Munich Signature

by Bodie Thoene

  There was a long pause. Had she lost him? “Murphy?”

  “Yeah! Right here. New York. Charles is scheduled for surgery. I got a raise. Stay where you are . . . I’m coming to Europe . . . Chief of Euro . . . oper . . . I’m coming to get you.”

  Elisa’s heart felt as if it were in a vise. She had forgotten that Tedrick observed and listened a few feet away. “Oh, Murphy! That man at the consulate who married us—”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s been fired.”

  “For what?” There was dread in his voice.

  “Performing illegal wedding ceremonies.”

  Waves washed over Murphy’s reply. Bits of words propped out like startled, angry squeaks. Then, “I still respect you.”

  Elisa laughed. It felt good to laugh. “We’ll just have to do it all over again.”

  “As often as you like.”

  “I mean get married!”

  Murphy laughed. The familiar sound of his laughter lifted her past her rage and past her fears. She could do what needed doing and then Murphy would come. It would be all over.

  A roaring punched through the receiver and a woman’s voice broke in. “I am so sorry. We seem to have lost your connection.”

  ***

  Mile by mile the Darien moved closer to port. Seabirds swirled and cried overhead. Seaweed floated past. Other boats were sighted nearly every hour.

  Shimon had found refuge beneath a tarp shelter among the young men of the ship. Aaron looked after him, bringing him cups of water and meals from the galley and word from the infirmary. “The child is still with us! Ada-Marie is fighting back!”

  As the sun climbed high above the ship, men and women who had been exuberant only the day before now talked in low tones about the fierce battle taking place below deck.

  “Surely she will not die!”

  “We are so close to New York, America now! There are hospitals there. Doctors who will help her.”

  “My cousin lives in Brooklyn. He says that children in America hardly ever die of things like pneumonia anymore!”

  “Oy, but look at Dr. Freund. Up there. He is going to see the captain. Look at his face. So sad. So hopeless.”

  “Maybe he wants to know when we will arrive tomorrow. If she lives through the night, then surely she will not die.”

  The late afternoon air cooled into a soft evening of pastel skies. Shimon sat up and watched as a group of men gathered on the bow to offer evening prayers.

  “Help me up,” he asked Aaron. “I want to join the minyan. I want to pray for Ada-Marie.”

  The plaintive cry of the evening psalms rose up as the seagulls circled back toward land.

  “Blessed be the Eternal forever! Omaine! Blessed from Zion be the Eternal, who dwelleth in Jerusalem, Hallelujah! Blessed be the Eternal God, the God of Israel, who alone performeth miracles . . . ”

  “If only we could have a miracle, Rabbi,” said Aaron as he helped Shimon to stand. “If only we could put little Ada-Marie on the back of a sea gull and fly her to New York, America!”

  “Ah well, that is the Lord’s business,” said another sadly.

  “Who says God is still not in a business of miracles, nu?” asked the rabbi of Nuremberg. “Look here! Each one of us is here! And look there—” he stretched out his hand to Shimon—“A miracle. Who would think Shimon could have lived that night we pulled him from the vent!”

  Everyone agreed that Shimon’s presence in the minyan was indeed a miracle. And now one was very much needed for little Ada-Marie, whose four sisters huddled unhappily on the steps that led to the infirmary.

  “If she lives through the night, she will not die. We will come to New York, and there . . . you will see.”

  ***

  Throughout the second night Ada-Marie still clung tenaciously to life. At the mention of her name she would open her eyes and squeeze Maria’s hand. The rabbi of Nuremberg had come several times to read to her a lesson from Torah school or sing her a song. One by one, her older sisters came to stand beside her cot and tell her stories about the happenings on the upper decks. All of this Ada-Marie acknowledged with her eyes; she could not speak.

  For Maria and Klaus such signs were fragments of hope that they clung to even though the child’s fever still soared and each breath was drawn with exhausting labor. The face of Dr. Freund showed no such hope.

  “If we can get her to New York in time,” Klaus ventured.

