Vienna Prelude

by Bodie Thoene

  Elisa tossed her long blond hair and blinked innocently at Leah. “It would be easier to walk, Leah, if you played a nice little fiddle instead of strumming a mummy. I told you that in Salzburg four years ago.” She took Leah’s arm and they walked together down the darkened alley to the stage door.

  “By then it was too late, anyway. You should have told my mother when I was four.” Leah shifted the weight of the cello, leaning slightly to the left in her awkward, familiar stance. “My father was hoping I would be a boy and grow up to be a bellman. This is as close as I could get. Schlepping a cello case all over Europe.”

  Elisa laughed at Leah and nudged her slightly when Rudy Dorbransky ran toward the stage door and scrambled up the steps as though he were being pursued. He did not notice either of the young women in the alleyway.

  “What’s wrong with him?” The door opened and a wave of sound escaped as musicians warmed up backstage. With a soft click the door shut as Rudy slipped inside.

  “He probably got into another card game.” Leah rolled her eyes.

  Rudy was famous for his ability to find a card game in a strange city.

  “Well, if he’s just now here, we must be late. You know he’s always late.”

  “Unless someone is chasing him.” Leah gathered her coat more tightly around her.

  “You aren’t late until the houselights go down.” Elisa stepped aside, giving Leah room to lug the cello up the steps. “Besides,” she giggled conspiratorially, “did you see the conductor last night?” She opened the heavy steel door and they were immediately assaulted by a deafening cacophony of instruments hooting and wailing. “Five minutes before the performance, he wasn’t even dressed!”

  Leah waved a hand in disinterest. “I keep expecting him to come out on stage without his pants some night.” She tapped her temple lightly and crossed her eyes. “Yes?”

  Elisa nodded broadly. The roar of practicing musicians made conversation in a normal tone of voice impossible. Members of the orchestra were everywhere, each playing particularly difficult passages of the symphony. Unwinding their scarves and flinging their coats onto a long wooden bench stacked with other coats, Leah and Elisa uncased their instruments and joined the noisy ritual.

  In twelve days they had traveled to a dozen cities in Europe, playing the same program in each place. Tonight’s appearance at the German Theatre in Prague marked the end of the exhausting tour and, appropriately, they were playing Mozart’s Prague Symphony in the city where it had first been introduced. It was sure to please the crowds of isolated Germans who lived in Czechoslovakia and clamored for tickets to every performance. Elisa knew that the local German newspaper reported every musical event in faraway Vienna, while it totally ignored the opening of a new play in the Czech National Theatre. The Czechs and the Germans maintained separate theatres, churches, and universities. Tonight the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra belonged to the German-speaking residents of Prague. This possessive sense of ownership by the audience would make them wild with joy and appreciation, even if the musicians themselves were bored with the program they were about to play.

  After the concert, while the rest of the orchestra climbed wearily onboard the train back to Vienna, Elisa would catch the train north to her home in Berlin for the Christmas holidays. The thought of seeing her family again so soon filled Elisa with a sense of excitement. Tonight she played for her mother and father, even though they were in Berlin.

  As though reading Elisa’s mind, Leah nudged her. “Did you have any trouble getting your ticket?”

  Elisa shook her head. “No. I’m the only person who wants to go into Germany.” She laughed. “Everyone else wants out!”

  Leah smiled, then hefted her cello and scurried off to find a place to warm up.

  “Full house!” Shimon Feldstein boomed over the din. As the percussionist, Shimon had little to do until they were actually onstage, where he could stand beside his great “kettles of thunder.” Always before a performance he released his excess energy by prowling through the halls backstage and announcing the condition of the evening’s audience—who was there and whether they were subdued or excited, sober or drunk.

  Elisa did not need Shimon to know the condition of tonight’s audience. She had played in this theatre half a dozen times. The orchestra had always been received more warmly here than anywhere else in Europe, it seemed—including their home base at the Musikverein in Vienna. She had come to love the ancient city with its hundred church spires, the Old Town Hall, the mysterious streets and delicious food. Mozart had loved Prague, and in the beginning that had been enough for Elisa. She never had enough of exploring forgotten corners of the city.

