Chapter Eleven
Evangelist Of The Führer
Part of this chapter is not for those of you who enjoy a sanitised view of the past.
The Irish Chauffeur
Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, England, March 1937.
Having learned recently, from something Mr. Barrow had inadvertently let slip, that the family was likely to be away from the house at the end of the summer, with the domestic staff pared to the bone, this looking to be a good time to put their plan into action, Billy had arranged to meet Arkwright and Sugden to discuss their next move. Knowing the area, Arkwright had suggested Abbot's Barn as a rendezvous. Had Billy but known it, which he didn't, and even if he had, not being interested in history, it would have been of no concern to him, Abbot's Barn was one of the few remaining buildings in the area that, in part, gave the reason for the existence of Downton Abbey since part of the estate had come from the former monastic holdings of White Abbey suppressed at the Dissolution of the Monasteries during the reign of Henry VIII.
Despite Arkwright's instructions, out here all these damned lanes looked the same. And there were no ruddy signposts neither! Yet, the blasted barn must be somewhere near here. Then, down below him, in the dell, Billy saw the farm where, from one of the chimneys, a thin spiral of smoke drifted up into the still March air. He'd ask there. Leaning his borrowed bicycle against the stone wall, Billy pushed open the dilapidated wooden gate and made his way down the muddy track.
Edith's Writing Room, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, March 1937.
Even though it was the beginning of March, late this afternoon, as the sun had begun its inexorable decline, with it had come a distinct chill in the air. However, with Kurt at last fast asleep in bed, after dinner, which Edith had taken upstairs on a tray in the little boy's bedroom, seated in her Writing Room, as the dark drew down, with the porcelain tiled stove lit, Edith was both snug and warm.
Now, on hearing the sound of claws clicking noisily on the parquet floor, in the lamplit room Edith looked up from her writing desk where she had been finishing a letter to Friedrich, enclosing with it the postcard that had come for Max from Shanghai, to see that Fritz had somehow managed to make his way upstairs from the kitchen and nose his way in here. No doubt he had come, yet again, in search of Max, as he had done several times already. While, of course, there had never been the slightest chance of Max taking the little dog with him out to Palestine - for one thing Fritz was getting old - it was clear that the irascible little dachshund was missing his young master dreadfully. And while in the past few days both Edith and dear little Kurt made a great fuss of Frittie, it was obviously Max whom he wanted. With his head cocked to one side, Fritz looked enquiringly up at Edith. She smiled and shook her head.
"He isn't here, Fritz. He'll be back again in a few weeks". Edith reached down and patted the dog's grizzled head. Had she been prone to fanciful imaginings, Edith could, by his doleful expression, half believe that the little dachshund had understood exactly what she had just said.
Matthew and Mary's bedroom, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, March 1937.
From what she had heard tell of him, Mary Crawley, countess of Grantham, had been prepared to dislike Herr Joachim von Ribbentrop on sight. That this proved to be so gave her no cause for satisfaction because, in a very short space of time, in fact no more than one of Matthew's famous week-ends - she had come to hate him too. Considered him to be totally unsuitable for the position he held as German Ambassador to the Court of St. James and not just because he was a Nazi. After a mere two days spent in his company, now having seen Herr Ribbentrop at close quarters, she thought him to be a bastard as well. And, here in the privacy of her and Matthew's bedroom, she gave vent to her opinions, telling her husband exactly how she felt, in language which Matthew had never known she knew, let alone used. Indeed, dearest Tom would have been very hard pressed to match Mary's use of profanities.
"... the drunken sod! He's a downright, bloody bastard!" fumed Mary, seated at her dressing table, watching Matthew's reflection in the ornately framed mirror as he moved about their bedroom in his pyjamas. She slammed down her hairbrush. Since Matthew had instituted his regime of making economies with the household staff, after Anna had left service, with no Lady's Maid being appointed to replace her, Mary was left with no alternative but to brush her own hair. When she had raised the matter with Matthew, he had been decidedly unsympathetic.
Darling, I brush my own hair.
Matthew, that's hardly the point.
"Yes, I suppose he is".
"You damn' well suppose correctly!" Mary now reached angrily for the pot of rose scented, Ponds' cold cream, opened it, and began dabbing the preparation onto her face. In her annoyance she managed to put on rather more of the cream than she had intended. Catching sight of her reflection, Matthew chuckled; said she looked like a Red Indian on the warpath.
"Well, then, you'd best not bloody well annoy me!" Mary exclaimed, now brandishing her hairbrush about as if it was a tomahawk.
The bedroom Matthew and Mary occupied had once been that used by her parents. Built originally in 1789, the year of the French Revolution, Matthew doubted it had ever heard such language as it had heard tonight.