  “Yes. New York,” said the doctor. His tone was flat and without encouragement, as if to warn the grieved father that even a modern hospital in New York could not perform the miracle needed here.

  Still Maria whispered words that praised each labored breath. She sang quietly the lullabies that were Ada-Marie’s favorite. She spoke of Bubbe, waiting for them in New York. “She will be right on the docks, Ada-Marie. After we sail by the big statue of the lady in the harbor we will see Bubbe. Yes, yes, another breath. Yes, Mama knows it hurts, but you will get well. Yes, another breath.”

  27

  Her Soul Has Flown Away

  It was nearly closing time at the café. The usual crowds had thinned until only a handful of persistent regulars remained around the table with Thomas. The topic of conversation had ranged from music to the latest political turmoil in the Czech Sudetenland. On the last, Thomas did not offer his opinion or the knowledge that the riots there were financed and led by men from Germany. He simply listened with fascination to the way opinions had begun to swing against the government of Prague over the last few weeks.

  In the corner, a young man named Michael played the last sad love song on his accordion. Two more men from the table drifted out and wandered across the street to le Panier Fleuri. They entered the bordello almost at the same moment a young, lively black-haired prostitute emerged and walked across the street toward the café.

  Thomas recognized her. Her name was Suzanne, and she came from a farm in the south of France. On more than one occasion she had provided him with companionship, so he was not surprised when she swept through the door and lowered her chin to fix her seductive gaze on him. She winked and waved and moved toward him when he smiled and shrugged. Why not?

  She sat down beside him, barely noticed by the dozen diehards who still argued around the table.

  “Things are slow tonight,” she whispered. “I was hoping you would be here.”

  “Me . . . or someone, eh, Suzanne?” He had no illusions. If he had not been here she would have found someone else to sit with.

  “No, mon chéri! You!” She brushed her fingers lightly against his cheek; then she pressed a note into his hand beneath the table. Her mouth against his ear, she whispered, “Something for you, Thomas. And I’m told you will pay me well for it. Why did you not tell me you are in love with a married woman? Then I would have understood when you do not come around anymore.” She kissed his ear and then sat back with a coy smile.

  Puzzled, Thomas looked down at the small white envelope. His name was written on the outside in handwriting he recognized instantly. Elisa! He tried to hide his surprise. A thousand questions flooded his mind, but he would not ask the woman across from him. Suzanne was a messenger, nothing more.

  Thomas shrugged. “Affair du coeur, Suzanne. I can only manage one at a time.” He pocketed the envelope and then slipped twenty francs into her hand. “Is that enough?”

  Suzanne glanced at her payment and smiled. “Enough for the note—and more, if you like.”

  “Another time, perhaps.”

  “If things do not work out for you, then?”

  Thomas nodded and kissed her on the cheek. He wanted only to be rid of her, to tear open the envelope and read the words from Elisa. The thought of seeing her crashed through the fog of his wine with a sobering impact.

  “Well, then—” Suzanne shifted her attention to a bearded student who was listening with apparent boredom to the discussion. “How about you?” she asked, moving from beside Thomas to smile into the student’s eyes with rapt
attention.

  Unnoticed, Thomas left the table and staggered to the wash room in the back of the café. With trembling hands he hooked the latch on the door and pulled the chain of the lightbulb above his head. He took the envelope from his pocket and stood with his back against the brick wall as he stared at the finely written script. A thousand times he had seen his name written in that hand. Thomas . . . Always before he had cherished the thoughts that had come within. “I love you. Today I thought only of you. I could hardly practice because the music made me think of you.”

  And then there had come a time when he had feared to open the letters—feared that they had already been read, and that his love for her might end his hopes for his career.

  Tonight he opened the envelope carefully, afraid to tear even one word that her hand had written. Inside the envelope was a tiny white square of paper. Written upon the paper was an address, and a date, and a time. Nothing else. No signature. No personal words. Only pertinent facts in her distinct handwriting.