  Today she and Leah had enjoyed a picnic out on Charles Bridge and had eaten a pleasant lunch as the murky Moldau River swirled below their perch. Leah had taken her into the dark interior of the Old-New Synagogue and the old Jewish cemetery where headstones leaned on one another for centuries of musty companionship. Elisa had then spirited Leah away to the church of Jan Hus, who had been martyred as a heretic for his part in the Reformation. Every corner of the city was a history lesson.

  Even though Elisa was from Berlin, her father had arranged for her to carry the passport of a Czech citizen, of German Aryan background. Not even her closest friends in the orchestra realized that she was the daughter of Theo Lindheim, the well-known Jewish department store owner in Berlin. Her mother actually was Aryan, but to be half Jewish in Germany was more than enough. And so her stage name was Elisa Linder, a slight deception that made it possible for her to play professionally in Germany, though Jewish musicians had been banned from performing in public for over a year. Only now, as a private citizen, would she return to Germany. For two weeks she would be Elisa Lindheim again. Her violin would return to Vienna under Leah’s watchful eye.

  Twice Elisa had nearly told Leah about the passport and the fact that her real name was different from the one Leah knew her by. Often she had suggested that the cellist take an Aryan stage name just in case the Austrians imitated the actions of their powerful German neighbor. Already in Vienna there was talk—quiet murmurs that Austria would be better off joining Hitler’s Reich.

  But Leah simply would not hear of it. She was Jewish, and she was Austrian, she claimed. Everyone in Vienna knew that. Vienna was her hometown, and never would Austria be subject to what happened in Germany! So the issue had been settled. In spite of the fact that Leah Goldblatt was the most talented cellist in Austria, Hungary, and Poland, she had to remain home whenever the orchestra toured Germany. Her only comment was “Their ears are not worthy anyway!”

  Elisa’s crisp Berliner accent was immediately recognized by any who heard her speak, but she simply explained that she had moved from Berlin at an early age. She had been quite young, after all, when she had gone to Austria to study at the Mozarteum. Hitler had not even been in power then, and her Berlin home had been an exciting, open place to live where little thought was given to a person’s heritage.

  But now, when the tour scheduled concerts in Berlin, she gracefully bowed out. In Berlin, she was Elisa Lindheim. A hundred friends would recognize her instantly. Over the course of the last two years, her father had managed to send her considerable sums of money, nearly all of which was safely tucked away in a Swiss account. And Elisa, to the amazement of her struggling musician friends, lived quite well in her little flat two blocks from the concert hall in Vienna. Life was good; even now she did not feel the shadow of Hitler’s growing power in Germany.

  “Five minutes!” called Shimon loudly as he passed Elisa. With more intensity she played a difficult bar in the second movement. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, someday I will be Elisa Lindheim again and play this in Berlin. In spite of the noise around her, she heard only the sound of her own instrument. She stopped and began again, letting her fingers fly over the fingerboards. She felt a soft tap on her shoulder.

  Elisa opened her eyes to the handsome, worried face of Rudy Dorbransky. His thick dark hai
r tumbled down over his forehead; frightened eyes gazed down at Elisa. He was undoubtedly the most handsome of the single men in the orchestra and had talent as a violinist to match his good looks. There had been a moment two years ago when his strong hand on her shoulder might have caused her heart to skip a beat. But other women in the first violin section had warned her about him, and she had listened. Now she looked at his bloodshot eyes with disapproval, and she continued to practice.

  “Rudy,” she said almost maternally, “go look in the mirror. Comb your hair and straighten your tie. Did you shave today?”

  He ignored her comments. “Elisa—” He mopped his brow and attempted a charming smile. “I ran into a bit of difficulty today, dearest—”

  She held her bow poised for an instant. “Another ordinary day for you, eh, Rudy?”

