by Bodie Thoene
So this is it, Murphy thought. He brings up the issues tearing his own country apart by bringing up our Civil War. He is giving the American journalist the angle on the story. It was a good angle, and Murphy let himself be led by Beneš.
“You came very near to imitating President Lincoln in the theatre,” Murphy commented.
“The comparisons have been drawn in the American press and elsewhere.” Beneš studied his brandy, swirled it once, and inhaled the aroma casually. “You submitted the story, did you not?”
Murphy shrugged slightly. “It seemed to fit.”
“It fits very well. Your American readership will see this?”
Even a blind man would see that the Czechs tottered on the brink of civil war. The racial Germans bordering Germany in the west shrieked for autonomy. Their leader Henlein was in direct contact with Hitler. The attempt of Albert Sporer to kill Beneš was simply one more incident in a long list that continued to grow daily. “America is well aware of what is happening here.”
“Aware, yes. The question is whether they care what happens in our faraway little democracy?”
Murphy could not answer that question. After all, his story about the assassination attempt did not make the headlines. The strikes at the Goodyear tire plant in Akron dominated the front page. Matters of domestic importance generally took the highest place on the publishers’ list of priorities. Even in Trump Publications, European issues were far down the line.
“What are your plans, Mr. President?” Murphy avoided expressing his opinion on the last question.
“Plans? We plan to stand firmly united as one nation, of course. The same plan your President Lincoln had for the United States.” He smiled.
This was no scoop. Merely platitudes. “More specifically, it is well known now that the Henleinists in the Sudetenland are being given instructions from Berlin. The Nazi Party is alive and well and growing within your borders—”
“As it is in the borders of your own nation,” Beneš replied without a trace of emotion.
The comment threw Murphy off a bit. “Yes, well—”
“We were deep in negotiations with Henlein when we heard that the German Army was poised at our doorstep ready to strike. Even though we had met nearly every demand of Heinlein’s Nazi Party—virtual autonomy for the Sudetenland, independent elections of racially German officials, and so on.” He waved his hand. “Even though we offered him what he wanted, he broke off the talks. You must ask yourself why, Mr. Murphy. And then you must answer the question for your readers so they might understand what is happening here.”
He paused and sipped his brandy again. Then he continued slowly and deliberately, as though he were explaining the matter to a child. “Henlein and his cronies have been ordered by Berlin to ask for more than we could ever give them. And yet we are prepared to give them anything they ask for. We do not wish a civil war in Czechoslovakia, you see. Still, they have broken off talks. They want the flag of the Reich to fly from the spires of Hradcany. They wish to give Herr Hitler any excuse to march against us. If Hitler takes the fortifications in our Sudetenland, it is only a matter of time before he is here. In Prague. In this office.”
Again Murphy repeated the question, “What are your plans?”
President Beneš leaned forward, his eyes fierce with determination. “To fight them, of course. Britain and France will stand by their treaty with us. They must, or the war they so dread will begin here!” His fist was clenched as he spoke. Here was a man with his back against a very high stone wall, and he had no choice but to fight. Murphy stored every look on the face of Beneš, memorized every nuance in his words.
“Do you believe it will come to that?”
Beneš smiled slightly as he considered his own doubts. “Honestly? No. The Germans cannot desire war. They seek to take our country without firing a shot. The Great Powers and the League of Nations will not allow this to happen. They are not so foolish. Certainly they are not.”
“Hitler says he never intended to invade two weeks ago—”
“Hmmm. Yes. He did say that.” Beneš raised his eyebrow in a way that expressed his amusement at the story. “I read it in the papers also.”
“Would you Czechs fight Germany alone?”
“Yes.” The answer was unequivocal. “We would have no choice. But surely we have shown our determination already.”
“And your ultimate plan for the Sudetenland?”
“We will continue to negotiate with those of our citizens who have racial grievances. Let me put it to you this way: suppose in your own tragic Civil War that the North and the South had managed to come to full agreement? Suppose the president accepted the demands of the Southern states? Yet even with those demands met, the British had supplied the South with arms and men, and had stirred up small segments of society to riot against the government. What would be the motives of the British to have done such a thing?”
Murphy searched his mind for the details of history that might have encouraged such policy from the English. “Forty years before they had lost the war of 1812 to us. Before that they lost the Colonies. Perhaps . . . they might have wished to regain their hold in the South?” Murphy enjoyed such games. Again he was being led by Beneš, who was playing what if in order to demonstrate his own precarious position.
“Yes. And so it is with the government of Hitler. Henlein’s followers believe they are negotiating for more independence in our Sudeten territory. They are accepting funds from the Führer, who will chew them up and spit them out.” Beneš sighed. “Hitler cares nothing for the Germans who live in Czechoslovakia.” He shook his head. “They will be devoured like the rest of us. Hitler wishes to take our land. Has he not written it? Why do they not read what he has written on the matter? From here he will progress to the east—if he has his way. But he will not, Mr. Murphy.” The old confidence returned. “We will master this problem, and it will stop here.”
