Vienna Prelude

by Bodie Thoene

  Angrily the old tailor tore through the uniforms until he pulled a colonel’s Luftwaffe uniform from the back. “Here it is. But if anything happens—any investigation—I know nothing.”

  “That’s fair.” The man placed the hundred-mark bill on the cutting table and, obviously pleased with himself, demanded a box for the uniform. “It is raining. And there are curious people on every corner who would wonder what I am doing with this.”

  Herschel quickly wrapped it. Then, his heart still pounding with fear, he returned to work on the row of buttons, even though he could hardly hold the needle.

  ***

  The cadre of Gestapo agents watching the Adlon Hotel had grown weary since Theo had entered the building three hours earlier. From his window, Murphy counted an even dozen dripping, miserable men out on Unter den Linden and Wilhelmstrasse. They were concerned, no doubt, by Theo’s disappearance inside the building, but as of that moment the order for a full-scale search had not been issued. After all, everyone in Berlin knew that the entire foreign press corps was staying at the Adlon, and the last thing the Nazi government wanted was a reported arrest of a Jewish war hero showing up in all the international newspapers.

  The Gestapo agents had every exit of the large hotel covered. From the side entrance to the kitchen, Nazi police were watching for the distinctive limp of Herr Theo Lindheim. There was no way he could leave the Adlon without being seen, followed, and arrested for questioning. His extended time inside the hotel would undoubtedly arouse the wrath and suspicion of the Nazi Ministry of Justice. Even so, they would not arrest him until he was well clear of the meddling eyes of the foreign press. The Führer had given express orders that only positive impressions should be made on outsiders. The detention of Theo Lindheim would hardly be considered a good image of Nazi public relations.

  Murphy had his story now but had not yet written the ending.

  “How many of them?” asked Theo from across the room.

  “Twelve. Probably more.”

  “They will spot my limp.”

  “That’s what we are counting on.” Murphy glanced at his watch. “A couple minutes more,” he said quietly. He looked up into the stormy sky. “Pray to God it keeps on raining, Herr Lindheim,” he muttered.

  As if in answer to his words, a gust of rain blew against the windowpane with a fierce rattle. The Gestapo men ducked their heads and shoved their hands deeper into overcoat pockets. At that exact moment, protected by an umbrella, dark overcoat, and hat with the brim pulled low, a man limped from the Wilhelmstrasse exit of the hotel. His features were hidden, and he tucked his face under the collar of his coat as he scurried toward Unter den Linden and hailed a taxi.

  Gestapo agents stiffened at the sight of him and immediately exchanged hasty words. Two men ran out onto the street and hailed another taxi to follow after the first. Murphy clapped his hands in delight at the sight. “Nice show, Johnson!” Then he turned to Theo. “They’re following Johnson.”

  “How many?”

  “Four. Four down. Eight to go.” He glanced at his watch again. “There goes Timmons.” His voice was excited as he related the exit of Timmons from the Linden Street door. “He’s got the limp! Perfect! Keep the umbrella low, Timmons, boy! You can’t see his face; he’s got that brim down low. Dressed all in dark clothes. They’re buzzing about him across the street. Yes! There go four more. Timmons is walking . . . limping. Hailing a taxi!”

  At two-minute intervals, four more imitation Theo Lindheims recruited from the press corps exited the Adlon Hotel. Gestapo agents dispersed to follow their limping quarry as Murphy clutched Theo’s arm and led him down three flights of stairs to the main lobby of the hotel. Dressed in the striking uniform of a Luftwaffe officer, Theo simply blended in with a hundred other uniformed men who moved confidently across the marbled foyer. He too wore the bill of his cap pulled low on his forehead. A pale gray overcoat was slung over this arm and he and Murphy talked animatedly about the force of the French Air Corps and that of the Reich. They walked slowly toward the revolving door. Murphy’s hands were wet with perspiration. It was only a matter of minutes before the decoys would be stopped and released and the Gestapo agents would flock back to the Adlon.

