the strong features of Ashkenazi Jews. A musician friend who knew the choirmaster confirmed what I had guessed. Eleven-year-old Peter seldom smiled. I had never heard him speak; he had never uttered so much as one word that I had observed. When Peter sang so clear and rich, his eyes seemed haunted with memories too grim for one so young.

In contrast, Peter’s younger brother, nine-year-old Tomas, shone like a bright penny. His countenance was always joyful as he tilted his chin slightly upward and filled the dusty vaults of the Abbey with lilting song. Tomas stood next to Connor Turner in the stalls. I often saw the two nudge one another in unguarded moments before or after the services. They put their heads together and shared the comedic plotting of best friends who longed to slip a toad into the pocket of some unsuspecting girl.

Connor soloed in a clear, high soprano. He had tousled blond hair, fair skin with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, and bright blue eyes that danced when he saw me. His ears protruded, and I once heard an older boy call him “Teapot.” Connor took the teasing with good humor. He and Tomas had one another’s backs.

John and James Warne were brothers—English from head to toe. John, with straight brown hair and serious brown eyes, was about thirteen and sang contralto. He had the swagger of an athlete about him, as if wearing his red and white choir robe was a thing only to be tolerated. I saw him frown with disgust, clench his fists, and lift his chin defiantly at his own reflection in a mirror.

His younger brother, James, age ten, looked very much like John, except that he wore wire-rimmed glasses that continually slid down the bridge of his aquiline nose as he read the music.

As the Abbey choristers processed past my seat for each day’s Evensong, they had come to recognize me as a regular attendee. Perhaps they could sense I was a musician as well. After services I had often lingered to speak with the organist about a piece of music or a composer. I had twice met the choir director through friends in the BBC Orchestra.

Over time, though I had never spoken to the boys, our eyes met and furtive smiles were exchanged when, at the end of each service, I gave them a surreptitious thumbs-up of approval and appreciation.

Today Connor and Tomas whispered behind their hands as I walked down the steep stairs.

I overheard Connor say in his best imitation of American cinema dialogue, “What a dish!”

Tomas added with a low whistle and a slight Czech accent, “I’ll say! She’s some tomato, you bet.”

I had never cherished a compliment so highly as the wolf whistle from those boys.

And so it was, on the day of the air raid, I found myself in the midst of these darling schoolboys whom I had admired at a distance. I was pleased and comfortable as their excited chatter filled the dark, low confines of the crypt.

I introduced myself as a fellow musician and told them how much I had enjoyed their music. Connor replied that some of the chaps had noticed me in the choir stalls, and some even had a crush on me. All of them liked it when I came to Evensong to hear them sing.

On the landing above us, the air raid warden scanned the long, empty corridor, then called, “Everybody in?” He hesitated, waiting for an answer. The distant crump of the first bombs replied. We were silent. Breathless. I imagined someone outside, hurrying to get to safety as the barrage began.

“All right, then. Last call!” A moment more and then, “We’re closing the door now.” The massive timber door swung shut.

The boom, boom, boom of ordnance penetrated the thick stone walls. All eyes turned upward as the dust of centuries was shaken loose.

Connor piped, “Ah, it’s ours. Nothin’ to worry about. It’s the ack-ack guns in St. James.”

John, drawing himself up and jutting out his chin in a manly posture, declared, “It’s our boys all right. Hope the war isn’t over before I get a chance to have a go at a Jerry.”

James, who blinked rapidly with every concussion, reprimanded his older brother, “You know Mum don’t like you saying such a thing, John. Don’t wish it lasts a day longer than this.”

Peter was ashen, as gray as the stone upon which he leaned. He could not hide his stark fear.

Murphy spoke quietly in my ear, “That boy’s lived through something…look at him.”

Tomas overheard Murphy’s remark. “My brother can’t talk well. Not since we were strafed on the road in France. Our mother was killed. Our father is in America. We will go there. We have been practicing American songs. Learning to sing like Americans.”

An enormous concussion shook the foundations. Instinctively, we covered our heads. Murphy held me tightly.

