Munich Signature (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  The roadsides were lined with stands of beech tress for miles, and then the gnarled trunks of giant oak trees gleamed like silver sentinels in the reflection of the headlights. The countryside rolled gently. More gently than the Rolls, Murphy thought wryly. He had the sense that they would come upon the characters of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream just around the bend.

  “Are we lost?” he asked at last.

  “Only to the world, Mr. Murphy. Actually you are in the center of New Forest.”

  “Crown lands.” Murphy searched his memory for whatever musty textbook information he had about this section of England. Ancient Royal Hunting Grounds was all he could come up with. As if to confirm his memory, they heard the distant, ghostly baying of hounds. Murphy shuddered slightly as he remembered tales of Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles. “You have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Tedrick,” he joked.

  “Purely unrehearsed, I assure you,” Tedrick answered. “We just passed the kennels of the New Forest hunt. The hounds tend to bay if an automobile passes on the lane at night.” He dumped the ashes of his pipe out the window. “Natural alarm system against poachers or intruders.”

  The driver maneuvered the car over increasingly bad roads, turning onto lanes that were little more than old carriage tracks. Crossing over a barren ridge, Murphy looked out over a dark, wooded valley below. Other names returned to his memory: Boldrewood. Mark Ash Wood. Knightwood, where ancient oaks measured twenty feet in girth. Indeed this man Tedrick enjoyed the drama of the mysterious, the sense of the medieval.

  “How much longer?” Murphy asked, trying not to sound like a kid in the backseat.

  In answer to his question, Tedrick raised a massive arm and pointed to the edge of the wooded valley. A single light shone. And then as the car moved closer, Murphy could see that the light was one window, then two.

  “Elisa’s requirement was privacy,” Tedrick explained. “We have tried to meet that requirement. A small hunting cottage. Quite remote, and yet comfortable—except for a lack of electricity. There are ample oil lamps. I doubt you will notice the lack.”

  Murphy considered how he might reply to that, but thought better of it. “If there is no electricity, then I assume there is no telephone. No radio.”

  “Privacy,” Tedrick repeated. “Three days, and then we will send a car for you. You’ll make it back to Southampton in time to catch your steamer to France.”

  Murphy considered that he would be able to jog to the cottage much faster than the car was moving. He did not take his eyes from the lighted windows. There, within that solitary halo, was his galaxy.

  The cottage was of white stone with a thatched roof and heavy, time-blackened beams. Windowsills and doorjambs were all crooked; Murphy could see the light emanating from the cracks as if the cottage could not hold it. Yet another car was parked to the side of the cottage, and at the sound of tires the door opened and Elisa stepped out.

  She stood framed in the doorway. A cream-colored cotton skirt and blouse gave her an almost golden glow in the lamplight that shone behind her. She put her hands on her hips like a farmwife waiting for her tardy husband to come home. Murphy felt as if he could not breathe until she was in his arms. Before the wheels stopped, he was out. She moved toward him, and they met somewhere between the darkness and the light. Kisses and tears mingled together, and Murphy forgot that anyone was with them, watching this reunion in the woods of Titania. Here was magic. He buried his face in the nape of her neck and inhaled the sweetness of her skin. She kissed his ear and tangled her fingers in his hair with careless, joyful passion.

  “Elisa.” He managed to say her name at last.

  She laughed. “You missed me.” This was a fact, not a question. Then she pushed him back a bit and looked around. No one remained outside with them. Murphy could see four men gathered in the front room of the low-ceilinged cottage. There was a fire in the open hearth, although it was not cold outside.

  Murphy drew a deep breath of frustration. “How do we get rid of them?”

  “I have arranged everything.” She stood on tiptoe and cradled his chin in her hand as she kissed his mouth again. Then she stopped short. “Your nose!” she cried.

  “Your hair!” he replied. “You cut it. Like Myrna Loy. I like it.”

  “Does it hurt?” She seemed overwhelmed by the green and purple blotches that were only now fading from his face.