  “There was a gentlemen’s card game at the hotel, and—”

  Elisa knew what was coming. A dozen times Rudy had hocked his magnificent instrument to pay gambling debts. He did not need to explain what had happened. It was obvious on his face. “Where is your Guarnerius?” she asked coolly. He had the finest instrument in the orchestra—a gift from a middle-aged woman admirer. Elisa had never gotten over the feeling of anger when he used the violin as collateral for a debt. Twice she had loaned him money when no one else would, for the sake of the Guarnerius violin. But by now Rudy’s charm had worn away entirely.

  “I’ll pay you back!” All pretense dropped away as he pointed to where his instrument gleamed softly in its case.

  “You said that last time.”

  He held up his hand in solemn oath. “I promise.”

  “I don’t have a shilling, Rudy,” she told him flatly. “You are wasting your time.”

  “They are going to break my hands!” he pleaded, holding up his long strong fingers before her face.

  “A gentlemen’s card game, eh?” She tossed her golden mane, disregarding his misery. “Well, Rudy, if they break your hands, you won’t be able to hold the cards, will you?” She smiled, resumed practicing, then blinked innocently at his indignant expression.

  Defeated, Rudy shrugged unhappily and walked to the next of his hardhearted companions. Each, in turn, looked alternately embarrassed, angry, or indifferent to his pleas. They shook their heads and made their way past him onto the stage of the great gilded concert hall. Only Shimon, adept at judging the human condition, patted Rudy on the back and engulfed the hand of the violinist in his own huge hand. Unfortunately, pity was all the gentle percussionist had to offer. Everyone knew that Shimon used coffee grounds three times to save money. But perhaps, if all else failed, Shimon’s massive size would keep anyone from breaking Rudy’s hands.

  Elisa, third chair among the first violins, could clearly see Leah’s position on the opposite side of the conductor’s stand. As they took their places, Leah looked up at her and grinned impishly at the thought of the maestro coming on stage without his pants. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, Elisa was suddenly seized with an urge to giggle. She determined she could not look toward Leah during the rest of the evening for fear of the thought that might pass between them. Nothing would be worse than a principal cellist and a violinist bursting out laughing in the middle of a performance. Elisa cleared her throat and tried to fix the appropriate expression of intensity on her face as the concertmaster rose and raised his bow for the orchestra to find its note by his.

  A hush fell over the audience, and the houselights dimmed on the audience, a flower garden of silks and jewels waiting expectantly for the maestro to enter. Elisa adjusted the music stand slightly and exhaled as a thunderous burst of applause announced the entrance of the conductor behind her. He bowed and waved slightly to the audience as he passed her chair. Shaking hands with the concertmaster, he stopped a few feet from her. Elisa still did not look toward Leah. She would not. But yes, the maestro had made it on stage in Prague with his pants on.

  ***

  Stephan Günther passed the ornate building of the German concert hall just as the first notes of Mozart’s Prague Symphony rose. The sound filled the gilded cavern and then escaped in muffled melody out onto the damp and deserted streets of the city. For a moment, Günther paused at the bottom of the white stone stairway that led into the hall. He searched the sidewalk in the vain hope that someone had dropped a ticket. It was a foolish thought; tickets to the event had been sold out for weeks. There was no hope at all that a common clerk could acquire entry to such a place. He glanced up to where the doorman, in his bright uniform and spit-polished shoes, was eyeing him with some suspicion. Even the doorman was better dressed than Günther. It did not matter. One day Günther would be dressed as an officer. He would walk up these steps, and women would watch him. Men would nod in respect. Günther closed his eyes as the music swelled, tenderly caressing the hundred spires of Prague, then drifting gently down the Moldau like autumn leaves swirling on the water.

  He barely noticed the clack of the doorman’s heels against the steps. “Bitte,” said the doorman, his gold braid shining, “you will have to move along. No Czechs are allowed here, you see.”

  Günther opened his eyes angrily. “I am a German,” he answered curtly. “As German as any within the hall.”

  “Still, you do not have a ticket.”