Tomas consoled Peter in the Czech tongue. I understood a bit. “Don’t worry, brother. The RAF will knock them out of the sky. You’ll see. It’s ours, not theirs. Peter? Peter! I think we have just felt a Dornier crash. We will come up and see we have knocked a Dornier right out of the sky. Peter? You understand, Peter?”

But Peter did not answer. He crouched. His wide, terrified eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he waited for the blocks to come crashing down on us.

Tomas said to Connor, “He’s so scared. He dreams about the bombs. About our mother and our sister in the ditch. He relives what happened in France. He thinks now is then…every time.”

Connor covered his teapot ears with his hands as the next stick of bombs made the floor tremble beneath our feet. Then, as if by some miracle, Connor raised his face, smiled slightly, and pulled out a tin penny whistle from beneath his robe. He raised it to his lips and began to play an introduction as sweet as the trill of a nightingale.

Tomas began to sing along in a perfect bell-like soprano, “Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you…”

Peter raised his eyes and stood erect. I saw his lips move. “America!” Then he opened his mouth and began to sing the tune so full of longing for the New World. The melody overcame the roar of explosions that ripped through the earth so close to us.

For more than an hour the battle raged far above us, but the boys of the Abbey sang song after song while Connor accompanied them on the tin whistle. The terrible hours passed without terror. Music sustained us.

It was deep night when, at last, the all-clear sounded. We bade one another farewell and promised to meet again at Evensong tomorrow. We emerged from the crypt to a sight both terrible and beautiful. The night was as bright as day. Smoke and ash from the great city stung our eyes and filled our nostrils.

You have made us like sheep for slaughter and have scattered us among the nations…. Awake! Why are You sleeping, O Lord? Rouse Yourself! Do not reject us forever!
PSALM 44:11, 23 ESV

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

DECEMBER 1937

I wonder sometimes if God is asleep. Why has He been silent? Why do my prayers go unanswered? It is the Christmas season again, and “Silent Night” has taken on a new meaning for me. A year since Papa disappeared. Still no word of his fate. Nor any further word from John Murphy or Eben Golah about Papa.

The year 1937 is a terrible one for the world. The Spanish Civil War still rages. Franco’s nationalists are backed by Nazi warplanes. Some people say what is happening in Spain is the rehearsal for what will come. Germany is practicing in Spain, perfecting the art of death.

I hear John Murphy is reporting from Spain.

Mama and my brothers remain in Prague. She has taken a house. Since Prague was Papa’s last destination, perhaps she feels closer to him there. She may move to London in the spring.

The orchestra is readying another round of holiday concerts, but all of us have an edge of uneasiness. So many of us with German-Jewish heritage. In Germany it grows worse each day. I remember what happened in Berlin. Now signs like I saw there are appearing in Vienna: Juden Verboten.

After the German airship Hindenberg crashes, we go to the cinema and see a newsreel about it. Leah is recognized as Jewish by the doorman at the cinema and refused entry! I almost slap him, and I do tell him to go back to Germany and stay there.

Leah and her Shimon save their money and wait for visas to British Palestine.

I tell them not to worry—that Austria is not Germany. Everything will still turn out all right. I don’t want them to go.

Shimon looks sad. He tells me Hitler is sending more and more Nazis into Austria, and he points to the JEWS FORBIDDEN sign across the street as proof. He says, with or without visas, they are going to Eretz-Israel. I think he means it.

I show Leah a copy of the Berliner Zeitung newspaper, the one with a picture of Hitler standing next to his friend, the Muslim Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. “Vows to banish Jews from Holy City forever,” the caption reads.

See? I demand. Why do you think it’s safer there?

Because it’s our homeland, Leah says.

I house Jewish children passing through Vienna on their way to France and then to Palestine. I see the forged papers they carry. For Leah and Shimon and me to be caught helping is to risk prison.

If not for John Murphy’s help on the train, I would be in prison already. Still, he is an American. It was no risk for him at all.

What will 1938 bring?

