by Bodie Thoene
French waiters hardly bothered anymore to ask Thomas’ nationality when he ordered coffee or a glass of strong red wine at a café. They might have turned him out had he worn his uniform, however. The political creed of Paris was “Live and let live”—except in the case of their sinister German neighbors. They could see the results of Nazi policies in the faces of the refugees, and a German uniform was more likely to evoke a sullen comment than the customary greeting of “Bon jour!”
The city was, of course, swarming with agents of the Gestapo as well, each in search of some particularly important criminal. Thomas himself had seen the lists—the endless Nazi lists, photographs, and files passed his desk daily. He had little doubt that his own name was in a file on someone else’s desk, but somehow it did not seem to matter anymore. If worse came to worst, he could simply melt into the masses and disappear among the thousands who had come here.
He made his way toward George V subway station, his fingers nervously touching a letter inside his pocket. Although he had written Elisa twelve letters addressed to the Musikverein since he had arrived in Paris, he had not mailed any of them.
But the German censors had no access to mail posted in France and received in Austria. When he had written her from Berlin, he had assumed she had not gotten his letters. Now he was certain that this was one letter he must mail, and for the sake of her life, he prayed that she would read it and hear his warning.
Instinctively he looked over his shoulder as he dropped the envelope into the letter box at the station. Even if he was being watched, even if the Gestapo in Paris wanted to know the contents of his letter, they would have to go through the French postal service to do so. Considering French attitudes toward the Nazis, it did not seem probable.
With a sense of satisfaction, Thomas boarded the subway train that would take him near the German Embassy. He stood as others crowded on board. A young couple stood just in front of him. The man clutched the leather strap with one hand and slipped his arm around the slim waist of his dark-eyed lady. Throughout the ride, they faced one another. She smiled up into his eyes, hardly noticing the discomfort of the cramped car. Thomas watched them, his longing for Elisa more intense than any he had felt since he had watched her leave Berlin so long ago. She had looked at him with the same soft glow he saw in the girl’s eyes now. How foolish he had been to turn away from all that!
But then, that had been Berlin, where a man’s heart belonged to the state. This, on the other hand, was Paris. Men were still free here—free to love whomever they chose. The girl on the train caressed her young man with a look. He pulled her tighter, unaware that anyone was watching. She smiled, and Thomas looked away as the memories of Elisa’s touch and smile became too painful.
At the next stop he inched past the couple and stepped off the train. He stood for a minute until the knot in his stomach eased. To be here in this place without Elisa! The thought of her made him angry all over again that he hadn’t insisted on seeing her that night in Theo Lindheim’s office! What difference would it have made? After all, he had ended up leaving Berlin anyway. The Gestapo had accused him of being with her, even though he had not.
He exhaled slowly as he walked from the station and raised his eyes to the glaring red of the swastika flag that waved over the embassy building. In Berlin the sight of that flag had frightened him away from the one woman he had ever loved. Here in Paris, it seemed small and insignificant. Its crooked cross only mocked him. “If she will answer me,” he whispered in French, as though her native language was now unworthy of his emotion, “God, if only she will answer my letter . . . ” He did not finish the thought aloud. His stirrings were too deep for words.
Thomas had seen the secret memorandum that had passed over the desk of Ernst vom Rath. As third secretary of the German Embassy, Ernst was capable in his post, but he was not a Nazi. Very quietly one night over drinks, he had confessed his doubts about Hitler’s regime to Thomas. And Thomas had in turn told him that he loved a girl . . . a girl in Austria who was half Jewish. Somehow the mutual confessions had given the two men a solid base of friendship. Thomas knew that the Gestapo was watching Ernst vom Rath, and he had warned him.
In return for the favor, Ernst showed Thomas the memo . . . the one concerning increased Nazi activities in Vienna and Prague.
“If your girl is still in Austria,” Ernst had warned Thomas, “you should warn her. Tell her to get out. The Anschluss is coming. The Führer demands it, and it will be so—unless he should suddenly not be the Führer any longer.” There had been a trace of hope in Ernst’s last words.
Thomas read over the orders: Austria’s Nazi underground would step up acts of terrorism while at the same time creating an incident to give Hitler’s armies an excuse to march to Austria to “restore order.” A chill ran through him. He did not know how much time there was left for the little nation. If he could, he knew that he must do all he could to bring Elisa to Paris . . . and into his life again. He had no plans beyond that, but he was certain that she must leave Vienna, and then they would find someplace in the world where they could be safe together.