  Günther did not answer. He turned and began to walk away. The second movement of the piece had begun, and now it pursued him, mocking his ragged shoes and overcoat. The doorman chuckled and Günther spun around. “Yes. I am German.” He spat fiercely, then raised his hand in a casual salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said under his breath, and the smile on the doorman’s face vanished.

  Günther put his hand to his head, astonished at his own behavior. Did he not plan to betray tonight the very cause that he had just saluted? Of course it was only a small betrayal—just enough to buy him a new pair of shoes and a good overcoat. Still, within a few hours he would become the Judas that his comrades in Czechoslovakia raved against in their secret Nazi meetings. He plunged his hand deep into the pocket of his coat and fingered the small paper-wrapped packet. Perhaps I will use the money to purchase a ticket to the next concert as well, he thought, imagining the doorman’s reaction to his arrival. A brief smile flickered over his tortured young face.

  He rounded the corner and made his way toward the Old Town, where his companions waited in the dark bowels of a beer house. Tonight they would sing and raise their steins in salute to the Fatherland, and Günther would join them. After all, his was only a small betrayal, he mused again. The cause would not suffer over a few passports, more or less.

  2

  Birth in the Darkness

  The jingle of sleigh bells echoed from the steep, snow-covered slopes of the Tyrolean Alps. It was already dark, but the little mare pulling Franz Wattenbarger’s sleigh knew her way home. Franz held the lines loosely as the horse leaned into her burden without faltering. Far below, the lights of the village of Kitzbühel glistened like a cluster of jewels against the mountain. Franz peered over his shoulder. He could almost feel the warmth of glowing fires and smell the hot dumplings simmering in his neighbors’ kitchens.

  In the distance Franz heard the shrill, lonely whistle of a train. That cry had lured many of his friends from the mountains, but for Franz, such a sound seemed feeble compared to the shriek of the eagles that soared above the craggy peaks of his home. After living twenty-four years in the shadow of these mountains, Franz had decided that, unlike his brother Otto, he would never leave. The seasons sang to him—ageless hymns with whisperings he could feel but not fully understand.

  Tonight the scent of woodsmoke mingled with the clean aroma of the fir trees that bordered the pastures of their farm. Ahead he could see the shimmering glow of the lantern in the barn where Otto and Papa waited with a young heifer about to give birth. The night seemed wrapped in an eternal magic, and the mountains sang of life and home and things that remained forever unchanged.

  In his pocket Franz carried a letter from Vienna
sent on behalf of a family looking for an out-of-the-way place to spend their holiday in the Alps. This sort of inquiry was sent through the priest of the village and then relayed to some farm family willing to share their chalet with guests from the city. For three years in a row Feriengäste had come to stay at the Wattenbarger home. The rent they paid had been a gift from heaven to see their farm through hard times. When Franz patted his pocket, the crackle of paper reassured him. He and Otto would have to move to the small hut at the far end of the farm, but there would be money enough to see them through again this year.

  Otto resented the presence of strangers in the house, but then he seemed to resent much about their life nowadays, Franz thought. Only a year ago Otto’s wife had died, and he had left to find work in an automobile factory in Stuttgart. He had returned to the farm barely six months later. Thin, haggard, and bitter, he said little about his time in Germany. Their little sister, Gretchen, had teased him that perhaps his heart had been broken by some pretty Stuttgart woman, and he had glared at her as though he might strike her. Then he had stalked off to bed without a word.

  Twice Franz had tried to speak with him. But Otto had told him in no uncertain terms that he should mind his own business. Tonight, when the heifer had gone into labor, Papa had sent Franz off to Kitzbühel for the supplies. Franz guessed that Papa wanted to have a word with Otto. Mama simply looked grieved. She had spoken sternly to Otto, then gently. She had tried to joke with him and had even wept once when he stormed out of the house. A loaf of warm, home-baked Roggenbrot heaped with butter did nothing to draw the heart of Otto back to them. The cry of the train whistle had snared his heart, and he was always looking away, always looking toward the horizon as though he could see some terrible storm brewing beyond the peak of the Kitzbüheler Alpen.