⁴ “Oh Shenandoah” or simply “Shenandoah,” a traditional American folk song of uncertain origin, dating at least to the early nineteenth century

LONDON BLITZ
SUMMER 1940

Our masquerade as three Hollywood stars on Oxford Street became an act suddenly in demand. As performers we were called on to “do our bit” for the morale of our adopted country, so Mariah, Raquel, and I performed our routine on the BBC. One day after, we were recruited to join an organization called Entertainments National Service Association, or ENSA for short. Our troupe was made up of professionals, as well as well-meaning amateurs, and was such a mixed bag that among the public the ENSA show was also known as “Every Night Something Awful”

We patriotically entertained as Hedy, Carmen, and Maureen impersonators for hospitals, home-front factories, and for the armed forces. We were first introduced to our fellow ENSA artistes in a dusty little theatre on Drury Lane. The manager was a wiry fellow named Nobby, who wore a brown-and-yellow plaid suit. He never removed his hat for anyone, and this was the only signal he was Jewish. It was rumored Nobby had once managed strippers in a Bronx burlesque theatre. We lined up on the stage and he paced before us, explaining that he alone had been charged with putting together entertainment troupes to keep the morale of England high. His was the grave and daunting responsibility to send us forth between broadcasts to lift the spirits of an entire nation. How was he to accomplish this? It would take a miracle, because many of England’s finest actors and performers had left for the States before the war and would not be returning.

“You’d think Hollywood could have picked an American actress to play Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Eh? You’d think they could, but no. The Hollywood big shots gotta raid England’s treasures. Vivien Leigh’s gotta learn to talk like a Southern belle! London burns, and the whole rage in the London cinema is watching Scarlett O’Hara flee as Atlanta burns. Okay, so we’ve got to make it good, ladies and gentlemen. You’re what’s left of British talent after the American raid on the West End.”

Nobby sighed, closing his eyes dramatically. When he opened them again, he was staring at Raquel. He appraised her in a this-is-strictly-business way. “So, girlie, great gams. Aside from impersonatin’ Carmen Miranda, and singin’ South American torch songs on the BBC, what’s your story? You’re the one from Spain? Right?”

From the end of the row, the famed classical concert guitarist Pablo Garcia leaned forward and gaped furiously at Nobby in disbelief at what he was hearing. “Sir, please! You are addressing the premiere flamenco dancer of Spain—Raquel Esperanza!”

Nobby was unimpressed. “Is that supposed to mean somethin’ to the ordinary chap in a munitions factory, I ask you? I gotta put a show together here!” Hands on his hips, he asked, “So. How’d you get here, Miss Esperanza? Lemme hear your story, because the common people will want to know.”

Raquel smiled at Nobby with her Mona Lisa smile. He was the only one in the room who did not know who she was.

Her reply was dignified and without emotion. “I was a professional flamenco dancer before the war in Spain. The German Fascists practiced for bombing London by first bombing Madrid. I lost my husband and my child. God sent to me three young girls—two Jewish sisters and a gypsy girl like me—orphaned on the same day my family was killed. We fled from the Fascists to Paris. There I danced in the opera Carmen. The Nazis conquered France. A million refugees on the roads. We managed to escape on a fishing vessel out of Calais. I have friends here in the opera in London. They remembered when I danced the Segurilla the night my family died. They helped me and my girls. I also have friends in American opera. I hope to go to New York and dance again at the Metropolitan Opera House. Carmen.”

Nobby nodded and rubbed his chin. “Lemme see what you’ve got.” He inclined his head toward the guitarist. “Can you give her a hand?”

Pablo unsheathed his guitar like a sword and began to play the ancient cante jondo, awakening the suffering soul of Raquel. As he played and sang, she became again the woman among the dead and dying of her homeland.

Raquel danced the dance of mourning. Our cast line, touched by the fierce breeze of her dance, stepped back and gave her room. Dust rose up from the dormant boards.

The tapping of her feet on stage transformed those mediocre planks into the bloody cobblestones of Madrid where her husband and child lay dead.

When at last the guitar fell silent, we were silent too. Then all of us who understood the meaning of Raquel’s dance began to cheer and applaud.

Nobby stood with his head bowed and his arms crossed. At last he raised his eyes and declared, “Well, that was bloody depressing. None of that. None of that in this troupe, girlie. You’ll stick to the Carmen Miranda material or we can’t use you to tour, see? We’re meant to lift up the spirits…you get it?”

Pablo looked as if he might strangle Nobby. Raquel simply smiled sadly, bowed slightly, and resumed her place in the lineup.

