Vienna Prelude

by Bodie Thoene

  She wiped her eyes. “I am calm,” she assured him, but tears still flowed, and she did not look at all calm.

  He wished now that he had left a letter at the Musikverein—a note of explanation, Theo’s final good-bye. No, he had to say all the terrible things to her. And she would not fall into his arms. She was more likely to simply fall onto the floor, and then what would Murphy do with her?

  For days he had dreamed that he was desperately in love with the young woman he had met on the train. Now he felt foolish and clumsy and uncomfortable. Where could he begin? What could he say? She was already what his father would have called a basket case. Or maybe he was the basket case. He had combed his hair a dozen times in the last hour, splashed himself with aftershave, and changed his tie three times. Now she was here. Within reach. The big moment.

  “I don’t think you should stay in Vienna,” he said.

  She stared back at him dumbly, as though she had not heard what he said. “Herr Murphy, have you seen my father? That is why I have come here tonight. If you knew what we have lived with—” She lowered her chin and more tears fell.

  “Wipe your nose.” Murphy took the towel from her hands and wiped her nose for her. “Look. I’m a reporter.”

  “Then report!”

  He plunged in. “Okay, then. I saw your father.”

  She clutched his hands. “Where?”

  “In Berlin. At the Adlon. He came to my room to give me this.” He took Theo’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Elisa. “He asked me to bring it to you.”

  She stared at the letter. “Papa!” she whispered, fear evident in her voice. “Papa!”

  “We tried to help him.” Murphy’s words seemed inadequate. He explained the whole scenario to her. “Gestapo . . . SS guys, even. You should have seen the fellas. Everybody limped—”

  “What went—” She swallowed hard. Her eyes became clear with the resignation that all had not gone as they hoped. “What went wrong?”

  “The storm!” He threw his hands up, not knowing what to say or how to explain the terror of that night. “Lightning everywhere. Every plane at Tempelhof was grounded, but your father said the storm was for him. God had given him the storm, see?”

  “God.” Her voice was hollow. “Yes. God.”

  “So”—he frowned and shrugged—“I tried to talk him into taking the train.”

  “They would have captured him. Tortured him.”

  Murphy nodded. She was right. Theo had been right. Maybe he was dead somewhere up in the Alps, but he chose his death rather than letting the Nazis have their pleasure. “Yes. He wanted to fly out. I . . . helped him crank the propeller.”

  “And then?”

  “The last time I saw your father, he was in the air. He said he was heading toward Prague.” He would not say what he really thought had happened that night. Let her figure it out herself. “He asked me to tell you—you and your mother—he wanted you to stay out of Germany. Don’t go back no matter what. You understand?”

  She nodded, holding Theo’s unopened letter in her open hands. “Yes, Papa, we won’t go back. There’s nothing to go back for.”

  “And he wanted me to tell you that Austria isn’t safe, either.” He was lying. Theo had not said that, but Murphy knew she would not listen to words that came from John Murphy alone. “Things are happening here . . . rotten things . . . just beneath the surface. Your father wouldn’t want you to stay here. He wouldn’t.”

  A slight smile curved one side of Elisa’s mouth. She appraised him with bitter amusement. “Did my father really say that?” She knew he hadn’t.

  “Yes.” Murphy insisted on the lie. “He wants you out of Vienna. And your mother and brothers someplace safe too.”

  “Yes. My mother and brothers.” She looked away. “They will leave. I will get word to them, and they will leave Austria.”

  “You need to leave too.” He pushed the issue harder.

  “And go where, Herr Murphy?”

  “Anyplace. England. New York. Paris, maybe.”

  She contemplated his words, then looked toward the window, where the lights of Vienna at Weinachten glowed brightly. “This is where my work is . . . my life.” Murphy could not begin to understand what she was talking about. “Everything I am is here. In my . . . music.”

  “You can play your violin anyplace, can’t you? Why Vienna? Why here?”

  She did not answer his question. Instead she looked at him knowingly. “My father did not ask you to tell me to leave.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He said Vienna is safe from the Nazis. They can’t come here. He told me. Our last night on the train. Rome and Britain and France are sworn to protect Austria from Hitler. Why do you tell me my father said these things to you?”