  He exhaled and pressed his lips to the writing. How clever she was. She had no doubt that he would know at a glance who had sent the message.

  One more look, then Thomas held the paper under running water until the ink ran together and finally disappeared. Then he tore the envelope and the note and flushed the fragments down the toilet.

  ***

  Gaining entrance into the hotel room registered to Elisa Murphy had been laughably simple for Georg Wand. A skeleton key inserted in the lock. A moment of concentration, and the mechanism had clicked and opened.

  He waited behind the louvered doors of the closet. The soft fabric of her dresses touched him. He could smell perfume. The hour of waiting there in the dark was not at all unpleasant.

  His pistol, equipped with a silencer, was in his right jacket pocket in case the bodyguard came into the room with her. In his left pocket he still carried the pliers. The idea of using them had stuck with him. He would not abandon the idea because of a little inconvenience.

  Light from outside streetlights bathed the room in a soft glow. He could make out the dial on a clock that ticked on the night table. It was after midnight. He heard voices outside in the corridor. A man’s voice and that of a woman. Elisa Murphy.

  The rattle of the lock. A man’s laughter. “I’ll just give the place the once-over for you.”

  “Freddy, I know you. Why Tedrick assigned you to me is a total mystery. No, on second thought, it’s no mystery. He did it to annoy me.”

  The door opened and the light clicked on. Voices were strong and clear as they stepped into the room. “Actually, I’m paying him so I can guard your body, honey.”

  “You’re worse than an adolescent.” Her voice was playful as she shoved the man away.

  “Just once around the room!”

  “Leave!” she ordered, shoving him back. “I’ll scream if I need anything.”

  Georg grimaced. Yes, she would scream. That would be a problem in the hotel. He would have to think.

  “I’m going to the corner for a sandwich and a pint. Would you like me to bring you back a snack?” The man sounded hopeful.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been up? Goodness, Fred, don’t you ever give up?”

  “Just trying to be friendly. Make sure you’re taken care of.”

  Georg watched through the slats as she stepped aside and swept her hand over the empty room. “As you can see I am quite alone and will remain so quite happily, thank you. Tell Tedrick I’m sleeping with my revolver under my pillow. That is the only protection I need tonight.”

  She gave the man one gentle shove and sent him, sputtering a protest, into the hallway.

  She shut the door and locked it. With a sigh she walked slowly to the bed and tossed the violin case onto a pillow before she sat down. Georg’s hands perspired in his pockets. He would have to wait; he would need to remain very quiet. If she screamed, her companion might still be close enough to hear her. At any rate, the scream of a woman in the Savoy Hotel would certainly be investigated. Someone would hear her.

  He watched her kick off her shoes and rub her foot a moment before she rose and walked into the bathroom.

  She turned on the bath water and began to sing softly, “I can’t give you anything but love, baby. . . . ”

  Georg smiled and took the gun out of his pocket. He would not use the weapon, but it would serve to silence her at a glance.

  “Room service!” he called as he stepped from behind the closet door.

  Her angry voice replied, “Go away! I didn’t hear you knock, and I’m—”

  Georg had already moved to block the doorway of the bathroom. “Do not scream.” He leveled the barrel of the gun within an inch of her head.

  She froze, horrified. She opened her mouth as if to speak.

  “I have come for your autograph,” Georg whined. “Come to hear you play the violin.”

  “Please,” she managed. “Please, don’t—”

  “Come out, very quietly, please,” he replied, stepping away from the door. She followed him, her eyes wide with fright.

  “You’re the man in the lobby . . . the Jew.”

  Georg laughed. “I am no Jew.” He glanced toward the violin case. “Now show me what kind of musician you are, eh?” He placed the cold black steel of the gun barrel along the line of her jaw. “Such lovely unblemished skin,” he crooned. “And manicured nails. Polished. Very pretty. Will you play the violin for me . . . Elisa?”

  “But—”

  “No, no. I insist. ‘The Blue Danube Waltz,’ perhaps? Or something easier?”