As Mary continued to give free rein to her views on the German ambassador, Matthew crossed the bedroom and came to stand behind his wife, resting his hands gently on her shoulders; now watched, evidently amused, as indeed he was, as Mary continued with what Matthew referred to as her nightly refurbishment routine.
Not that Mary found it amusing; had said previously that the phrase made her sound like one of the derelict cottages down by the mill which were beyond economic repair, and that Matthew proposed having demolished. That being the case, just what plans did he have for her? At the time, Matthew had been on the point of making a quip about trading her in - a phrase he had heard used both by Tom and in motoring circles - for a newer model, but wisely thought better of it. What was worse, was yesterday, and not for the first time, Mary had found a grey hair. While there were preparations with which to colour one's hair, indeed to change its colour completely until the natural colour grew out enough to show, in Mary's view, they were the prerogative of loose women.
Later, when they were in bed, lying facing each other, Matthew smiled.
"Now," he said, "tell me again, from the beginning ..."
Bay of Biscay, off the North Coast of Spain, late February 1937.
Then, when hope was all but gone, a boat appeared, ghost like out of the shrouding fog, those on board making their presence known, by calling out in English for any survivors of the sinking to make their whereabouts known. Clinging desperately to the piece of wreckage, Danny and his pals started hollering for all their worth, while Pim made good use of the whistle hanging around his neck, blowing on it repeatedly until, at last, the boat drew alongside them in the rising swell, and began the slow process of helping the survivors into it. First to be lifted on board was the injured stoker who was placed on a stretcher, then Liam, Develin, and Pim. And last of all, Danny. But, of Jimmy, there was, sadly, still no sign.
Along with Liam, Develin, and Pim, all of them now seated in the lifeboat, swathed in blankets, their teeth chattering, having been given several tots of rum, Danny stammered out his thanks.
"Think nothing of it mate. Glad to be of help!" The sailor, one of several on board, and by his accent a Cockney, smiled. It was only now that Danny took in the uniform the man was wearing, along with his cap - white, encircled by a black band emblazoned in gilt letters with the words, HMS Hood.
Whereupon, for Danny, if not for the other three, recognition now dawned.
"Jaysus!" he mumbled. "Rescued by the feckin' Royal Navy! Da will never believe it!"
Haifa, British Mandated Palestine, March 1937.
Following a short trip across the bay in the tender as far as the port, a little while later Friedrich and the two boys were to be found standing together, out in the winter sunshine, on a broad, stone built quay, part of the first new harbour to be constructed here in Palestine since Herod the Great had founded Caesarea over 1900 years earlier. But a short distance away was the new railway station, from where they would set out tomorrow for the dig at Samaria.
And here on the quay to meet them, beaming broadly, was Otto Schmitt, Friedrich's old friend from the days of the Great War, and to whom both Max and Robert were now introduced with further smiles and handshakes all round. Then, with their luggage safely stowed, it was but a short ride in a motor to the German Colony and the Schmitt family home, which turned out to be a far cry from either the magnificence of Downton Abbey or the splendour of Rosenberg. A modest two storey house built of white limestone with green wooden shutters, set beneath a roof of red tiles, nestling between the sea and the slopes of Mount Carmel. Like the neighbouring dwellings, the house was separated from the street on which it stood by a low wall and was surrounded by date palms, olive trees and, conifer green, pencil shaped cypresses.
Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire, England, March 1937.
"So, now you know," said Armitage. On the whole, he was rather pleased with himself, with the tale he had spun her; made a great deal easier by the fact that Daisy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. He lounged back in his chair, blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air, and gave her a long, hard, appraising look. If needs be, like the reporter, she too could meet a similar fate.
"When I wrote and told you, 'bout the baby, you never even ...
Armitage was swift, almost glib, in his answer
"I never got it, see. Sometimes it 'appens. Letters ... go missin'. Otherwise, I'd 've written you. Now, come 'ere, Daisy girl, and give us a kiss!"
But that never happened; for, at that precise moment, there came a knock at the front door.
Inside the house, Armitage and Daisy exchanged glances.
"You expectin' anyone?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"Do me a favour! No, course I ain't," Daisy answered in a hushed whisper.
"Go and see who it is. I'll wait out back. And, for Christ sake, don't let 'em in! Not unless you have to".
German Colony, Haifa, British Mandated Palestine, March 1937.
Just as they had done on the Conte Biancamano, where they had shared a cabin, here in the Schmitt's house, Robert and Max found they were to share a bedroom.
"I hope you don't mind," said Alaric in German, as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Alaric was Herr Schmitt's son, who at nineteen was slightly older than Danny. With dark hair and blue eyes, there was a faint resemblance to the boys' Irish cousin, but that was all. Alaric had two younger sisters, Hannah and Gisela aged sixteen and thirteen respectively but, for the present, the two girls were away, visiting an aunt and uncle in the German Colony in Jerusalem.