  “You need to get out.” Murphy drew himself up. “If I could get every Jew in Vienna out of Austria by wishing it, I would! You don’t know how serious this thing is! They have plans for this place! Hitler hates Austria—hates Vienna, and hates you because you’re Jewish! Don’t you understand?”

  “But here I am not Jewish. You forget. I have papers!”

  “That’s not good enough!”

  “But Austria has a treaty. Papa told me, and—”

  “You’ve got to get out of here! While there’s time. I know what I’m talking about Elisa and . . . ”

  She pressed her hands to her ears to shut out his words. Tears of anger came again. “They can’t have everything! They can’t!” She was shouting. “Our home! My father! All of Germany! They cannot have me too! And never Vienna! Never! You do not understand! This is my life, my work! My father did not say it—you said it!”

  “Yes! I said it!” Murphy matched her anger. He took her by the arms and gave her a little shake. “Wake up, Elisa! You can’t stay here. And if you have any Jewish friends in that orchestra of yours, you’d better tell them to get out while they can!” He pulled her against his chest. Her heart was beating wildly, and he felt as though he held a frightened little bird in his arms. “Austria is at the top of the list,” he whispered sadly. “Listen to me. Please. Vienna is already marked for the sacrifice, and the Jews who live here are marked too.”

  She pushed him away, unwilling to hear what he was trying to tell her. A defiance came over her, strong and hard, like a woman who denies that the love of her life is dying. “When there is no Vienna, I will leave.”

  Murphy stared down at her, uncertain what he could say. “You must believe me. Hitler will come to the Ringstrasse.”

  “When that happens and there is no Austria, I will leave.” She raised her chin and all the strength and beauty returned to her so strongly that it made Murphy’s heart ache to see her there. He reached out for her, but she stepped back from him, avoiding his touch.

  She stopped him with a look. “Thank you for your . . . concern.” There was no warmth in her voice. He had told her what she did not want to hear, and now she was finished.

  Nobody loves the messenger who brings bad news, Murphy boy. Look at the way she is looking at you. You told her that her father is being held somewhere. You don’t know where. You told her to leave Vienna. Stupid. Stupid move. At least you should have taken her out for coffee before you told her Hitler was coming and her life is in the trash can.

  “All right,” he said quietly, defeated by his own bluntness. “I’ll hold you to it. When Hitler comes, you’ll go somewhere else. Agreed?” He extended his hand, but she did not take it.

  “You are wrong.” She bit her lip. “What happened in Berlin will not happen here. Austria is not Germany, Herr Murphy. However, I thank you for your concern. For trying to help my father, and now for coming here.” She turned to go.

  He laughed nervously. “Wait a minute! Uh . . . can . . . I see you again sometime? A concert maybe?”

  “The season tickets are sold.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “Perhaps next year.”

  At the rate things are going, there won’t be a next year. He did no
t say what he believed as he walked her to the door. “I would like to see you sooner than that.” He laughed again. “More often than that.”

  She clutched her father’s letter to her and smiled sadly at him. “I think not, Herr Murphy. My music . . . keeps me very busy, you see.”

  He nodded in resignation and opened the door for her. “Yes, well—good luck, then.”

  “Yes . . . luck.” She turned then and was gone, taking with her all the images that Murphy had dreamed up over the last days in Vienna and Berlin.

  Murphy stood at the window and watched her go, straining his eyes to catch one last glimpse of her as she melted into the crowd of bustling pedestrians. He saw the slender arm raised as she hailed a cab; then he shrugged as she slid into the backseat. The first time he had seen her had been just like this moment. Only she had been a beautiful stranger on Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin. He wished now that he had never seen her after that one moment of appreciation.

  But he had seen her, again and again. Every day in his mind he had seen her: slender, beautiful, and alone.

  ***

  Within an hour of Elisa’s departure from his hotel, John Murphy had cabled New York with a request for transfer. Berlin was too depressing. It would simply emphasize his helplessness. The slide of Austria and Vienna into the German abyss seemed inevitable, and Murphy did not want to hang around and watch it happen.