  Theo inhaled deeply and continued to talk as Murphy flagged a taxi. Neither of them looked up to see if the watchers were still on the street corner. Theo strode forward, aware of the fact that his uneven gait must be obvious. Rain hammered down on his cap as Murphy nudged him into the cab, then slipped in behind him and slammed the door. Only then did they dare look out onto the street. One lone, unhappy officer stood beside a streetlamp, his bleary eyes fixed on the revolving door and anyone who dared come out. At that moment Timmons exited a taxi at the Linden entrance and limped hurriedly back into the Adlon. A car full of Gestapo men pulled up behind him, and the four occupants leaped out. One ran into the hotel while the others resumed their positions.

  It was all Murphy could do to keep from laughing out loud.

  As the taxi pulled out into the flooded street, Theo reached into the pocket of the gray overcoat and pulled out the rumpled telegram. He had hope; he could read it now. He skimmed the words on the thin paper, folded it, and pushed it back into his pocket.

  Murphy caught Theo’s glance and raised an eyebrow. Theo nodded silently and turned toward the front seat as the cabbie spoke.

  “Where to?” he asked impatiently.

  “Tempelhof.” Theo’s voice bore the confidence of command.

  “Bitte, Colonel.” The driver smiled. “Yes. Tempelhof Airfield. I should have known. I recognize the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. I gave Herr Göring a ride when his car broke down. I told him and I will tell you, it is my dream to be a Luftwaffe pilot.” Young eyes glinted with admiration as he looked at Theo in the rearview mirror.

  “And what is your name, bitte?” Theo played the role to the hilt.

  “Johann Schmidt,” said the driver.

  “Germany will need good pilots, Johann. Let us see how well you navigate through a rainstorm, eh?”

  ***

  Men had been scurrying out into the rain from the Adlon all afternoon. Now, as the clouds above Berlin grew even blacker, suddenly every man who emerged from the towering building had a limp.

  Thomas von Kleistmann laughed in spite of the seriousness of his assignment as he watched Gestapo agents gesturing to one another in confusion. “There he is! Limping, you see! There is Theo Lindheim. No, there!”

  Even Thomas had been uncertain of the six men in their trench coats, their faces concealed beneath hats and umbrellas. Any one of them could have been Theo. In fact, Thomas knew they had to be foreign newsmen. No doubt their newspapers would hear of their involvement in this deception. Probably nothing much would happen. Nothing could be proved, after all. One of them would say he was limping because he had a pebble in his shoe, while another claimed that he always limped when the weather was damp.

  Thomas found himself inwardly cheering as the last limping impostor came out of the Adlon to get into a taxi. And then Thomas suddenly went cold inside. At the instant one taxi returned, he saw the unmistakable form of Theo Lindheim dressed in the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. Thomas swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the familiar figure. How many times had he seen Theo dressed in his uniform as they traveled to the cemetery together to pay respects to Wilhelm von Kleistmann. Theo had even named his oldest son after Thomas’s father, and had often said to young Wilhelm, “You are named for a great man. A true patriot of the Fatherland, and more than that, my truest friend. Hold your head high, young Wilhelm. Yes. You are named for greatness.”

  No one else was watching the uniformed officer and his companion as they stepped into the blue cab. Only Thomas recognized the man who had been his only link with his own father. “Wilhelm would have been proud of you, Thomas. Sometimes I feel him looking down on us and smiling, you know? I can think of nothing greater than the house of Lindheim and the house of von Kleistmann joined.
”

  Theo’s cab pulled slowly from the curb as six Gestapo agents swarmed around an indignant young man who pointed to his shoe and proclaimed that he had nothing to do with any plots. Thomas looked at the angry agents and considered what it would mean if the Abwehr were to stop Theo from escaping. Himmler would certainly find less favor in the eyes of Hitler. Thomas von Kleistmann would be the hero of the department.

  Thomas smiled and turned the key in the ignition. His car roared to a start, and he pulled into traffic just as a deafening crash of thunder boomed over the Adlon. He smiled slightly and shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he said, rolling his eyes upward toward the thunder. “I am only going home.” Then, as Theo’s cab turned onto Wilhelmstrasse, Thomas lifted his hand in brief farewell and turned the opposite direction on Behrenstrasse.