"No, of course not," replied Max, explaining to Robert in English what had been said; Alaric's command of the language was not as good as that of his father.
"Here's your room. The bathroom's down there, at the end".
Alaric opened the door, crossed the darkened bedroom, and opened wide the shutters. Looking out of the window, the boys found that their bedroom was at the rear of the house, overlooking both the courtyard and garden, beyond which were several outbuildings, together with orchards, and a field in which cattle could be seen grazing.
"Are those really beehives down there by the wall?" Robert asked.
Max duly translated.
"Yes. The cows in the field belong to us too. As my father never tires of saying, this really is the Land of Milk and Honey. Right, I'll leave you to unpack. See you downstairs in about half an hour". Max nodded; again told Robert what Alaric had said.
A short while later, the two boys made their way back downstairs.
Sitting out in the palm shaded, paved courtyard at the rear of the house, Herr Schmitt explained that the German Colony had been founded towards the end of the last century by the Templers, a Protestant sect from southern Germany which had also founded similar communities elsewhere in Palestine, including in Jerusalem.
"And not to be confused with the Knights Templars. But enough of history!" Herr Schmitt grinned. "Now, before luncheon, your father and I have things to discuss. So, that being the case, I've asked Alaric to show you two around. He suggested you might like to climb Mount Carmel. The views from up there are quite magnificent".
Before the three of them left the house, Otto asked Alaric to come into his study, and then closed the door firmly behind them so that they were private.
"Alaric, please remember, that young Max is a haemophiliac; that he has to take the very greatest care of himself, in order to see that he doesn't either slip or fall. For him, any knock or blow could prove fatal. And, if he should need to stop and rest, whether on the ascent or coming down the mount, then let him do so. Is that understood?".
"Of course, sir".
Otto nodded.
"Very well then. We'll wait luncheon until your return. While I have every confidence in you to do what is required in this, be left in no doubt it would grieve me greatly, were I to learn that my confidence in you was at all misplaced".
"So, how are things?" Friedrich asked when Otto returned.
Otto shook his head; his face was grave.
"I'm very much afraid that here, as in Europe, they are going from bad to worse".
"Oh? Surely not?"
"Friedrich, we've known each other for years. Would I ever lie to you?"
"No. But not for a moment did I imagine that ... otherwise I would never have brought Max and his cousin out here".
"Of course you wouldn't".
"So, what's happened?"
"Here in Haifa, in January, an attempt was made on the life of the Mayor ..."
"Hassan Bey Shukri? But he was so conciliatory, so forward looking, wanting the Arabs and the Jews to live together in harmony ... or at least something approaching that". Friedrich smiled.
"Just so. And which is why, last year, Arab militants tried to blow him to pieces by planting explosives at his home. Then in January, another Arab took a shot at Shukri as he was walking into City Hall. But while both attempts on his life failed, understandably, Shukri was very badly shaken, especially by the second incident. Apparently, he's taken refuge in Beirut. Then just last month, again here in Haifa, an Arab police constable was shot dead; murdered by his own kind. There have been several attacks on individual Jews too, including a particularly brutal couple of murders committed in Beisan. Of course, you'll know it better as the site of Scythopolis and for its Roman remains. One of the two victims there was the local doctor".
"Good God!"
"Quite. But these thugs don't discriminate. Then there have been thefts of Jewish livestock. And so it goes on and on. Most of the victims Jewish but, as I said a moment ago, some of them Arab. Almost tit for tat. And my dear friend, it's not only that ..."
Otto now went on to explain that, since 1933 and the coming to power of the Nazis in Germany, things were now no longer what they had once been in the German Colony either. That even way out here, on the far eastern fringes of the Mediterranean Sea, the handful of Templer communities had become infected with the evils of Nazism. It was like a disease: it spread. Here in Palestine, this had been principally on account of the fact that many of the younger members had been in Germany for their schooling. Indeed, many still were; including Otto's own son, Alaric, not long since returned from Leipzig where he had been at university. While the older generation could see through Hitler and his Nazis, saw them for what they truly were, the youngsters who had been in Germany came back all starry eyed with the wonders of National Socialism. A branch of the Nazi Party had even been established here in Haifa by one of Otto's fellow Templers, Herr Ruff, and in Jerusalem, Herr Buchhalter a teacher at one of the Temper schools, was now the local party chief; had seen to it that the British Boy Scouts and Girl Guides in the German Colony there had been replaced by the Hitler Youth and League of German Maidens.