  “Only when I try to kiss you too long.”

  At the sound of their laughter, Tedrick ducked and put his head out to call them. “We’ll have to be going soon,” he remarked in an almost military manner. “The rector is already three hours later than we told him.”

  “Rector?” Murphy asked.

  “Remember I told you Tedrick said our wedding ceremony was not legal,” Elisa responded. “We’re not officially married.”

  Murphy shook his head, trying to clear his mind and comprehend what she was saying. Maybe they had entered an enchanted forest, after all. There certainly didn’t seem to be any other rational explanation.

  “You don’t think I would spend three days alone with you without being married, do you?” Elisa smiled up into his eyes.

  He was lost. Nuts about her. Anything she wanted. He would marry her again and stay in this cottage as royal game warden if she wanted. “Since we’ve already had our honeymoon, do you mind if we go for the short version of the ceremony?”

  ***

  Only embers remained glowing on the hearth. Night sounds surrounded the little cottage. The hooting of an owl. A million crickets. The song of a nightingale.

  “It sounds like this back home in the woods,” Murphy said quietly as Elisa lay in his arms. “When I was a kid, we used to go out camping. There are woods just beyond the farm. My brother Terry and I would pitch Pop’s old pup tent and camp out there like we were Yukon explorers.”

  Elisa answered with a sigh and smiled in the darkness as if they were there now, a few hundred yards from Murphy’s house. “And then what did you do?”

  “Roasted hot dogs and pretended it was big game. Told stories. Talked about the places we wanted to go when we grew up. Funny, I feel closer to home tonight than I ever have before. Clear across the ocean with you beside me, Elisa, I am closer than I ever was last week in New York or fifteen years ago in that tent with Terry.” He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. “You are home to me.”

  “And the two shall become one flesh,” Elisa whispered. “And you are home to me, Murphy.” She lifted her face to kiss his chin and then pressed herself against his side. She ran her fingers gently across the tape that still encircled his ribs. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  Murphy put his hand on hers. “Eve must have asked Adam the same question.”

  “And how did he answer?” She punctuated the question with a lingering kiss.

  “Nothing hurts anymore,” Murphy replied, his lips still close to hers. “Not as long as you are near. Nothing hurts.”

  ***

  Maria could hardly repeat the message Captain Burton presented to her that morning. The paper fluttered in her hand as she held it up to Klaus.

  “Please,” she whispered as the girls gathered around her and the baby in concern.

  Klaus cleared his throat.

  Grandmother Rosenfelt en route to Miami Stop Requested attendance at circumcision ceremony of Israel in open international waters Stop Arrangements being made for that possibility Stop Further details will be sent as they develop Stop Bubbe says Mazel tov Stop Love to all Stop Trump

  “Bubbe?” squeaked Trudy. “She is coming here, Mama?”

  They all turned to gape at Captain Burton, who could only smile and shrug. “Trump has a reputation for getting his way.”

  “So does Bubbe Rosenfelt.” Klaus grinned and reached down to touch the cheek of his nursing son. “Well, little Israel, what do you think? You are about to become an international incident.”

  Captain Burton laughed. No one had ever seen
him laugh before. He nodded slightly toward Maria. “If we are to have guests, perhaps I should tell the rest of the passengers. They may wish to plan something special for the occasion.”

  ***

  “Of course it is possible!” Shimon almost shouted to the dozen men who sat beside him near the anchor chain.

  “Well, something certainly must be done in honor of such an occasion,” agreed a middle-aged ex-bank clerk named Fredrik, who seldom agreed with anything at all.

  The rabbi of Nuremberg nodded in approval. “They say the choir in the Temple sang entirely without instruments, nu? What do they call that, Shimon?”

  “A cappella,” Shimon answered. “The Vienna Boys’ Choir sings all the time in the great cathedral of St. Stephan’s. Beautiful. Beautiful!”

  “You have heard this?” asked the rabbi. “In a cathedral?”

  “He is a musician,” Aaron defended. “Sometimes they have to go into such places to listen to or play music.”