Murphy believed the little man. It was easy to understand why he held the respect and confidence of his people. It was also simple to see why Hitler so desperately wanted Beneš dead. “These are things I will relay to the States,” Murphy promised as he ran through a dozen more questions he wanted to ask. “And now, would you—”
Beneš silenced him with an upraised finger. “And now, Mr. Murphy, we must talk about you for a moment before we end our little chat, yes?” The eyes showed a gentle concern that flattered Murphy in spite of the fact that he wanted to continue the political discussion.
“Me?”
“A little information we have picked up.” Beneš raised his hand to the silent assistant who stood a few paces away. The man laid a file folder in the hand of the president and then with a bow, stepped back. “Here is your scoop . . . did you call it?”
Murphy sat forward in his chair. He was quite satisfied with the information he was being given. What could be more of a scoop than a personal interview with the president of the beleaguered little nation? “I appreciate—”
Again, the wave of a hand silenced him. Now the eyes of the president became troubled as he silently skimmed the file. Several minutes passed. At last, Beneš looked up. “You speak several languages quite well. Do you read our language also, Mr. Murphy?”
“Not fluently,” he answered apologetically.
“Then I shall interpret this for you, my friend.” Another long, searching look. “We have it on good authority that your lives are in great danger here in Prague.”
“Our lives?”
“You and your wife. Beautiful woman,” he added. “But beauty is of little value to the Gestapo and the SS. Both of you will be killed if you stay in Prague. Our agents send a warning that you must not return to Germany or Austria for any reason.”
“We had not intended to do that.”
“Wise. The Gestapo has an order that you are to be arrested as spies and executed summarily. I would imagine that the execution would include elements of torture in order to make you tell where you got y
our information about the attempt on my life.”
Murphy frowned and nodded slowly. So it was official in the German circles. American citizenship made little difference in such a matter. Men and women, regardless of nationality, had simply disappeared without a trace in the Reich. Someone would certainly raise a stink about it, but that would not do them a bit of good after the deed was accomplished. “Okay.” Murphy swallowed hard as he momentarily reverted to speaking English. “We expected this.”
“Perhaps you have not expected that even here the order stands.”
“Here in Prague?” Murphy repeated.
“If the president of a country is not safe, then what protection do you imagine you might have here? There are agents of the Gestapo and Hitler’s SS in every capital in Europe now. Mr. Murphy, I would recommend that you take your lovely wife and leave Europe—soon.”
“We had been planning to go back to the States. Eventually.”
“Soon.” Beneš repeated the word with urgency. He tapped the file. “And once your wife is safe, her family as well. You must arrange for their immigration as soon as possible. Have you not heard of the German law of the blood? When one family member transgresses against the will of the Führer, then all members of the family are held responsible.”
“Theo and Anna.” Murphy said their names absently.
“Yes. And their sons.”
“You know about them as well?”
“Dear Mr. Murphy, there is little we do not know. And I assure you, although it is difficult to admit, our intelligence service is not even half as thorough as the Nazi Gestapo. Himmler has done an excellent and ruthless job in his gathering of information. Some areas of information are incomplete. There are still men working for us who are in the midst of their operation, but the bottom line is this—you risked your lives to save mine. Your lives are still at risk. The risk to you grows more extreme each hour you remain here in Prague. The Nazi regime is built on ruthless terror and . . . vengeance. You and Elisa are a target now.”
“You are certain? We are in danger now?” Murphy had been so happy that even the slightest thought of danger had not entered his mind. Now these words made him want to hurry down the hallway and wrap his arm protectively around Elisa’s waist. The thought of losing her . . .
“Do not doubt what I tell you. We have stationed guards around the Lindheim home. You will not see them, but be assured they are watching carefully. Two men have been arrested near the place in the last week.”
“Arrested? But why?”
“We are handling the matter quietly. But it is well you remain vigilant in the time you remain here—which must not be much longer, I pray, for your sake.”
Murphy absorbed the blows like a punch-drunk prize fighter. “I will contact my publisher.”
“We have taken the liberty of doing that for you.”
“What?”
“One of our American agents has spoken face-to-face with Mr. Trump on the matter.”
“Well . . .” Murphy was speechless. Should he thank President Beneš for such dreadful news? “I don’t know quite what to say.”
“Good-bye seems to be the most sensible thing to say, Mr. Murphy. I cannot say that it has been pleasant meeting you; however, it has, I trust, been most enlightening to both of us.”
Murphy hesitated. “Most enlightening. But I . . . I don’t want Elisa to know about . . . about the fact that we might be . . . some sort of target.”
The president pressed his lips together. “I had assumed as much. That is why I met with you alone.”
“Her family . . . her father . . . well, you obviously know the details.”
Beneš nodded as Murphy continued. “They have been through enough already. Getting Elisa into the country is no problem since we’re married. And we have already made contact with the State Department about the Kronenberger child. A temporary visa for medical aid will be issued. But they have not been encouraging about Theo and Anna and their boys. The quotas, you know. Filled. And not just the U.S. quotas.”
