by Bodie Thoene
“What is it, Mama?” asked Herr Karl, gathering the cards.
“Tonight we are going to have a Christmas concert! Ja! Our Elisa is going to play for us! Play the violin! And, Papa, you can get your accordion too if you like, ja?”
Everyone applauded and whooped. Elisa did not feel like playing, but she bowed to the wishes of the company. We will do our best to carry on. Even without you, Papa, we will do our best. She was certain that Anna had suggested the performance entirely for that purpose. Keep up the show. Everything is fine. All will turn out well. But Elisa had stopped believing it.
Elisa had not opened the case of the Guarnerius since the night she had played the last time for her father in Berlin. She removed the silk scarf that covered the instrument and felt her heart swell with the ache of missing him, missing home the way it used to be. Here she could play whatever she wished. But she would play the same delicate melody she had played for Theo. She would play for him, wherever he was, and hope that somehow he heard her.
The firelight glowed on the faces of her little audience. Gretchen’s hair shone like copper, and Elisa noticed that it matched the highlights of Franz’s beard. All the Wattenbarger children had warm brown eyes that looked at her expectantly as she tuned the strings as if she was about to give them a fine and cherished gift. Elisa covered the chin rest of the instrument with a soft handkerchief and raised it to her shoulder as though she stood before a royal audience in Vienna. Then she smiled, a curious smile at Franz, and he blushed and looked quickly away.
She lifted the bow and began to play the bright, happy melody that Mozart had written as a young man in Salzburg. The violin came alive in her hands. She let the music flow from her soul into the sighing wood, then up and out like leaves swirling in an autumn wind—swirling, dancing, singing, as the trees swayed in the last rays of sunlight. Elisa herself swayed as the music took her far away from lonely thoughts and fears that had pursued her through each day. Had heaven opened now and soothed her heart with a song from the throne of God? All the things she felt but could not say came tumbling out, note on note in a voice that reached up like a prayer and a hope.
This is me, God! Elisa. I once saw You in all the world. But the world is dark now, Lord. Full of darkness. Close Your eyes for a moment, God, and let me sing to You. Let me remember that You are here. Here in the notes. Smiling down as I play for You. Just this moment, God, let me sing to You. And maybe in the song, I will forget whether I am singing to You, or You are singing to me.
When the last note swirled and echoed in the rafters, Elisa opened her eyes to the spellbound faces of her little audience. The music hung in the air after she lowered the bow, and then Herr Karl clapped his large hands together and stomped his feet on the stone floor in unbridled approval.
“More! More!” he shouted, and the other joined in. She bowed slightly and laughed with genuine delight for the first time since she had arrived.
Only Franz did not look at her. He sat very quietly staring at his boots. His lack of interest hurt her for only a moment. Then she shrugged slightly and raised the violin again to play the sonatas of Mozart and Beethoven—music that had not even been written when the Guarnerius was carved three hundred years earlier. She closed her eyes again and let the melodies carry her away. Only this time when she finished and opened them again, Franz had slipped quietly out of the room.
***
“Refugees, most certainly from Germany. Do you hear the accent of the boys?” said Otto as Franz sank down onto the cot in the tiny little hut. “The Linders are not Communist. Too rich, I think. German Bolsheviks are dirty, ragged creatures, always wanting to divide up what everyone owns and distribute it—”
“That sounds more like the Nazis, if you ask me.” Franz did not like his brother’s accusing tone. He was tired and not ready for an analysis of the Linders. “But from what I hear, the Nazis don’t divide what they steal.”
“The Nazi Party says it takes only from the enemies of the state . . . from the Jewish industrialists who have grown rich at the expense and suffering of the German people.”
Franz stared at him. Often since Otto had returned from Germany he had discussed the National Socialist rhetoric as though he might believe it. Franz sighed. “It is cold in here,” he said quietly. “Throw another log on the fire, will you?”