"Those among us here who have joined the Party now greet fellow members in the streets with "Heil Hitler" and the Nazi salute. Even Alaric and his friends ... That last time, he came back from the Fatherland like some proselytizing Evangelist; brought with him, too, in his luggage, a copy of the Führer's book ..."
"Mein Kampf?"
"Just so?"
"Have you read it?"
"Some. I found it turgid. Very heavy going. Like over baked strudel. The man is clearly insane".
"I don't doubt it for a moment. Nonetheless, insane or not, he is now the undisputed leader of a country of some 65 million people. The same country that gave us the likes of Schiller, Goethe, Nietzsche ... What is written in there, about the Jews, is pure poison".
Otto shook his head in disbelief.
"And what makes it so much worse for us, is that in Haifa we have - we had - excellent relations with the Jewish community. In Jerusalem, I know Buchhalter has done his level best to pressure our people into boycotting Jewish businesses. Understandably, the Jews there have done the same! And I can't say as I blame them. By the by, I understand that Buchhalter likes to drive himself about Jerusalem, with swastika pennants flying on his motor. I've also heard tell that on one occasion he forgot to to remove them while driving through a Jewish area, only to have his car shot at and stoned!"
Otto permitted himself the briefest of smiles, before asking if Friedrich would like another glass of wine.
"It's from our own vinery, in Sarona. And then, while you are drinking it, you may tell me all about Edith and your new little boy".
Friedrich glanced at the label on the bottle and nodded.
"It's excellent. Thank you. Yes, I think I will. Of course. I ..." He paused. Glanced up, towards the slopes of Mount Carmel.
"What is it, old friend?"
"I find myself wondering ... how your lad and the boys are faring".
Mount Carmel, Haifa, about the same time.
Here in Palestine, the weather was both dry and sunny, and, at least to begin with, pleasantly warm. Having left the house, with Alaric leading the way, Robert and Max dutifully fell in behind the young man, the three of them making their way companionably together along the wide, tree fringed, paved street which led upwards between two rows of all but identical houses, each surrounded by a garden, and with a text in German carved in stone over the front door.
In what seemed no time at all, the street came to an abrupt end, at the very foot of Mount Carmel, where, almost immediately, another road now began, zigzagging its way up the steep side of the mount, leading to the Stella Maris Monastery, which lay about a mile and a half distant. Standing some five hundred feet above the sea, the bell tower and ochre coloured buildings, topped by a clerestoried, tiled dome, were readily visible from afar.
As they began climbing up the mount, Alaric pointed out both vines and olive groves covering the terraced, lower slopes of the rocky hillside; said that there were caves here too, some of them as yet unexplored. They climbed on, turning at times to take in the splendid view. Far below them, there could be glimpsed the red roofed houses of the German Colony, along with the old town of Haifa which, from this distance, looked to be no more than a ragged huddle of white, flat roofed buildings, dotted with palm trees, and beyond it, the port. While out in the bay, all the British warships still rode at anchor, two of the merchant vessels which Robert and Max had seen earlier had now come inshore and were moored alongside the quay, each in the process of discharging their cargoes.
Out beyond the breakwater, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkled in the sunshine, while northwards, across the bay, what Alaric said were the white walls and minarets of Acre rose, mirage like, seemingly from straight out of the sea. Yet further on, all but lost in the heat haze, the coast came to an abrupt end at a high white cliff which Alaric told them was known as "The Ladder of Tyre." And now, putting smartly out to sea, they spied the Conte Biancamano, her two maroon topped funnels belching black smoke, as the beautiful, white hulled liner, steamed briskly away from Haifa, southwards, bound for Egypt and Alexandria. For a moment, Max thought fleetingly of Elena.
Ere long, both vines and olive groves gave way to scrub, awash with the competing scents of arbutus, camelthorn, marjoram, odoriferous thyme, and sage, and thereafter to tall trees, mainly of laurel, oak, and pine, which crowded in on both sides of the road. Given that it was now quite hot, despite their tropical whites, Robert and Max were very grateful for the shade afforded them by the press of the trees. Eventually, in brilliant sunshine, they came out onto a broad, dusty spit of land, in the centre of which on a stepped base stood a slender column, atop which was a figure of the Virgin Mary and Child. Beyond this was the monastery, shut off from the forecourt by a pair of wrought iron gates, while over on the very tip of the headland was what Alaric told the boys was the Stella Maris Light or lighthouse.
Seated on the low wall outside the wrought iron gates were two young men, both dressed identically in a uniform of brown shirts, black shorts, knee length socks, and leather boots, at the sight of which, Max's heart skipped a beat. Here? Surely not? On seeing Alaric the two stood up immediately and walked over to meet him. When they were yet still a few paces off, both came smartly to attention, and gave what Max, if not Robert, knew to be the Nazi salute.
"Heil Hitler!"
Alaric returned both the salute and their greeting.