  “Well, then,” the rabbi concluded, “if those goyim boys can perform this in such a place as St. Stephan’s, why can we not do the same in honor of the child’s circumcision?” His lower lip protruded slightly. “The Eternal, blessed be He, has given the Holbeins a son after the loss of their little one. And now this son is to be circumcised and named Israel! Oy! Such blessing! A little prince of God has come to our ship of suffering!”

  “Well, then,” said the bank clerk, “what symphony shall we perform for our little Israel?”

  “Schubert!” cried Aaron. “A Jewish composer, ja?”

  Shimon furrowed his brow in thought and shook his head. “I will tell you something. In Germany, the prison where we have come from, it is not lawful for a Jew to sing or play anything except what is written by Jewish composers. I myself saw a fellow beaten to death because he hummed a few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.” He demonstrated. “Bah-Bah-Bah Baaaaaaaah! Just like that, he was dead. So all the time when I am shoveling coal into their furnaces like a man caught in hell, my mind is singing over and over again. I am quietly dreaming of all the music I used to play and listen to and hum! Now I say . . . we are free men, free to roam all over this ocean and free to sing whatever we wish to sing. And my heart can shout Beethoven’s Fifth, and they cannot stop me.”

  The bank clerk disagreed. “Too severe. The Fifth is too . . . noisy for a circumcision! We will have little Israel squawking like a cat with his tail in a door.”

  “No, no, no,” Shimon corrected. “Not the first movement.”

  “Listen to Shimon. He is from Vienna!” said the rabbi.

  “Yes. Our maestro from the Musikverein, ja?” Aaron chuckled, and the fellows in his work crew joined him in an infectious laughter. They would become an orchestra—bass fiddle and oboe and violin and tympani and cello would soon come from their throats. Such joy, and all for little Israel!

  “Yes!” The rabbi of Nuremberg was also laughing. Others came around and they laughed, too, although they were not quite certain what they were laughing at. “Shimon is the maestro! If he has Beethoven swimming in his brain, then it is time we rescue poor Beethoven!”

  And so the matter was settled. “All right, then, we will perform the second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony! Andante con moto! It is perfect for our little prince Israel! Probably it was performed in Solomon’s Temple, Rabbi! And Beethoven found the old score and copied it!”

  “Don’t tell the Nazis!” hooted Aaron.

  “Well, good music is good music,” said the rabbi. “And the Eternal, blessed be He forever, will enjoy our concert also, even if the composer was not a Jew!”

  ***

  Elisa’s report that Leah had arrived safely in Paris lifted yet one more pain from Murphy’s heart. He would wire Charles in New York. He would tell him his brother was safe, and that he and Elisa had spent three days in Snow White’s cottage like in the movie!

  The timbers of the cottage had been hewn and shaped by hand some time before the Spanish Armada had been demolished by the ships of Elizabeth’s Navy. The ceiling was low enough that Murphy had to duck his head as he walked across the room. Everything looked like a Beatrix Potter painting inside. Cups hung in an open sideboard. Plates were lined up on a plate rail. The sink had a hand pump for water. A wood cookstove provided warmth for heating the teakettle and cooking meals with the ample supply of canned goods Tedrick had provided. There were apples and wine and an assortment of breads and pastries to last them three days or longer, even if they did not take a breath between bites. Perhaps a yeoman farmer had built this place before the Tudors ruled England. Generations of gamekeepers had lived here, protecting the red deer against poachers.

  There were carpets of primroses and bluebells just beyond the first stand of trees. Hazy sunlight dappled the branches and gave each color a thousand varied shades.

  Murphy dried the breakfast dishes as Elisa washed. It had been a Beatrix Potter sort of breakfast, too—coddled eggs and melon and black bread with unsalted butter. Elisa hummed as she rinsed the plates. She looked out the window over the sink. The light bathed her with gold and shades of blue from the flowers. Such beauty made Murphy’s heart ache with the joy of it. He had seen her in sequins at a castle; he had marveled at her in the footlights; he had reeled at the moonglow on her ivory skin, but here, in this plain place, yet another dimension was added to his love for her.