Otto gave a short, bitter laugh. It was evident he wanted to talk, wanted to argue about the real matters of the world, and Franz would have none of it. Otto stirred the coals of the fire and tossed a small chunk of wood onto the grate. Then he tried again to stir Franz, only this time he used a different poker. “The girl . . . what is her name?”
“Elisa.”
“Ja. Beautiful, don’t you think?”
“All right, I suppose.” Franz rolled over and faced the wall as the flames flared up. The heat warmed his back. The echoes of her music warmed his soul, building a fire that he resisted. He could not think of her—not now.
“Not a Bolshevik!” Otto offered.
“You said that.”
“Probably elitists. Maybe her father is a rich Jew.” Otto laughed. “You can tell by the cut of their clothes. The way they carry themselves. Better than everyone, they think. Better than a poor Austrian family.” He jabbed the wood a little harder. “She would not look twice at the likes of us. Farmers. Dairymen.”
“Fine. I haven’t looked at her either.” Franz sounded bored, but he felt his insides churn as Otto spoke. It was not the words themselves that provoked him, but the way Otto seemed determined to argue. And the truth was, Franz had thought of little else but her.
“Ha!” Otto tossed another log onto the grate, and a shower of sparks rose up the chimney. “I saw you look at her! Yes. You noticed. You were looking at her the way you size up a fine heifer.” He paused and pronounced each word with a caustic clip. “The way you used to look at Katrine.”
Franz sat up and whirled to face Otto. “Katrine was the only good thing about you, Otto.” His anger matched that of his brother’s now. “And she is gone.”
“Why don’t you admit that you are glad she’s dead!” Otto shouted, all pretense of control vanished.
“You are a crazy man!”
“I saw! I saw all of it. The way she teased you. She touched my face, then looked at you to see how you reacted!” Otto was sweating now. The little room was bright with the flames in the fireplace and stifling with the fierce heat. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “And I hated you for it. Hated you! Now this new woman comes, and you are watching again. Like you watched Katrine. You think I don’t see?”
“Life here has been terrible since you came back!” Franz did not address Otto’s accusation. “Rages and moods! Why don’t you leave? Leave us in peace! Hire someone to write Mama a letter once a month to say you are well even if you are dead! I don’t care!” He lay back down and turned away from Otto. There was no winning in an argument with his brother. The only safety was in silence.
“I did not like the life of a refugee,” Otto said dully. “I do not like this. Now.” He glanced around the room. “Living in this hut with you because my bed is taken up by refugees.”
“So go stay in Kitzbühel!” Franz snapped. “Or maybe I will.”
“Then who would shovel the manure?” Otto’s voice was taunting again. “And who would keep these new women satisfied? The way you satisfied Katrine when I was not around, eh?”
Franz swore loudly and jumped up, hurtling himself at Otto. With a cry the two brothers toppled back over a chair and fell onto the hard plank floor. Franz struck with his right fist, smashing Otto’s nose with the first blow. Blood spurted, drenching his hands as he slammed Otto’s head back on the planks again and again. Only seconds passed until he noticed that Otto was limp, accepting the brutal punishment without resisting. Otto’s face was covered with his own blood, but Franz could see his expression was still triumphant, his eyes blazing, as Franz let him go and drew back. Otto had pushed him to this violence, a
nd in that was some sort of perverse victory.
“You are a fool!” Franz hissed. “I never touched Katrine. And she only saw you, Otto. Never me. If I killed you now, it would be for her honor. She was in your bed. Not mine. And yet you say such a thing—” He stood up. His bloody fist was still clenched.
Otto stared up at Franz, still certain that he had spoken some terrible truth. A slight smile played on Otto’s lips.
.“You should be the one in the churchyard, not her!” Franz shouted again. “And if you had accused her of . . . of any unfaithfulness while she lived, I would have killed you for the sake of her honor!”
Otto laughed at him and ran the back of his hand across his bloody nose. “An interesting response from a man who claims he never loved her!”