"Heil Hitler!"
In answer to a question from one of the two, as to who Robert and Max were, Alaric explained that they were the son and nephew of a friend of his father, made mention of der Englander - which Robert, even without a single word of German, supposed referred to himself, as indeed it did. Both men, whom Alaric introduced as Eric Hofmann and Karl Wernher had come down from Jerusalem, quite why wasn't explained, but, on finding out that Max was Austrian, the two were most interested to learn of how things stood there; were clearly disappointed when Max said he knew nothing at all of politics. Said that he should become better informed, since everyone had their part to play in the New Order of things, and that it was only a matter of time before Austria and Germany became one country under the glorious leadership of the Führer. Wisely, Max sought to equivocate.
"I don't know anything about those sort of things".
Wernher was disbelieving.
"I think you do. In fact, I think you know a very great deal more than you're letting on," he said scornfully.
Max shrugged.
Now, there the matter might have rested, had it not been for the fact that it was at this point that an old Jew turned up at the gates of the monastery, seeking admittance. That he was Jewish was obvious, if not to Robert then most certainly to Max, this from the man's clothing. After all, had seen many like him on the streets of Vienna. Not a moment later, and Hofmann and Wernher began loudly to berate the old man, cursing him as being Untermensch - subhuman.
Not that Robert understood a word of what was being said. All the same, it was obvious that the two young men were extremely angry with the old man. Quite why he couldn't understand. Robert looked at Max, seeking enlightenment, but his cousin merely shook his head; hastily put his left forefinger to his lips.
If he had understood what was being said about him behind his back - indeed he could not have failed to have heard it - wisely, the old Jew gave no sign of having done so, for neither did he turn round, nor did he in any way deign to acknowledge the presence of his belittlers. Needless to say, this did not suit either Hofmann or Wernher, but, fortunately, before things went any further awry, a monk from within the monastery appeared at the gates and hurriedly granted the old man admission to the precinct, before closing and locking the gates behind the two of them.
It would, of course, have been better for everyone if Max had said nothing. However, he was, after all, a Schönborn, and with his family's motto being Veritas ante omnia - Truth above all - it was perhaps inevitable that he would speak out, whatever it might cost him.
"That's not true," Max said quietly.
"What isn't?"
"What you just said".
"About what?"
"That old man".
For his part, Robert was feeling more and more uneasy by the minute at the turn the conversation had taken. While he didn't understand a word of what was being said, he could tell instinctively, both by the facial expressions and the tone of the others' voices, that things were growing increasingly heated. What was supposed to have been a pleasant stroll up here to the monastery before luncheon was fast turning into something else entirely.
"Just what the fuck do you know?" Alaric scoffed. "The Jews are scum. Vermin. Like the rats down there in the harbour".
With memories of what he had seen in Leopoldstadt, of the ugly incident that had happened in the square at St. Johann, well aware that members of the Jüdische Selbstwehr had helped save his father's life, let alone knowing his parents' views on what was happening to the Jews in Germany, Max stood his ground. Not that at fourteen he had ever given the matter much thought, if indeed any at all, but like both Danny and Rob, Max was a lover not a fighter. All the same, warily, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on Alaric's face.
"No," he said, even more determinedly. "That isn't true. They're people. Just like you and me".
"Eh? What's that?" Hofmann shook his head, disbelieving what he was now hearing.
"I said Jews are just like other people," replied Max, enunciating his spoken words carefully, and turning his gaze upon Hofmann.
"Christ, all bloody mighty!"
"You saying we're like the fucking Jews?" Colour scorched across Wernher's face.
"No, I didn't say ..."
"You a Jew lover, boy?" The expression on Hofmann's face was such that, instinctively, Max took a step backwards. He had heard the word Judenliebhaber once before, in the Marktplatz in St. Johann, when the motor in which he had been riding, along with Danny and Rob, had been attacked by a mob of youths from the village. Sensing, wrongly, that Max was about to run, Wernher grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, jerking Max roughly toward him.
"We've got a pretty Jew boy here! It's about time you learned some fucking respect!" Wernher raised his clenched fist, intending in an instant to smash it hard into Max's face.
Instinctively, Max flinched, closing his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
But the blow never came.
And not because, in a flash, yelling at Wernher in English to leave Max alone, Robert had thrown himself between his cousin and his attacker.
But because, of all those here present, Alaric blocked the punch.
"Nicht! Er ist ein Hämophilie!"
"So bloody what?" yelled Wernher. "I'll fucking kill him! You see if I don't!"
"I said, no!" Alaric continued to hold his friend back before, unwisely, releasing his hold; whereupon, baulked of his prey, Wernher spat full in Max's face, gave him a parting shove, which, but for Robert's quick thinking, would have sent his cousin sprawling headlong on the flagstones.