  Thomas noted that Theo’s taxi was not moving toward the train station, but directly toward Tempelhof Airfield. As a series of lightning bolts flashed down to the ground, Thomas frowned at what was almost certainly Theo Lindheim’s last hope. Perhaps it was no hope at all, but somehow it seemed better than the web that waited for him here if he stayed.

  ***

  Flights to Frankfurt, Munich, and Paris had been canceled, one after another. As darkness gathered above Tempelhof Airfield, disappointed passengers grumbled and filed out to find taxis back into the city. It would be morning at least before the next plane left Berlin, and even then, ticket holders were advised to call before they made the trip back to Tempelhof. Theo and Murphy filed through a crowd of angry officers and diplomatic couriers who grumbled among themselves about the unreliability of air travel. Most would take the night trains that departed Berlin every half hour.

  Theo turned to Murphy. A bolt of lightning caused the lamps of the waiting room to dim and flicker a moment. “This is where we say good-bye, my friend.” Theo extended his hand.

  “You sure you don’t want to try the train?” Murphy replied as yet another flash cracked the sky above Tempelhof.

  A slight smile played on Theo’s lips. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I have flown in worse.”

  “When?” Murphy frowned, genuinely worried as the torrential downpour increased.

  “Those are stories to tell my grandchildren, Herr Murphy.” He turned slightly and looked toward the door that led out to the runway. There was no one standing guard. Out on the front sidewalk porters blew whistles, and disgruntled men crammed into cabs. One young man labored over the piles of tickets behind the counter. He purposely avoided making eye contact with the unhappy people who crowded in the line before him.

  “You’re certain?” Murphy lowered his voice.

  With a curt nod, Theo turned away from him and walked unnoticed toward the glass doors that lead to the tarmac. Murphy was the only one who watched him, the only one interested. A dozen small planes waited outside in the pouring rain. Lightning cut a jagged hole in the sky, making the aircraft and Theo Lindheim seem even smaller and more vulnerable.

  Murphy stared openly. Men passed him, unseeing in their own unhappiness. The overcoat still over his arm, Theo strolled along the line of small planes like a man searching for his automobile in a parking lot. Twice he stopped to peer into the cockpits; then he moved on to the next plane.

  Murphy’s heart hung in his throat as he watched the selection. For a moment he was filled with the fear that Theo would not find a plane suitable to fly. When Theo stopped at the side of an ancient biplane and put on his overcoat, Murphy was afraid that he had simply found another way to kill himself.

  As if responding to Murphy’s thoughts, Theo looked up through the window into the waiting room. What does he want? Murphy glanced around. Theo was still unnoticed. “Okay,” Murphy mumbled, walking toward the door. The wind blew fiercely against the door as Murphy shoved it open. Theo’s overcoat flapped wildly. Murphy sprinted toward him; inside the lighted building, the passengers looked only toward the front entrance, where porters wrestled baggage into overcrowded vehicles.

  “You can’t fly this!” Murphy protested, yelling above the wind.

  The WW I vintage plane rocked and groaned in the gale. “I will need help!” Theo unstrapped a tarp from the propeller, letting the wind take it. Then he grasped Murphy by the arm and fixed him with an intent gaze. “The telegram!” he shouted. “From Anna, an address in Innsbruck—the Tyroler Haus. It may be a decoy, a cover for me.”

  Murphy nodded, water streaming from his face. “I got it!” he yelled back. “But you can’t fly in this kind of storm!” Murphy held tightly to his drenched hat.

  “I will need help starting the engine!” Theo called above the howl. “Remove the blocks from the wheels! We’ll have to push her out onto the runway!”

  “Herr Lindheim! You won’t get her off the ground.”

  Theo turned and scowled in a sudden angry resistance. “Tonight this storm is sent for me!” he shouted, gesturing toward the backs of the preoccupied passengers. “One way or another it will take me far from Germany, Herr Murphy!” Rain trickled from the bill of his cap, stinging his eyes. “Now help me push, or leave me to my own fate!”

  Murphy stared at Theo in frustration. Here was a man who had planned to shoot himself a few hours before. A fragile biplane and a tempest that had grounded every flight in Germany looked better than the alternative. Murphy kicked away the wheel blocks and grasped the wing struts as Theo leaned his back into guiding the aircraft onto the dark runway. Murphy prayed that there no burst of lightning would illuminate their actions. “Can you find your way into Austria?” he asked as Theo climbed into the cockpit.