Franz narrowed his eyes, trying to remember the man that Otto had once been.
Is this my brother?
“I never said I didn’t love her. But she was yours, Otto. I would have killed any man in the village who said otherwise. And if you speak her name again in such disgrace, I will kill you as well.” Franz glared down at Otto to be certain that his brother believed him. Then he grabbed his hat and coat and left the cabin, slamming the door and leaving the madness of the accusation behind him.
***
Franz did not know where to go once he had stepped out of the cabin. It was cold, and the clouds of the storm still hovered over the black peaks to the north. His hands were sticky with Otto’s blood. He did not dare go into the house and risk being seen by his mother.
Frustrated, he stood for a moment in front of the cabin. Maybe it had been worth a beating for Otto to get him out of the hut for the night.
He sighed, angry at himself for taking the bait, angry at Otto for the madness that had come over him. Then he tramped across the snow-covered field toward the dark barn. He had spent many nights sleeping in the warm straw. He would do it again tonight.
When he entered the barn, Franz was met by the glow of a lantern hanging from a post. He mentally chastised young Helmut, who had no doubt left it burning after the evening feeding. The soft bellow of a cow greeted him as he stepped into the warmth. Then as the door swung shut, he saw a startled Elisa Linder perching on the rails above the stall of the new calf.
“Well!” he said, sounding as though he had caught a thief.
“Good evening,” she replied, then looked back toward the calf. “He is a pretty little thing. Wilhelm told me I should come look.”
The lantern light caught the shine of her hair and the glow of her skin until she seemed almost golden. Like the angels over the manger, thought Franz, and he determined that he would remember her expression when he worked on the carved angels for this mother’s crèche.
And then her expression changed, and she looked more closely at him. “Are you hurt?” she asked in alarm.
He had forgotten his own bloody, disheveled appearance. “This?” He stared at his sticky hand, suddenly embarrassed. “No. A bloody nose is all. Nothing.” He went to the water barrel and drew a bucket of ice-cold water to wash. He hoped she would not notice that it was not his own nose that was bloody. He splashed water on his face, startled when dark red liquid clouded the water. He had hit Otto harder than he intended, but not harder than Otto deserved.
Franz wondered what Otto would say if he knew he was in the barn with one of the women who had been a part of the argument. Franz was ashamed that Elisa’s name had been mentioned in such a way. Katrine was past hurting, but here was someone very much alive and with a vulnerability that had stirred his protectiveness from the moment he had seen her. He looked up as he dried his hands on clean straw. She was staring at him with undisguised concern. Her deep blue eyes glistened in the light, completing the image of some beautiful, spiritual being that had come to bless the tiny calf sleeping in the hay beside its mother. The memory of her music made him breathless.
“Did you fall?” she asked, breaking the spell.
“Yes,” he answered curtly as the memory of Otto’s accusation assaulted him again. “It’s dark out here. You need to be careful on your way back to the house.” He hoped his warning would send her on her way. He wanted to brood all by himself. And he could not risk the inward longing he knew her nearness might stir in him.
“I brought the lantern. Helmut lit it for me. I . . . am I keeping you from your work? I just came out to be alone a bit. The boys are all so full of nonsense and noise, and I . . . ”
Franz picked up the pitchfork and scooped hay into the troughs even though he knew the cattle had been fed hours ago. They did not seem to notice the extra portions but stood quietly chewing their cuds. “No bother, Fraülein.”
“My mother says you have been most kind and . . . sensitive.” There was so much expression in that last word that Franz plunged the pitchfork into the hay and stood still to wonder about it.
“Austria is full of refugees on holiday, Fraülein.”
“Then you know.”
“I have guessed enough.” He decided not to pretend ignorance any longer. “Enough to know that you should be careful.” His voice took an edge of bitterness. “Even households are divided these days. One might find Nazi sympathizers sitting at the supper table and never know.”