A moment later, not even deigning to acknowledge the presence of the two other boys, Hofmann and Wernher took their leave of Alaric and disappeared off down the mount, fortunately by a different track to the one by which the others had made their ascent.
Shocked and appalled by what had happened, having wiped Wernher's spittle from off his face, Max did his best to compose himself; after which, having assured Robert that he was unhurt, now, and in abject silence, Alaric leading the way, all three of them made their way down the stony track from the monastery. It was only when, at length, they reached the beginning of the street on which the Schmitts lived, that Alaric condescended, once again, to admit the existence of both Robert and Max. For suddenly, he stopped and turned round. Ignoring Robert entirely, and speaking rapidly in German, he addressed his words solely to Max.
"So I suppose now we're back, you'll go running to your papa, like some snotty nosed kid, telling him all about what happened back up there". Alaric jabbed a thumb towards Mount Carmel. "A Jew lover, that's what you are. That, and a fucking snitch!" His lip curled.
Surrounded, as he was at home, by so much love, Max had never felt more miserable. No-one had ever spoken to him like this before. He shook his head.
"I'm no Jew lover," he said, trying desperately not to give way to tears, and to keep his voice level.
"I think you are".
"I'm not!"
"What are you then?"
"I don't know, but not that. I'm not a Jew-hater either. And, for what it's worth, I'm no sneak!"
Alaric was not convinced.
"We'll see," he said curtly, before once more turning his back. Then, with his arms swinging, as if he was on parade, Alaric marched off sullenly down the road towards the distant house.
Again, Robert and Max exchanged glances. The excursion that had started out so promisingly had ended in disaster.
German Colony, Haifa, a short while later.
Shortly after their return to the house, they all sat down to a splendid luncheon, prepared for them by Frau Schmitt. Then, with the meal over, Alaric took himself down into the old town. If, at the time, his parents suspected anything was at all amiss they said nothing, other than to remark that these days he was always off, seeing somebody or other. Nor, by tacit agreement, reached upstairs in the privacy of their shared bedroom, did Robert or Max suggest that anything untoward had occurred; said, when asked, that it had been very hot and that the views from Mount Carmel were indeed very impressive.
The sunny afternoon wore away into evening.
Night fell.
Alaric did not return for supper, having telephoned the house to tell his parents that he had been asked to stay the night at a friend's house in town; would return late the following morning. Otto and his wife Clotilda apologised profusely for Alaric's absence, but Friedrich said there was no need; none whatsoever. All the same, he did not fail to notice that, after their return from Mount Carmel, both Robert and Max seemed unusually quiet.
An hour or so after supper was over, with a long journey beckoning on the morrow, Friedrich said it was high time the boys went up to bed. So, having thanked Frau Schmitt for an excellent meal, Robert and Max said goodnight. Out in the lamplit hall, scarcely had the two boys set foot on the staircase, than Friedrich hailed them; said he wanted a quick word with Max.
"See you upstairs in a jiffy, old chap. Goodnight, Uncle Friedrich".
"Goodnight, Robert".
"What is it, Papa?" Max stood looking down at his father.
"Is anything the matter? I thought both of you seemed rather quiet. As for you my boy, you're not feeling unwell, are you?" Please God, thought Friedrich, let it not be that.
Max shook his head.
"No, Papa. Of course not. You know me".
"Indeed I do, which is why I asked. I hope you didn't ... overdo things, earlier today, walking up there to that monastery and then back down again; especially after tripping the light fantastic last night!"
Max grinned; once more he shook his head.
"No, Papa, I'm fine". There was, thought Friedrich, an elusive quality about Max's voice. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it was there nonetheless.
"Did something happen up there?"
Mindful of the promise he had made to Alaric - Max saw it as that - even if the older boy had not, Max shook his head. All the same, he knew he had to say something.
"It's ... a private matter".
Hearing this, Friedrich smiled.
"Sometimes Max, you're so like me!"
"Of course, Papa. Why wouldn't I be? I'm your son".
Max smiled, turned, and ran lithely upstairs.
Here, in the privacy of their bedroom, keeping their voices low so as not to be overheard, the two boys sat and chatted about what had happened up on Mount Carmel, Max explaining that he had seen something like this before, in Vienna, several years ago. This apart, did Robert not remember the attack on the motor in St. Johann? Robert had clearly forgotten what had happened, or else put it out of his mind, because he shook his head; Max explaining that had been something to do with the Jews too. Quite why it was that these days so many people hated them, he could not explain. The ones he had met seemed perfectly ordinary, decent people.
Then, after they had changed into their pyjamas and were sitting in bed, Robert asked Max once again if he was all right.