  After a time she looked up, surprised at his quizzical smile. “What?” she asked, blushing.

  “I was just thinking. . . .” He touched her cheek lightly. “I used to wonder how I could take you away from all the glamour of your life. You know, how could I ask you to go back to a farm in Pennsylvania—”

  “And now?” Her hands immersed in dishwater, she waited, unmoving, for his answer.

  He kissed her gently. “I think you’ll do fine.”

  He drew back and still she did not move. Her eyes closed, she stood dreaming of all the things he had told her about through the night. “If only we could be there now,” she whispered at last. And when she opened her eyes, they were filled with tears.

  Murphy laughed lightly. “Well, you’re the one who wanted to play for the BBC,” he said, and instantly their peace was shattered.

  Elisa did not answer. She did not dare reply. Mechanically, she turned back to her task.

  “Well, didn’t you?” Murphy asked a little more harshly this time. Her lack of response somehow irritated him. “It could have been just like this, you know. We would have gone on to Pennsylvania, and—”

  Her eyes flashed angrily at him. She thrust a plate into his hands. “Did you come here to fight with me? If you knew—” She stopped short. Any more of this and she would answer his challenge with the truth. She could not do that. She would not.

  “And I can say the same to you—if you knew what I have been going through with you over here and me over there. The nights without you. And little Charles! The poor boy has had to put up with me all the time. What do I know about kids? If it hadn’t been for Bubbe Rosenfelt—”

  Elisa was crying. Angry at Murphy for not knowing, and angry at herself because she could not tell him! “What do you want from me, Murphy, what? It’s done now. Finished! We have been together less than twelve hours, and we’re fighting!” With that, she stormed from the house and retreated down a footpath blending into the shadows as Murphy watched miserably from the doorway.

  He banged his head on a timber. “Right, Murphy. Really nice. Really bright. You’re a swell guy, Murphy,” he chided himself as he sank into a rocking chair beside the cheerless hearth.

  ***

  What must have been a roaring stream in the spring was now only a trickle. Elisa sat on a stone beside a little pool where stranded guppies hoped for rain. The weight of all the world beyond New Forest rested heavily on her.

  If only Murphy knew. She had been forced to miss the ship, bullied and ordered and coaxed and coached. If only Murphy knew. She had even been taught how to use a gun. What would he say
if he knew all this? If he found out she had gone back to Paris and had met Thomas again?

  But of course Murphy could not know. Not now. And if the Gestapo caught up with her, maybe he would never know the full truth. For now, until her family was safely out of the path of danger, she dared not tell him. Tedrick would bring the passports. Murphy would carry them to Prague for her. Czechoslovakia would stand or fall, and then she could tell him.

  Tedrick, she thought, is very polite in his blackmail. He held my family hostage by simply threatening that they could not get away. He held no gun to their heads like the Nazis. His way was civilized and urbane. He used his power without conscience, but at least he had no blood on his hands. Not directly, anyway.

  Her only consolation was the hope that she might really be doing something to help. Certainly Thomas had been grateful to see her, anxious to tell her everything.

  If she had not fallen in love with Murphy, this would all seem right and easy. But she was in love—one flesh; not being able to tell him everything was a cold, sharp blade between them.

  Elisa gazed heavenward through the fluttering leaves. “Tell me what I should do,” she prayed. But there was no answer. No answer. Only silence in her heart. The knife remained painful in her as she walked back to the cottage

  Murphy had finished the dishes. He looked up when her shadow crossed the floor in front of his chair. Neither of them spoke for a long time. She walked toward him and sat down on the floor, laying her head against his knee. He touched her head gently.

  “Forgive me?” he whispered. “You must have had a reason.”

  Thank you, Lord, that he didn’t ask. “You know I would have gone. I would not have stayed here for anything without you. It just happened. Forgive me, Murphy.”