  “What is it you want?” Her voice was level, serious. Perhaps they could talk.

  “I want to hear you play the violin.” He moved back. “That is all. You, with your jaw unmarked from the chin rest of your instrument. Your uncalloused fingers. Elisa? Elisa Linder-Murphy? No. I don’t think so. A good likeness in the papers. Quite good. But you see, I have seen a real photograph of her. And I have also heard her play. They should have chosen a real musician to play this role. Who are you, eh? I have been wondering that. And then I decided that it did not matter because you will tell me who you are. And then you will tell me where she is, won’t you?”

  The woman before him hardened as he spoke. She had not expected to meet with anyone as bright as himself, Georg reasoned. Bleached blond hair, a phony photograph planted in the papers and published with the name of Elisa Linder-Murphy beneath. The whole scheme was adolescent in its conception.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” protested the woman.

  “Well, then, I will continue to call you Elisa, if you like.” He nodded his head slightly. “Put your shoes on.”

  “Why?” A shadow of fear crossed her face.

  “We are going for a ride.”

  “No. Get out of here. I have bodyguards, and—”

  “If your feet are too sore, what is that to me? Leave your shoes off if you like . . . Elisa. But if you do not come with me, I will blow your brains out all over the lovely silk bedspread.”

  The woman was trembling as she put her shoes on. Her skin was pale, as if she were already dead. “You will not get three yards from this room,” she threatened.

  “You are quite wrong. Fred is enjoying his sandwich and beer, remember?” He motioned for her to go ahead of him to the door. He took her arm and held the gun concealed but aimed with deadly accuracy into her ribs. “Now remember as we walk down the service stairs . . . Elisa . . . I have only to pull the trigger and the bullet will explode through both lungs. You will drown in your own blood.”

  She stiffened and pulled back. “My name is Shelby,” she whispered hoarsely. “Let me go. I don’t know anything about her.”

  “Of course you do.” Georg pulled her toward the door. “Shelby—a very nice name. You are quite lovely, Shelby. British, eh? Tell me, are you embarrassed to be seen with such an ordinary-looking fellow as me, eh?” He was smiling and nodding now, chatting to the terrified woman as he op
ened the door and emerged into the empty corridor. “I want to know all about you, Shelby . . . everything. We have all night.” The pliers in his pocket were waiting to do their work. “We have hours to talk. You can tell me whatever you want, and I will listen attentively. I am a man of patience, Shelby. I enjoy the company of a pretty girl as much as the next fellow.”

  Again she balked as he shoved open the door of the service stairs. “Let’s stay here.” Her words were husky with terror. “We can talk here.”

  “No. It is a warm night. A good night for a drive in the country. Shelby. Come along. Just a little chat.”

  ***

  How long had it been since Bubbe Rosenfelt had worn any other color than black? Today she wore a blue dress with an orchid corsage pinned to her left shoulder. Mr. Trump had purchased the dress for her. It was not pale blue, or medium blue, but a dignified navy with a white lace collar and white lace sleeves. No longer was she like Rachel, mourning for her children.

  The hotel suite was once again crowded with reporters and dignitaries. Bubbe Rosenfelt sat erect before the eager group and answered their questions as best she could. Her answers were tinged with hope and gratitude for the outpouring of public support from across the country. A press conference, Mr. Trump had explained to her, would be just the thing to let the readers capture what she must be feeling on such a day as this, this glorious day when the Darien would be arriving in New York!

  “How do you feel, Mrs. Rosenfelt, after all the heartache the Nazi government put your family through?”

  Her head raised slightly. She tried to find words. “I have been home only a little more than a week, and yet over two hundred thousand people have signed a petition asking for special consideration of my granddaughter and her children and husband. How do I feel? Oy! Such a question! We have come from bondage to the Promised Land. The Red Sea has opened once again!”

  The reporters chuckled gently at the old woman’s allusion. She was a great interview, the stuff great stories came from—a tough old lady who had faced the Nazis and now was facing the formidable immigration laws of the United States.