"I'm fine, Rob". Max paused, then shook his head. "No, not really. But, please, not a word to Papa about what happened. I'll tell him, of course, but later, not now!"
"Understood. Well, goodnight, then".
"Goodnight".
Robert smiled at Max and then turned out the light. A short while later, by Rob's breathing, Max could tell that his cousin was fast asleep.
Not so Max who lay awake in the darkness for some considerable time, thinking about what had happened up there on the mount before, finally, he too drifted off to sleep.
Haifa railway station, the following morning.
With Robert and Max having thanked both Herr and Frau Schmitt for their hospitality, made their farewells, and boarded the express, here on the platform of Haifa's new railway station, Otto and Friedrich shook hands, unsure as to if, or indeed when, they would ever meet again.
"Friedrich, for what it's worth, my advice to you is to go to Samaria, do what needs to be done there, and close down the excavation. Then see to it that both you and the boys leave Palestine as quickly as possible. I think Alexandria would be best. Unless I am very much mistaken, for all of us out here, things are going to get a great deal worse than they are now. As for Alaric, once again, let me apologise ..."
"There's no need. As you said, young people these days ..."
In all the time Friedrich had known Otto, not even in the darkest days of the Great War, had he ever seen his old friend look so downcast. The man himself must have realised how dejected he sounded, for Otto now ghosted a smile.
"The Jews have a saying, Next year ..."
"Next year in Jerusalem. Yes, I know".
"May God go keep you, and all those you love, old friend".
The whistle blew.
Railway station, Tulkarem, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, sometime later.
While admittedly not as grand as the Orient Express, with First Class carriages, as well as both restaurant and sleeping cars, the train which Friedrich and the boys had boarded in Haifa, was luxurious enough. Not that it really mattered as, in terms of its overall journey - down to Kantara East and which would take some ten hours - they were only travelling as far as Tulkarem, just over forty miles away to the south.
The journey itself proved uneventful, passing by way of Athlit from where, looking back, a distant view was had of both the lighthouse and the monastery on Mount Carmel, the line then swinging west, over towards the coast, passing a large mound, which Friedrich told the boys was part of the ruins of Caesarea. Not long after that, the express reached Khudeira before steaming on across the Plain of Sharon, to Tulkarem, and the junction for the narrow gauge line to Nablus.
Tulkarem turned out to be a decidedly bleak spot, all but devoid of trees with, save for the two storey stone built station building and circular water tower, and close by a group of white canvas bell tents, belonging to the British Army, little sign of human habitation; the village, somewhat larger than most hereabouts, lying a little distance off to the east. What there was too, as Friedrich could himself attest having visited it, was something which could be found elsewhere in this region. Namely, a military cemetery, in this case a small one, which contained the remains of British, German, and Turkish fallen - from the Great War. Erstwhile foes lying together, side by side, in one small plot of hard, baked, grass grown earth, the spot marked by a truncated obelisk of mortared stones; a reminder if ever one was needed, of the singular futility and utter waste of war.
The express drew to a stand alongside the station and, with it having done so, Friedrich and the boys climbed down onto the platform; waited while their luggage was unloaded, and for the arrival of the train to Nablus. The service on the Hedjaz line was at best infrequent. If the train ran, then all well and good. If not, then it might well be the case that Horst would have to motor over and collect them from here; something of a trek on a poor road, but needs must. Their luggage now unloaded, a few moments later, the express departed on its long journey southwards to Kantara East in Egypt.
Not long afterwards, another long train, this one comprising both passenger coaches and goods vans, pulled into the station from the south. But no-one got on or off. Instead, from somewhere at the rear of the station building, there came a growing clamour of noise, which resolved itself into a group of Arabs being herded onto the platform at gunpoint by a group of British soldiers; Friedrich and the boys being curtly ordered out of the way by a gruff army sergeant.
"What on earth are they doing, Papa? What have those men done?" Max asked, wide-eyed in astonishment, as the dejected, noisy rabble passed close by them.
"I don't know, Max".
Friedrich and the boys continued to watch, open-mouthed, as the ragged gaggle of gesticulating, volubly protesting Arabs were driven down the length of the platform as far as the locomotive where, again at rifle point, they were made to climb up onto the running plate, to stand in a dejected huddle in front of the smokebox, at the same time continuing to loudly voice their protestations, until they were ordered to shut up; that they should do so being reinforced by a succession of rifle shots fired upwards into the air.
There now came a long blast on the whistle, smoke belched forth from the chimney of the locomotive, and the heavy train began to move northwards out of the station, bound for Haifa. Scarcely had Friedrich and the boys turned their backs, to begin walking down the platform, than there came a terrific explosion. The very earth shook beneath their feet and a cloud of debris - shards of metal, stones, earth, and other more unpleasant matter - gobules of bloodied flesh and blood stained remnants of clothing - rained down about them. Had it not been for his father catching hold of him, Max would have lost his footing and fallen hard to the ground.