Beneš sadly shook his head. “We have not turned the refugees from our doors here in Prague. They come here even knowing the fact that we are Hitler’s next target. Have you seen the thousands that crowd outside the embassies to beg for visas? The press of desperate human beings has closed Embassy Avenue to traffic. And they continue to come again and again.”
Beneš extended his hand. Murphy bowed slightly in the custom of Europe. He was saying farewell to far more than one man. “Perhaps one day I will be able to tell my wife and her family of your help this evening. Until then, I alone must offer you my thanks, and my prayers, that it will go well for you and your country.”
A smile played on the lips of Beneš. “Then farewell, John Murphy. A safe journey for you.”
6
Flight from Terror
“You are awfully quiet.” Elisa leaned her head against Murphy’s arm as they walked slowly onto the Charles Bridge.
Murphy did not answer, but turned to gaze back toward Hradcany Castle, where he knew the light in President Beneš’ office still burned. Murphy sighed, then looked past the row of saints that lined the bridge to where St. Nepomuk stood before an audience of flickering votive candles.
“Are you cold?” he asked Elisa as the damp mists of the river enfolded them. A chill much colder than the river mists penetrated Murphy’s heart. He had been subdued and preoccupied since he had emerged from the office of the president.
“I’m fine.” Elisa hugged his arm tighter, aware that something deeply troubled Murphy.
They walked on in silence for a few more steps until Murphy paused beside the statue of St. Nepomuk. He and Elisa had walked all over the city of Prague. He had stopped to kiss her a thousand times—in front of the library, on the steps of Tyn Church, outside the butcher shop, on the curb where the trolley car made its stop. For weeks her kisses and her smile had nourished him. He had given no thought that any other soul on earth might be watching them.
Tonight she tilted her face up toward his. Her lips were parted in an expectant smile. Was there ever a more romantic place than here on the Charles Bridge? In the flickering candle light with the rush of the river against the ancient pilings below them, the air was sweet, mingling with the scent of her skin.
And yet . . . suddenly the night had become full of unseen watchers. In the dark shadows enemies nudged one another and whispered, “He will kiss her again here. Now is our chance. One little shove and they are drowned in the Moldau.” The windows of crooked houses now seemed like dark eyes concealing the evil that pursued them.
“Murphy?” Elisa whispered. “What . . . ?”
He stood very still, looking past her to the gatehouse where their taxi had dropped them several minutes before. There was movement in the shadows. The substance of his fears took the shape of reality. Human forms watched them from beneath the arches.
Murphy took Elisa by the arm and pulled her back from the railing. They were sitting ducks out here on the bridge! Any crank with a rifle could pick them off easily. “Come on,” he said roughly.
“Murphy?” She peered back toward the gatehouse where Murphy’s gaze returned again and again. He quickened his pace until she was almost running to keep up with him. The chill of old fears swept over her and she did not need to ask any more questions. The sickening feeling she had known in Vienna and Germany overtook her with a violence that shattered the delight she had carried with her from the party.
Home was just across the square, around a corner on the narrow lane. Breathlessly she clung to Murphy as their shoes echoed against the cobblestones. Steep gables appeared to lean toward them. In every shadow now lurked some unknown danger that Murphy felt, yet could not speak of.
Elisa’s eyes brimmed with tears as they rounded the corner and came within sight of the brightly lit windows of the little Prague house. Warmth and safety were there. She broke free of Murphy’s grasp and ran up the steps. Almost desperately she clanged the heavy
iron door knocker as Murphy rushed up behind her and stood between her and the street with his eyes scanning every rooftop above them.
Anna opened the door with a smile, but the smile quickly faded as the two pushed in past her and Murphy slammed the door and bolted it.
“Children!” Anna cried. “What is it?”
Elisa exhaled loudly with relief, then turned in confusion toward Murphy. “What was it Murphy?”
How could he explain? Their circumstance had not changed at all except that now he knew. “Nothing.” he shook his head. “I . . . I guess we just got a little spooked. I did, I mean. Like a couple of kids in the dark.” He feigned an embarrassed laugh, and Elisa eyed him irritably.
“I was simply following Murphy, Mother,” she said haughtily. “I was not spooked.”
“Right. That’s why you ran up the steps ahead of me.”
“Well . . . ” Anna looked from one to the other. “Theo has gone on to bed. He bids you good night. I will make you tea if you like, and then there is something important in the parlor.”
***
Two telegrams waited on the glistening walnut piano. Anna had propped them up against a candlestick, and Murphy guessed that she had probably stared at them anxiously all night.
“Perhaps it is word from Leah.” Anna smoothed her hair back from where it had fallen across her forehead. “Both of the wires came by the same courier not ten minutes after you had gone.”
“Leah,” Elisa said hopefully as she held the envelopes and closed her eyes in a hope that was almost unbearable. “Murphy, quick—” She shoved them into his hands.
He held the same hope. If Leah had escaped from Austria, she would certainly let them know where she was and what her plans were. Every day had been marred with the absence of that news. “You open them.” He thought it would be best if Elisa read the words herself.