He could almost see the thought racing through Elisa’s mind: Otto, the other brother . . .
“And at your own table, in the Herrgottseck of your home? The place you call the corner of the Lord?” she asked Franz quietly. “Are we safe there?”
“My mother would tell you yes.” He paused, wondering if even these words were a betrayal of his family. Yet not even his mother knew of Otto’s dark thoughts these days. “She would say, ‘In the corner of the Lord all are welcome and safe in our home.’ But above the Herrgottseck, Elisa, there is a crucifix. We eat our meals in its shadow, and I remember that Christ was betrayed by the kiss of a friend.” He hoped she would not ask more. Then he added, “If you are no friend of the Nazis, then even here you must be careful.”
“I see,” she said, as though trying to comprehend all that he had just told her.
Families divided . . .
Slipping off the rails of the stall, she spoke softly. “Thank you for your honesty.”
He nodded curtly, indicating he would not say more.
She continued to stare at him. “Should my mother and brothers leave your farm?”
“No. It is no different anywhere. At least here you know . . . ” Know what? he thought. What does she know? That my brother is a Judas who believes whatever madness he wants? “We are isolated here. Austria is not the Reich, no matter how much Herr Hitler wishes it. There are many more of us for the Church and the government of Chancellor Schuschnigg than those who favor Anschluss with Germany.” Then he added, with a glance toward the cabin lights shining through the barn window, “Perhaps those who favor such madness will leave us and go back to Germany.”
She reached over the rail to stroke the side of the cow. “The blood you washed away. . . . Was it your blood?”
“My blood and my brother’s is the same,” he answered. “It simply flows through different hearts.” He stepped up beside her, suddenly relieved that he could talk to someone. He had not dared to share Otto’s Nazi leanings with his family. For months he had remained silent about it, just as he had remained silent about many other things. “There are places in the Alps I can show you, where two snowflakes fall from the same cloud and land a fraction of an inch from one another. Through the winter they sleep side by side in the peace of this place. When summer comes, the sun shines on them and they begin to melt. And though they came from the same womb and have shared the same bed, when the heat comes, one snowflake melts and flows down toward the Rhone River and the warmth of vineyards and farmland to the south. And the other? It flows downward into the cold waters of the great Rhine River of Germany.” He looked at her, surprised to see tears brimming in her eyes. “Two . . . snowflakes, you see . . . and in the end they finish their journey in two oppo
site oceans. That is the way it is in these mountains. There are places I can show you . . . ”
For a long time, Elisa did not answer him. She rested her cheek on one hand and continued to stroke the brown flank of the cow with the other. The silence was not uncomfortable for either of them. Somehow Franz felt as though he had known her for a long time. Everything Otto had said about her was untrue. There was nothing in her manner that made him feel small. “Thank you,” she said at last. Her voice was hoarse.
“For what?”
“For months I have been wondering. . . . ” She frowned and looked over the back of the cow as though she were seeing someone else. “I . . . I . . . ” She groped for words. “There was someone I loved—” Elisa turned her eyes on Franz and in one look displayed her soul. She did not need to tell him that she was hurt and confused. She did not need to say that she too had been betrayed by one she loved. It was all there—a book, open for him to read.
Franz lifted a hand to touch her cheek. His hand was rough and calloused, but he held her face gently. She blinked up at him, surprised by his touch, and yet, somehow, grateful. For an instant they remained motionless; then he leaned down slowly and kissed her lips tenderly, as though trying to kiss away the hurt. He held her close and wondered about the stream that had carried her lover away into the heart of the Reich. What a fool the man must be. What a fool!
“Tell me,” she whispered, “why did you leave when I played the violin?”
For a long time he did not answer. “It was your soul, Elisa. I could see your soul, beautiful and clear, and I could not bear the beauty of it.”
11
The Innsbruck Connection
It was well past midnight when Elisa slipped into the bed beside her mother. The house was dark and silent.