  Two days later in Berlin, while a soft snowball dusted the city, Murphy received his assignment. The International News Service needed a seasoned correspondent to cover the civil war in Spain. Murphy was ready for a little action. Waiting for German propaganda releases at the Adlon was the kind of thing to make a man start to get soft. It gave him time to think about things he didn’t want to think about. It gave him hours to dream about what it would be like to love one woman. Yes, the Spanish Civil War was infinitely preferable to living on dreams of Elisa!

  Murphy had no regrets when he packed his bags and boarded a plane for Lisbon. Johnson and Timmons inherited the room at the Adlon—the one with the view, where he had first seen Elisa, then later Theo. As the aircraft circled Berlin for the last time, Murphy glanced downward. He could easily make out Lindheim’s Department Store; from the roof to the sidewalk, it was covered in the red swastika banners of the Reich. Lindheim’s was no longer a Jewish store. From Murphy’s vantage point, he could not help but think how very much the building looked like a flag-draped coffin.

  20

  Words Aflame

  Elisa carried two violins to the practice hall: her own Steiner and Rudy Dorbransky’s Guarnerius. She resented the bustling, cheerful sameness of the orchestra members after the holidays. What did they know about the things she had been through? What did they care about her father?

  Rudy tapped her playfully on the shoulder. “Well, my ever faithful pawnbroker is back!” He grinned. “And did you have a good holiday?”

  She avoided the question. “I have your violin.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he said with mock indignation. “Ah yes. My little gem is intact, I hope, after passing beneath the noses of the Gestapo? You didn’t mention that a Jewish boy owned the case, did you?” He was teasing, but she could not smile at the joke.

  “You shouldn’t have sent it with me. Next time I’ll just lend you the money, Rudy. I was terrified for your violin the whole time.”

  “Come now. The Germans enjoy the sound of a fine instrument as long as the composer is German and so is the musician. Let’s be fair.” He lowered his chin and gazed solemnly at her. “I would imagine that you were not too terrified to play it once or twice. I know how you covet my treasure, Elisa. Maybe one day when I am married to an extremely wealthy American woman—or a woman of means of any nationality—I will leave the Guarnerius to you. In my will. As payment of debt for all the times you have loaned me money.” He winked and opened the case, pretending to inspect the instrument before he handed her a wad of bills. “That would make your very wealthy father happy. Have you told him the way he has financed the entire gambling operation of Rudy Dorbransky?”

  Elisa looked quickly away. Rudy’s words were striking too close to home. “He would not approve.”

  “He might. Wealthy men like your father understand the risks of gambling. I should like to meet your father someday. I am always interested in meeting men of substance. Does he play cards? Maybe he would like me enough to insist that you marry me. Then you could use the violin whenever you wanted, and I would be rich. Two dreams come true.” Rudy had not noticed that Elisa was close to tears. He babbled happily along, tuning his instrument and swinging the bow around like a sword.

  “Hello, Rudy.” Leah swept past. “Got your violin back, I see.” She was still angry at Elisa for sending her off with the luggage.

  “A bit heavier than it was before,” he whispered playfully. “Elisa has obviously smuggled Herr Hitler’s stolen jewels out in it.” He plucked the notes of “Deutschland Über Alles” and clicked his heels.

  Elisa turned from both of them and carried her violin out onto the stage. Flipping through the music on her stand, she felt uncertain she could get through the morning rehearsal. She studied the score of Mendelssohn’s Elijah. The opening words of the oratio cried out the question of her own heart: “Help, Lord, Help, Lord; are you trying to destroy us?” Somehow the thought that the composer had been Jewish was comforting to her. Yes, in Vienna, music by Jewish composers could still be played. Men like Rudy Dorbransky were still free to joke about the Gestapo. She was safe here. Her mother and brothers were safe, and perhaps, by some miracle, her father had made it across the border of the Reich. That hope and prayer would sing in her music this morning and carry her past the silence and the fears.