  “I am heading directly to Prague.” Theo settled in the cramped, open seat behind the controls. “If I am delayed”—his voice was matter-of-fact—“you still have my letter! Tell Anna and the children what has happened!”

  As the reporter looked up at the pilot, he was struck with the courage and nobility of this man Germany had declared an enemy of the state. “I’ll try Vienna first,” Murphy promised. “The Musikverein. Then if I don’t find her—” Murphy stopped, overcome by the feeling that he was watching the execution of a great man. Yes, Murphy would find Elisa. He would tell her of the brave and impossible attempt of her father to join them. Perhaps Theo felt that this was better than a bullet—more suitable, somehow. Murphy nodded in silent agreement. “I’ll tell them!” he bellowed against the unrelenting wind.

  “Tell the men, the reporters, I give my thanks, ja? Grüss Gott, Herr Murphy!” Theo Lindheim saluted. “You will need to crank the propeller on three!”

  Murphy nodded again and backed away, grasping the antique wooden propeller and heaving it downward with all his weight behind the push. To his surprise, the motor coughed and turned over with a deafening roar that blended into the sound of the wind. Water sprayed Murphy, soaking through his overcoat. He dodged a wingtip as the biplane spun into the wind and then, like a small bird lifted on a breeze, the aircraft lifted off the ground. It hovered in the dark sky over the field for an instant, and then, as lightning split the black clouds all around, it disappeared behind a curtain of rain.

  For a long time, Murphy stood alone on the wet cement and stared off where he had last seen the aircraft bucking and rocking on the air currents. He expected to see the bright burst of an explosion as the conclusion for his news dispatch. Instead a more distant bolt of lightning arched toward the ground, and for an instant, Murphy thought he spotted the tiny aircraft as it cut a wake through the tempest.

  15

  A Matter of Conscience

  Admiral Canaris, chief of the Abwehr of the Third Reich, tossed the file across his desk to Thomas von Kleistmann. “It was foolish of you to go to Lindheim’s office, Thomas. Foolish.”

  “The Lindheims have been friends of my family since—” Thomas attempted a weak defense.

  “All the more damning for you.” The older man’s ice-blue eyes searched Thomas’ face. “Could you possibly imagine that Himmler was not having Theo Lindheim watched? You t
hought that the Gestapo would not open a file on you as well?” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the folder. “They have made copies in triplicate, no doubt. One for themselves and Himmler, one for Hitler, and one for me, of course. Quite embarrassing that a member of my staff is caught sneaking down the back steps of a Jew’s office. And then his former lover emerges ten minutes later.”

  “I did not even see Elisa!” Thomas snapped. “I did not know she was there.”

  “That is not in the report, as you may well imagine.”

  “They may say what they like in the report.”

  “They will. And they have.”

  “Certainly the Reich cannot condemn an innocent visit.”

  Canaris leaned closer and smiled bitterly. “That is where we have all made our mistake. Or have you forgotten so early? The Reich may tell you whom you may love and whom you must hate. Oh yes, Thomas, the Reich can dictate the inward life of every man.”

  “Not the inward life.” Thomas looked up sharply. “Only the outward show.”

  “Are the two not the same?” Canaris leaned back. “Ah well, a philosophical question. One we should have thought in 1933 before it was too late.” He smiled slightly, as though hoping for some signal from Thomas in reply.

  Thomas sat impassively. “So I have broken some law. Oh yes. I have forgotten it is a law now. I spoke with the man who was a friend to my father and to me since I was a child.”

  “You cannot cover your act by sarcasm. There is too much at stake here. If you advised him to leave the country—”

  “Then Hitler will simply nationalize all of his property and possessions, and Germany will be richer for it.”

  “They would have done that anyway, sooner or later.”

  “Then one less prisoner to feed at Dachau . . . or one less bullet for a Jewish industrialist.”

  Canaris slammed his fist on the desk. “Enough! Don’t you realize that SS bullets are looking for places to lodge? If not the brain of a Jew, then perhaps the head of a young officer in the Abwehr!”