Each of us was made to audition. Top billing went to a young girl with a big voice. Miss Julie Andrews sang the most popular tunes of the day, such as “You Are My Sunshine.”

We put together a show that opened with a medley of American tunes. Nobby bashed away at the honky-tonk piano. A trumpeter belted out old familiar vaudeville tunes. Our performances made a great noise in factory lunchrooms as hundreds of knives and forks clattered. Nobby’s experience as the manager of a burlesque house paid off as our performances both entertained and lifted morale. I continued to be introduced onstage as a blond Hedy Lamarr. I waited stage right with my violin as Nobby and Pablo performed a comedy routine:

I came out onstage to thunderous applause and laughter. Mariah sang Gershwin tunes, I played my violin, and Raquel tap-danced.

The highest compliment we could receive was when Nobby declared, “Well, girlies, you wowed ’em again!”

Late one afternoon I emerged from an air raid shelter and hurried toward our shabby boardinghouse as the fire brigade clanged past. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly realized that once again I was homeless. Incendiary bombs had hailed down fire and brimstone on our street. Flames leapt from every window of our dwelling. Our landlady stood weeping on the sidewalk.

“Awl-right? Awl-right! Me precious lovely ’ouse is up in flames an’ m’lady wants t’ know if I’m…what?”

“Anyone? Anyone injured! No person, if that’s what y’ means. But me little cat…aye! Me little sweet kitty! Ohhhhh! Poor Tabby! Look! Look! I’d give me ’ouse an’ gladly for the sake of me little Tabby!” She wept profuse and sincere tears. I knew she meant what she said about trading the house for the cat. But I knew that nothing could survive in such a fierce blaze.

“I’m so very sorry.” I patted her shoulder. “It is good no one—no human, I mean—was killed.”

“Me Tabby! Poor, poor little dear. I found ’er abandoned in the rubbish heap an’ nursed her from a tiny kitten. She was like a child. Like a child!”

The frantic search for undamaged water mains was useless. At last the officials simply turned and began to warn the spectators to stand back before the walls collapsed. My landlady wailed on in grief for her cat.

I did not mention that I was once again without clothes to wear. Even the loss of Raquel’s red dress was nothing compared to the death of the tabby.

On the opposite side of the perimeter, I recognized Murphy standing near a policeman. I waved, hoping he would see I was uninjured.

In his arms he cradled something small and orange. I yelled, “Murphy, hold onto that cat!”

He raised his head at the same moment the landlady shrieked like some sort of horrible banshee and waved her arms. “Me Tabby! He’s got me Tabby. Oh Lord! Lord have mercy! Bless my soul, she’s alive. Alive!”

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shouted, “Meet us round the corner! Bring the cat! At the White Hart Pub!”

Someone relayed the message to him, and he set out down a side street, while I clasped the arm of our blubbering proprietress and we hurried away from the collapsing building.

We rounded the corner at the same moment as Murphy spotted us a block away. The cat was snuggled safely in his arms as he approached the White Hart.

“Lord love you! LORD! Love you! You’ve saved me darlin’ girl!” cried the woman, breaking free and running toward him. She smothered the cat in kisses and wrested her from Murphy’s arms. “I raised her from a kitten, I did. Found her in the rubbish heap and nursed her meself…now look! Not even the Nazis can kill her. It’s true indeed what they say about a cat and nine lives and all that.”

“She was out wandering about when I walked up. I scooped her into my arms, and she began to purr.”

“No one killed,” I repeated. “But I’m left with the clothes on my back, I’m afraid. Mariah’s blue dress and nothing more. We’ve lost the umbrella too.”

“Thanks. But…Raquel’s red dress.” I mourned slightly. “I won’t be able to borrow anything from anyone anymore.”

“And where shall we sleep tonight? Back at St. Mark’s? Loralei’s office?”

“I wish I could have got the red frock out of the other place before it burned down.”

“If ever a building needed renovating, that was it. Come on. I’ve already got us checked in to the new hotel.” He dangled a key.

He eyed me from under the brim of his fedora. “How would you like your own bathtub?”