For one long moment, dust and detritus from the explosion continued to settle while, dislodged by the blast, a deluge of loosened tiles fell from the station roof and shattered to pieces on the platform below.
"Gott im Himmel! Are both of you all right?"
Clearly shocked, besmirched with dirt and mud, nonetheless Robert and Max mutely nodded their assent, while from somewhere up ahead, through the dusty murk, there came both shouts of alarm and cries for help.
Once he was certain that, save for their clothes being soiled with dirt, they were, Gott sei Dank, indeed uninjured, Friedrich slipped a protective arm around the shoulders of both Robert and Max; hugged them to him. Watched, while some distance away, British soldiers tumbled hurriedly out of the carriages and took up defensive positions around the shattered train.
Through his own hubris, in his desire to return here to Palestine, in order to close down the excavation at Samaria, Friedrich realised he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. To have believed, naively, that the situation out here was no more than it was usually. Fraught and somewhat tense, with the occasional, minor difficulty, perhaps a flare up of local unrest, which died away almost before it had begun. After all, the British could always be relied upon to keep matters here in Palestine under control.
Or, could they?
From what Otto had told him yesterday, apparently not.
And now, this.
Rather too late in the day, it was now all too obvious to Friedrich that he had blundered into a full scale war. If anything was to happen to Max, or for that matter to Robert, Edith would never forgive him; nor, would Friedrich ever forgive himself.
Author's Note:
HMS Hood - one of the most famous battlecruisers ever built for the Royal Navy; known, principally, and sadly, for being sunk by the Bismarck in May 1941, during the Battle of the Denmark Strait in WWII. Out of 1,418 crew on board her at the time, only three men survived the sinking. During the late 1930s, she had been assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet. While her involvement in rescuing the survivors from the Pieter is obviously fictitious, on 23rd April 1937, the Hood escorted three British merchantmen into Bilbao harbour under the guns of the Nationalist cruiser Almirante Cervera which was attempting to blockade the port.
Beisan - now called Beit She'an. Down the centuries most places in this part of the world have been known by a variety of names, whether ancient, Arabic, Jewish, or from other cultures.
It is a matter of historical debate as to how many of the Templers actually supported Nazism. Certainly some were enthusiastic, others far less so, while some had nothing to do with it at all, as I have tried to reflect in the story.
During the Second World War, as enemy aliens, members of the Templer communities in Palestine were interned by the British, with some even being deported to Australia, and their properties confiscated. After the end of the war, regrettably, but understandably, the Templers were viewed with considerable suspicion by certain members of the Jewish community; a great shame given what they had achieved in the past. Eventually, in the 1960s, compensation for some of their assets seized at the end of the war was paid by the State of Israel. Today, while the Templer settlements are no more, they have become tourist attractions, with many of their buildings and houses beautifully restored. In Haifa, the old Templer houses line either side of what is now called Ben Gurion Avenue.
Sarona - another of the Templer communities - part of Tel Aviv.
Hassan Bey Shukri (1876–1940) was both mayor of Haifa and President of the Muslim National Associations. Following his death in 1940 many of Haifa's Jewish leaders attended his funeral - an indication of the high regard in which he had been held.
With modern development, such as the building of Haifa's university, the Shrine of the Báb, and the cable car, both Haifa and that part of Mount Carmel which lies behind it are very much changed from how they appeared in the 1930s.
For what happened in the Marktplatz in St. Johann, see Chapter 32 of my story Alpine Interlude.
As part of the improvements to its harbour, Haifa's new railway station had opened in 1937.
Maintained by the Commonwealth Graves Commission, the small military cemetery at Tulkarem (modern day Tul Karm) contains the remains of eighty men of the Egyptian Labour Force who, during the Great War, worked for the British Army building railways and roads, three Indian (British) soldiers, seven Turkish, and one German. Save for two of the Indian soldiers and the one German, their names are unknown.
During the period of what is known as The Great Revolt (1936-1939) the railway system of Palestine was repeatedly attacked by Arab terrorists. Put simply, the Arab population had demanded independence - and so an end of the British Mandate - as well as stopping Jewish immigration and land purchases in Palestine which they considered would ultimately lead to the establishment of a Jewish Homeland. For their part, most of the Jews then resident in Palestine viewed the uprising as an exercise in waging terror. The practice of making Arabs ride on the front of a locomotive or on a trolley in front of an armoured railcar in order to deter the setting off of land mines or other explosive devices was widely used.
It should be noted that the modern railway network operating in the State of Israel today bears little resemblance to the railway system as it was at the time of the story.
