by Bodie Thoene
“Oh—it’s you again!” Elisa exclaimed, and for an instant Murphy thought she would slam the door on his face.
“I recognized your stuff.” He thrust the clothes into her arms and stepped back, feeling guilty somehow.
“Every Gestapo agent in Germany recognizes my things.” She was angry, but not at him. “They seem to be drawn to women’s lingerie.” She stooped to gather her belongings, and he bent to help her. “No! Please!” Now she was the one embarrassed. “I can do this myself.” Her voice cracked slightly as though she might cry.
“Not great representatives of the male race, are they?” He tried to sound sympathetic but instead stammered in his clumsy effort to comfort. “I . . . uh . . . hope you are all right, Miss Lindheim.”
She did not reply or even look up at him. Her soft golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders and hid her face from him as she piled her clothes back into the open suitcase behind her.
“Where is your father?” he asked after a painful silence.
She continued to work mutely.
“Miss Lindheim?” His question was more gentle, probing her for a reply. A sense of dread crept over him once again. “Where is Herr Lindheim?”
At that her shoulders sagged and she ran a hand through her hair. She remained motionless on the floor until at last she looked up with a tear-stained face. “They took him.” The words were barely audible.
“Took him?” He knelt beside her. “Why? What did they say? Why?”
“Questions.” She wiped her eyes with a nightgown. “That’s all they said. Questions!”
***
It was nearly 2 AM For an hour Murphy sat across from Elisa and listened as she recited the events that had led to her father’s arrest.
Murphy felt guilty. Guilty for not paying better attention during the last inspection, and equally guilty because in spite of himself he could not help noticing the slim, delicate beauty of the woman who seemed to trust him so completely. He could not help but wonder if he would have been so eager to reach across and touch her hand if she had been homely and ragged.
“They said”—she paused and groped for words—“they told him they had to ask him about some contributions he had made to a Zionist organization.”
“He is a Zionist?”
Elisa shook her head. “I don’t know.” She spread her hands helplessly. “I don’t know! In these times . . . lately . . . there have been so many people who have come to him for help. Mother said the stream was endless.”
“Why didn’t he leave sooner?”
Elisa leveled her gaze at him as though the question was insulting. “He is a loyal German, Herr Murphy.”
Murphy averted his eyes. “Of course. I wasn’t questioning that. He’s just the sort of man the Nazis hate most. Last week I read a policy release from the SS. They are more favorably inclined toward Zionists than toward assimilated Jews. Himmler suggests that Jews be allowed to emigrate to Palestine, because then all the trouble will be in one spot.” He looked at her for a reaction. Her face was set and no emotion showed in her eyes. “He says that the Germans will be sure to catch up with the Zionists in Palestine.”
“My father is not particularly political, Herr Murphy. He simply remained silent and helped as best he could.”
Murphy found himself staring at the graceful curve of her neck and the red mark on her jawline. She raised her hand self-consciously to touch it. “That is all I know. I have been in Vienna—in Austria—for nearly three years. I am only home on holidays, and each time I come back it is worse. Much worse. It is not Germany anymore.”
“And Austria?”
“When Hitler sent his Nazi gangsters to murder Chancellor Dollfuss in Vienna, I was near enough to hear the shots. That was two years ago, Herr Murphy. Surely you know that the Austrian government of Chancellor Schuschnigg is anti-Nazi. Austria and Italy have a treaty against German aggression. We have nothing to fear in Austria.”
“There are plenty of Nazis in Austria, Fraülein.”
“Yes. In prison with the assassins of Dollfuss.”
“There are still plenty of anti-Semites running around. Nazi or not.” The woman was obviously a political infant. She had no idea of the undercurrents rippling just beneath the surface in Austria. As for the pact with Italy, Murphy did not explain to her the purpose of his visit to Hitler’s mountain retreat in Berchtesgaden. The reporter had little doubt that Mussolini was soon to strike some bargain with Hitler that would pose a grave threat to Italy’s treaty with Austria. And hundreds of Nazis in Vienna had been given amnesty after Hitler had guaranteed that Germany would not interfere with Austrian government. This agreement between Hitler and Schuschnigg was already being violated.
“My heritage is not known in Austria, Herr Murphy,” she said quietly. “And I do not intend to ever cross the border into Germany again.”
False identification papers are expensive, Murphy thought, but with enough cash, they are available. No doubt Theo Lindheim took care of this small detail for his family. Murphy only hoped that the man had not done it too late to help himself. “Your passports are Austrian, then?” He frowned. “Why did you use your German papers tonight? They are plainly marked that you are Jewish and aliens at that.”
“Herr Murphy”—her tone was patronizing—“surely you must know the penalty for use of false identification papers in the Reich. We have been watched for months. Watched all the way from the train station in Berlin, I am certain. Even after you helped us. The Gestapo knows who I am even now. I can use only my German identification while I am on this side of the border, or I will suddenly wake up in a concentration camp.”
He nodded, still concerned about the Austrian papers. It was only a matter of time before the Nazi foothold in Vienna became a broad highway to power. “Why did your father choose Austrian papers?” he asked again.