  ***

  It was weeks before the icy waters of the Moldau River yielded up the body of Stephan Günther. It was remarkably well-preserved, considering the time elapsed since Sporer’s gun had sent him tumbling from Charles Bridge. Officials in Prague guessed that he had been only recently murdered, and this information found its way into a brief article in the Prague Zeitung. No mention was made of his connection with the underground Nazi Party in Czechoslovakia. His work as a clerk in the passport office before his mysterious disappearance was somehow not associated with his untimely demise. His identification papers were still legible. He had no money on his person.

  “Robbery, it says.” Sporer smiled at the conclusion of the Prague police.

  Karl Hermann Frank, second-in-command of the Sudeten Nazi Party, slammed his fist against the table. “We could have used this. Propaganda Minister Goebbels is not pleased! The Führer will not be pleased. If you had handled this correctly . . . ”

  “The man was a traitor, smuggling passports out of Prague to Jews in Germany. There was little else to do but kill him,” Sporer retorted.

  “But he was German, you fool!” Frank had been reprimanded by party members close enough to Hitler and Himmler to know that the news of a German murdered in Czech territory could be used effectively. Even the death of one member of the NDSP was reason enough for Hitler to rouse the nation with cries of “persecution!” and demands for liberation of the three million Sudeten Germans who lived within the borders of Czechoslovakia.

  “You have wasted a perfectly good opportunity.” Frank tossed the newspaper onto the floor. “There is no mention that he was a Nazi Party member; no assumption that he was murdered by Jews.” Frank spun around to face the unsmiling Sporer. “And you killed him before we found out who was paying him . . . where the passports were picked up.”

  “He did not know anything!” Sporer defended.

  “If you had not been so eager to shoot him, we would know that for certain! There has been a flood of Czech passports across the border, Sporer! There is a chain here that can be broken if we can snap only one link! You did not snap the link! You simply silenced it!”

  Sporer stared moodily at the floor. Perhaps Hermann Frank was right, but he was not the only one who silenced
witnesses. “Yes! Like the Gestapo in Weimar, eh? How long had the border customs inspector lasted when they got their hands on him? Found with eight passports! Eight! An entire family of eight Jews . . . ”

  “They have all been detained . . . ”

  “Interned, you mean. And what do they know? They simply paid him money for the passports. He knew where they had come from, and Himmler tortured him to death without learning anything at all! Don’t talk to me about silencing witnesses!”

  The point was well taken. Frank sat down slowly and drummed his fingers on the table. “All the passports bear the official stamp of the government in Prague. The Reich cannot refuse to recognize them or the Gestapo would be arresting citizens of Czechoslovakia by the hundreds. Then the news would be to the advantage of Prague instead of Berlin.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Along with the passports on the customs inspector, there were also some documents . . . information about a ship illegally bound for Palestine. Of course that information was relayed to the British and the ship was intercepted before it left Trieste.” He looked curiously at Sporer. “It was chartered by an anonymous sponsor in Vienna.”

  Sporer was scarcely listening. “Another propaganda blunder in favor of the Jews. Poor Jews.” He sneered. “We only want to go to Palestine . . . yes. On a leaky Turkish freighter with a hull made more of rust than iron.”

  “You miss the point, Sporer.” Frank was smiling. “Two hundred and ten passengers on that little boat. All obviously non-Aryan Germans carrying Czech passports.”

  “Proof that we do not have a trickle, or even a leak, but that the dam has burst.”

  “The Führer does not care how many Jews leave Germany. But these are the wealthy Jews! The ones who take German capital with them. They do not pay their taxes to the Reich.” He shrugged with the simplicity of the thought. The Gestapo had thus far failed to stop the flood. Perhaps it would be advantageous to their personal careers if they could indeed break the one link in the chain. “Our comrades in Austria are in need of assistance. This little ship was chartered by someone in Vienna. Czech passports are appearing in the hand of every Jew who manages to slip out of the Reich without paying taxes. Perhaps we can put a stop to this ring, Sporer. Then think how we might be rewarded by the Reich for service to our Fatherland, ja?” He seemed suddenly very pleased with himself. He could spare Sporer for as long as it took. Where the Gestapo failed, they would not—and for now, at least they could still work with some independence. “It would be good, Sporer, if you would travel to help our brothers in Austria.” He slapped him solidly on the back. “This chain is not so very strong. One link is all we need. Only one. Snap it!”