Against the Wind (6 page)

Someone snapped a photo of the three of us and, though fuzzy and a bit indistinct, the faces of Maureen, Carmen, and Hedy made the entertainment page of the
Times.
The caption read: “Delicious even without the tutti-frutti hat!”

I do believe we humble BBC performers did a lot that day to promote the UK careers of those three beautiful film stars. The children whom we visited in the hospital did not care what our true names might be. They just enjoyed the show.

The
Times
also reported that several children born in London that week were christened with our adopted names. These unsuspecting newborns included a boy burdened with “Hedley” and one set of triplets.

Teach me Your way, O L
ORD
, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies. Give me not up to the will of my adversaries…. I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the L
ORD
in the land of the living!
P
SALM
27:11–13
ESV

LONDON, ENGLAND

CORONATION OF KING GEORGE VI

MAY 18, 1937

England is the land of the living. Churchill says the English are still free and unafraid of the Nazis. He challenges the government to stand up to Herr Hitler.

I travel from Vienna with Leah and the Viennese Chamber Orchestra to perform at the garden party at Buckingham Palace for the coronation of King George VI. Last December in Berlin, Lori and Loralei and I were swept up with the romance when King Edward gave up his throne to marry a commoner. I find I am no longer so impressed by the love story as the world becomes more violent and uncertain. Now my heart is moved by the duty and courage of George, the brother next in line to wear the English crown his brother scorned.

Among the international press corps at the coronation festivities I see John Murphy again, but only briefly. He tells me he has been in Spain and seen with his own eyes the strafing of women and children by German fighter planes. He takes my hands in his and searches my face tenderly. I feel a stirring for this ruggedly handsome American. He asks about Papa, and when I tell him there is no news about my father, he says I would be smart to stay in London and never go back to Vienna.

Leah and I also perform Bach with the string quartet on the BBC, and the broadcast director asks if I might like to return to London and join their orchestra. I answer that so many musicians are leaving the continent that I may be one of the few left in Vienna. I had seen him speak to John Murphy and suspect Murphy has put him up to inviting me.

Leah takes me to a private meeting of Christian Zionists and the Jewish Agency as they discuss how best to get Jewish children out of the path of danger. And not Jews only, but gypsies, who are the new target.

Eben Golah, dear friend of my father, is among those at the meeting, and remembers me from Christmas at our home in Berlin. He tells me he continues to make inquiries about my father. He says he prays for all my family as they stand firm against the Reich, but he also says I must consider moving to London. Leah speaks to him about Shimon and herself and their hope to get visas to British Palestine. Eben promises he will do what he can. He asks me to consider escorting Jewish refugee children out of harm’s way. I tell him I will do what I can.

The great surprise for me is meeting Mama for tea at the Savoy. She has come all the way from Prague for the coronation festivities and to hear me play. She says that she feels strongly she will come to England soon unless there is word about Papa. I am saddened by this. I ask, can we not stand our ground against the Nazis?

Mama says they are stealing the ground inch by inch from under all that is holy, and that we must not be fools and remain where there is danger.

That night I tell Leah I feel I have been running away my whole life. I will return to Vienna and play out the season while we pray the Nazis will honor Austrian sovereignty.

7

LONDON BLITZ
SUMMER 1940

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.

S
HELTER
T
HIS
W
AY
. 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.

“I feel so safe here,” I remarked to Murphy.

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.

In my mind I called John, James, Peter, and Tomas “The Four Apostles.”

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.

In the moment of Connor’s cheerful candor, a lasting friendship was welded.

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 warden remained on the top step in case some frantic latecomer arrived.

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

I held Murphy’s hand.

“That was close,” he said hoarsely.

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.

I hung back in the shadows and prayed as the explosions came nearer.