She sighed and brushed her hair back. “My papers are not Austrian. We are not so naïve as that. Since the murder of Chancellor Dollfuss in 1934, we have all had documents from . . . a safer place than Austria. A place where the Nazis will never have power.”
She had not given him the details, but he was relieved for her all the same. “I don’t believe the Gestapo will hold your father long.” Murphy reached across and took her hand in his.
Her eyes searched his face, almost pleading. “No one knows what I have just told you, Herr Murphy. I did not know for certain until tonight that my father was planning on leaving Germany permanently. Mama and the boys left a few days ago. Papa thought it would be safer if we left at different times. He wanted to make certain that they were safely across the border, you see.”
“And what about you?”
“I am registered as a student in Vienna. That has been the case for several years. The Nazis do not trouble themselves with me—not usually. Papa thought it would seem more natural if he traveled with me. But they were watching anyway; they knew where Theo Lindheim was all along.” Her face was lined with grief and worry. “What will they do with him, Herr Murphy? Why have they followed him so far and then”—her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands—“I wanted to go with him. When they took him away, I asked to go, but he would not allow it. Please, Herr Murphy, you are American. Can you do something? Will you make inquiries after him?”
“Sure.” He grimaced as she began to weep softly. “Sure, I can ask around if he isn’t released in a few days.” He knew in reality that there was little he could do. When it came to matters of arrest and detention, the Nazis were clear that they resented any sort of interference. He had already brought himself to their attention and would undoubtedly hear about it. “If this is only a matter of paying a fine—”
“Ransom,” she corrected bitterly.
“If they don’t suspect that he is leaving the country permanently—”
“If they hold him longer than two weeks, my mother and brothers will have to return to Berlin. The Ausweis is valid for only two weeks.”
Outsid
e in the corridor, the porter called, “Next stop Berchtesgaden!”
“My stop,” he said, his voice betraying the concern he felt for her safety. This was the final stop before the train crossed the border into Austria. Would the Gestapo also arrest Elisa between Berchtesgaden and Salzburg?
“Yes. Your stop.” She brushed away a tear and raised her chin as if to say she could manage. Outside in the station the platform was cluttered with uniformed SS soldiers. Nearly all of them wore the insignia of the special Adolf Hitler Corps.
Murphy looked first at the soldiers and then at Elisa, then back to the loading platform again. He made no move to return to his compartment to gather his luggage. “Good grief,” he muttered. “Don’t these guys sleep?”
His remark was in English, which Elisa understood readily. She answered with a slight British accent. “No, Mister Murphy. The devil never sleeps.”
Somehow her answer in English convinced him that he must not leave her to cross the border alone. “You speak English.” He sounded surprised and pleased.
“A bit. Father thought it might be useful. It is a language not unlike German.” She glanced toward a group of officers standing together beside the door into the tiny station. “Unfortunately, the similarities between two peoples stop there. One of the reasons Hitler hates the Jewish people so desperately, you know.”
Murphy looked puzzled.
“Berchtesgaden! All off for Berchtesgaden!” the porter called.
“Yes. Herr Hitler dislikes it that we can live anywhere. People without a home. At home in any nation.” She smiled sadly, then lapsed into her native tongue. “You should go now.” She looked pained. “Danke.” She extended her hand.
He took it, but remained seated.. “I’m going to cross the frontier with you.” He shrugged. “I can catch the next train back from Salzburg.”
Elisa did not take her hand away. She bit her lip and nodded hesitantly, not attempting to dissuade him. “Danke.”
***
Murphy had always been fascinated by the fact that Hitler had chosen Berchtesgaden as his private mountain retreat. The tiny mountain village was located on a spur of German land that jutted into Austria and overlooked the Austrian city of Salzburg far below. It was common knowledge that Himmler had assigned a special SS corps to construct a fortress in the mountains for the Führer, which would be hewn from solid stone and accessible only through a shaft that rose to the peak.
Eagle’s Nest, the Nazis called the place, but privately men whispered the words Dragon’s Lair. And so it seemed to Murphy. The Dragon watched among the crags overlooking little Austria. Below him in the towns and villages, the Austrians felt his presence. Among them were those who were committed to the swastika flag flying over their land as well as Germany. Hitler’s Berchtesgaden retreat had become a symbol of the political drama quietly taking place from Vienna to the mountains of the Tyrol.
When Murphy stepped off the train in Salzburg, he could not help but notice the difference between the people of Austria and their aggressive neighbors. In Salzburg, men wore the traditional waist-length coats and knee breeches of their ancestors. There were a few business suits among the crowd, but those were mostly foreigners.
Most obvious was the absence of military uniforms. Yet nearly every Austrian wore the red-and-white striped armband indicating loyalty to the government of Chancellor Schuschnigg’s Catholic Party.
Elisa held tightly to Rudy’s violin as a porter managed the rest of her luggage. The train from Berlin would travel on to Vienna, and she would make the short connection into the Tyrol from Salzburg. Murphy watched her when she was unaware. Without the presence of her father, she seemed very much like a lost child. Again and again she lifted her eyes up toward the mountains. To Germany. Toward the Dragon’s Lair. Murphy could only imagine what she felt after the ordeal of the night’s passage and the arrest of Theo Lindheim.