That evening in the posh Savoy River Room I danced the conga in Mariah’s plain navy day dress. In the powder room, I explained to a wealthy American woman in furs that I had twice lost my wardrobe to bombings. I could see the awe and admiration in her eyes.

When the siren sounded, Murphy and I tramped down among the rich and famous to the reinforced steel and concrete bomb shelter. Hours passed. The hotel orchestra improvised jazz numbers as the barrage raged above the Thames.

The all-clear sounded, and we made our way back upstairs. Miraculously, the Savoy was undamaged, though buildings all around were stricken.

It was after midnight. The elevator was out of service, so we set our faces to the long journey up six flights to our room.

Murphy, in a move he had practiced with the landlady’s cat, scooped me up and carried me over the threshold and laid me gently on the bed.

“Just what I hoped to hear.” He kissed me, turned out the lights, and opened the blackout curtains. The golden glow from enormous fires on the river flickered against the wall like soft, romantic firelight. Murphy turned on the radio and searched for mellow music while I undressed.

“I told you.” He turned down the sheets. “See…I love you even with no clothes at all.”

We made love fiercely, then lay back exhausted and content after the most horrific day. How could it be, I wondered, as I heard Judy Garland’s voice from the radio?

Deliver me from my enemies, O my God; protect me from those who rise up against me; deliver me from those who work evil, and save me from bloodthirsty men.
PSALM 59:1–2 ESV

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

DECEMBER 21, 1937

How things have changed in Austria in only a year. Disguised Nazis stream over the border at the same steady rate as Jews fleeing from Hitler in Germany and refugees from the Spanish Civil War. There are protests about Jewish musicians from Nazi sympathizers in the Austrian government. I pray that what happened in Germany will not happen in Vienna, yet I am beginning to feel it is inevitable.

I am so proud of Rudy Dorbransky. He is our concertmaster, the leading musician of our orchestra. Tonight he proves his leadership.

We are all onstage, waiting for the performance to commence. Just after Rudy steps out of the wings some madman in the upper gallery shouts, “No Jews on our stage! Heil Hitler!” and “Germany for Germans!”

Then he shoots at Rudy!

The bullet strikes the stage and more shots follow. Through the fusillade Rudy protects the Guarnerius.

Rudy is not hurt, but someone calls for a doctor. Someone has been wounded.

A dozen men beat and wrestle the shooter to the ground. He is hauled away shouting, “Germany and Austria are one! Death to the Jews!”

“A crazy man,” I say.

Leah is crying and hugging Rudy. She says to me, “If Hitler comes, he’ll have forty thousand crazy men just like that one with him.”

Rudy raises his violin and the auditorium falls silent. “Herr Wertheim is wounded. A flesh wound only. He will recover.”

Applause from the concertgoers.

Rudy continues, “The criminal is behind bars. We pray he will never recover.”

Much clapping and tears of joy.

Rudy flourishes the violin. “Our instruments are undamaged. Let the concert continue. It is the Biedermeier thing to do.”

Biedermeier: simple and graceful. In Vienna, it means we are family and we pull together.

Wild applause and cheering.

We play as never before and receive six curtain calls and a continuous roll of applause. Austrian spirit as displayed by Rudy will never fall to Nazi oppression.

Leah is wrong.

John Murphy is wrong.

He is in the audience and sees it all.

He meets Leah and me at the stage door after the concert. He offers to buy us coffee at the Hotel Sacher. He says he has bought tickets for every performance until the sixth of January.

I remember last year when I sent him away, telling him the concerts were all sold out.

Leah, pleading the excuse that Shimon is home ill, deserts me.

I ask Mr. Murphy if he is a music lover.

He asks about my father and my mother and tells me again I should not still be in Vienna. He says what happens tonight proves it.

Then he grows very forward. “I feel responsible for you,” he says. “Like I need to look after you.”

This after I haven’t seen him for a year!

When he teases me about how we met on the train, I slap his face. When he apologizes and says, “Good night,” I correct him and say, “Good-bye.” Then, with great dignity, I depart and leave him frozen there on the sidewalk.

But secretly, I wish he would follow me….

7

LONDON BLITZ SUMMER 1940

LONDON BLITZ SUMMER 1940

LONDON BLITZ
SUMMER 1940

LONDON BLITZ
SUMMER 1940