She sat quietly on an oak bench inside the quaint Salzburg depot. Against a pillar, her father’s skis were propped beside hers. Murphy bought her coffee and sat beside her until the call for Innsbruck and the Tyrol was made.
“Well,” she said shyly, “I don’t know how to thank you. I cannot imagine what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“I’ll ask about your father,” he said again. Suddenly he did not want to let her go—or he wanted to go with her. “How can I get in touch with you again?”
“All aboard!” shouted the conductor, and they moved forward, wrestling the skis onto the train.
“If you are ever in Vienna”—she lifted her violin case slightly—“go to the Musikverein. My name in Austria is Linder.”
He tipped his hat and stepped back as the wheels of the engine turned slowly over. “Vienna. The Musikverein,” he repeated. She smiled in a melancholy way and gazed up again toward the mountains, and then she was gone.
Murphy stood beside the empty tracks for a long time, staring after the small red lamp on the last car. In the far distance a whistle wailed and echoed back from the towering peaks above the sleeping city. Instinctively Murphy looked toward Berchtesgaden and the tiny light that beamed from the slopes just across the border. In the blackness of the early morning, it was easy to imagine that the eyes of the Dragon himself were turned this way, watching John Murphy with interest.
9
Arrival
Three trains had already passed through Kitzbühel since Frau Anna and Franz arrived at the Bahnhof. The smile had long since disappeared from her face, and the fine lines of strain and worry returned to her features.
Franz glanced at the clock on the wall of the waiting room. “Frau Anna, the next train does not come until four in the morning. That is two more hours.”
For a moment she did not reply as the last train chugged away without anyone having disembarked. “They will be on that one then.” She smiled at him with a superficial confidence. “Four AM, you say?”
“We can wait at the Golden Griffin, if you like. Heinz, the old desk clerk there, will brew us tea. He is up all night like an owl anyway. There will be a warm fire in the fireplace and it will be more comfortable for you—unless . . . ” He tried the words carefully, hoping she would listen to reason. “Maybe it would be best if you went home to bed now. I am used to being up late. What with the cows and horses, something always keeps me until dawn. I will come back and wait for your husband and daughter, and when you wake up, they will be there.”
She patted his hand, then stared into the darkness as though she could will the hours to pass more quickly, and any moment Theo and Elisa would step off the train. “I have spent more than half my life sitting up with children. Like you sit up with your cows, Franz. If there was a contest for sitting up and worrying and praying, I am afraid you would lose and I would win.”
“Well, then—”
“But a cup of tea sounds nice.” She stood and smoothed her coat, still unable to take her eyes from the silent track.
There was a small office at the Bahnhof where tickets were purchased and telegrams were sent and received. A gray-haired woman in a dirndl and heavy wool cape sat at the desk behind the wire grid. A tiny stove warmed the space, but still she appeared cold and tired in her vigil. As Franz and Frau Anna passed, the telegraph key began to click rapidly like chattering teeth. She sprang to life and began to scribble the message at the same time she called for Franz.
“Franz! Franz Wattenbarger! A message from Salzburg for you!”
“Salzburg!” He brightened and took Anna’s arm. “There, you see? They are delayed, Frau Anna, but they are across the border and into Austria now. No need to worry.”
She pressed a hand to her temple and sighed loudly with relief. Then she realized that Franz somehow understood the reason for her worry. All the talk about Vienna and passports from Czechoslovakia now seemed foolish. “Has it been that obvious?” she asked.
“No. Not obvious, Frau Anna. But quite common nowadays in Austria. We are quite different from our big neighb
ors on the other side of the frontier, you know. We tend to notice people, instead of what their travel documents say.” He shrugged. “Anyway they are safe across our border now. Most certainly.”
The telegraph operator slipped the message beneath the grid. “From Salzburg. If you are Frau Anna Linder, this is for you.” The woman did not smile, and she looked away quickly as Anna scanned the message.
As Franz watched her face, the brief light of hope faded.
She read the telegram once and then again, at last letting her hands fall limp at her sides. “Only Elisa is coming,” she said flatly. “My husband is detained . . . by business,” she added as the telegraph operator glanced up as though to judge her reaction. Anna raised her head and smiled bravely, conscious that the act must continue—in public, at any rate. In spite of what Franz said, there were many in Austria who did not think that this side of the border should be any different from Germany. “So. My daughter will be here on the early morning train, young Franz. A cup of tea will be nice while we wait.”
***
Franz would have recognized Elisa Linder even if he had never seen her photograph. She looked so much like a young version of Frau Anna that Franz found himself staring as the two women embraced. The stunning beauty of Anna Linder was echoed in her daughter. The photograph of Elisa by the Spree River had been inadequate, to say the least.
The girl clung tightly to her mother, laying her cheek against her shoulder. Clear blue eyes of limitless depth reflected sadness and fear and worry, but only briefly. A whispered word from her mother, and Elisa regained her composure in an instant, just as Franz had seen Frau Anna pull herself together numerous times.
The telegraph operator watched them with open curiosity.