***
“Well?” Leah asked pointedly as she unwound her long scarf and hung up her coat at rehearsal the next morning.
“Well what?” Elisa did not attempt to hide her irritation.
“What do you mean, well what? You know perfectly well what.”
Elisa stared blankly at her friend. “Well, nothing. Besides, I’m not talking to you.”
“For how long?” Leah did not seem unduly alarmed.
“Maybe forever.” Elisa opened her violin case as Rudy swept into the theatre like a conquering hero.
“That will be the day.” Leah lugged her cello case over to a long wooden bench beside Shimon, who still did not look well. “Tell her to talk to me, Shimon,” Leah instructed.
“Why?” He did not smile. “You talk enough for both of you. For me too. For all of us.”
“Bravo, Shimon!” Elisa applauded him. “You should have heard her talk last night!”
Shimon looked very tired. “I did hear her,” he sniffed. “She told me all about the American journalist. How he has bought tickets until January—”
“Sixth,” Leah finished.
“Right.” Shimon nodded. “And how he took you out for coffee at the Sacher Hotel.” He smiled at Elisa’s deep blush.
“Now you see why I won’t tell her anything!” Elisa snapped.
Shimon nodded and blew his nose. “Yes. Of course. But you will still talk to me, won’t you?”
“If you won’t tell her.”
“Agreed.” The big man stuck out his hand to shake in agreement. “So . . . ” He paused. “Well?”
Elisa plopped down on the other side of him and whispered in his ear as Leah looked on sullenly. “I slapped his face.”
“That sounds promising!” Shimon said loudly. “Before or after coffee?”
“We didn’t have coffee.” Elisa spoke in an almost inaudible voice.
“Very promising indeed!” Shimon replied. “I like this fellow!”
“Well, you will have plenty of chance to meet him,” Leah said dryly, even though she could not hear Elisa’s end of the conversation. “He is not only coming to performances, he is here now.”
Shimon raised his eyebrows. “Such a music lover!”
“Where is he?” Elisa demanded.
“Outside. On the landing. I just saw him peering in when Karin came in.”
Elisa glanced toward the stage door. It was freezing outside, and the wind howled through the alley. “Well, don’t let him in!”
“What did you slap him for?” Shimon did not bother to whisper, and Leah smiled as though she had won a victory.
“She slapped him? Very promising!” Leah leaned around Shimon and winked at Elisa. “Shimon and I dated for months before I had occasion to slap him.”
Shimon winced at the memory. “Oy! Can she hit!”
“Now everyone will know, Shimon.” Elisa drew h
erself up. “You said you wouldn’t tell.”
He spread his big hands innocently. “Did I tell? I thought I only asked a simple question: Why did you slap the American?”
Rudy stopped and grinned handsomely down at Elisa. “You slapped an American? Why would you do that? The only way you can get a visa to America is if you know a nice American.”
“He is not nice,” Elisa retorted.
“I like him,” Leah volunteered. “He’s out there freezing on the steps, and she won’t let us let him in.”
“Why did you hit the poor fellow?” Rudy seemed overly interested.
“That is nobody’s business.” Elisa picked up her violin and began to play a scale.
“She won’t tell us.” Shimon and Leah spoke at the same moment.
Rudy shrugged and sauntered past them, directly to the stage door. He opened it slightly and a blast of frigid air swept backstage. “Are you the American that Elisa slapped? Come in. You will certainly freeze to death out there.”
A new deeper redness climbed to Elisa’s cheeks. “I will never forgive you all,” she mumbled as Rudy continued the loud conversation with John Murphy.
“You’re the fellow that lunatic was shooting at last night,” Murphy said clearly. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’m a journalist, and I thought I might have an interview.”
Rudy bowed majestically. “Of course. I am flattered. But first, you must answer the question we have all been waiting to hear.”
“Sure.”
“Why did Elisa Linder, our lovely violinist with the red face, slap you? Especially when we all know how valuable Americans are in these uncertain times.”
Murphy gave a sideways grin and glanced toward the object of their interest. Elisa sat rigid, waiting in horror for him to reveal that he had said something about her underclothes. “Well, I . . . I said something ungallant, I’m afraid.”
Silence descended over the orchestra as everyone paused to hear his explanation. “Well?” Rudy demanded. “You can’t have an interview for something as brief as that. I am always being slapped, and I know the implications.”
“I can’t say more,” Murphy said. Elisa glanced at him almost gratefully. “Unless she refuses to go out with me after tonight’s performance. If she refuses, of course I will tell.”
Her eyes flashed a furious response. “Blackmail!” she hissed.
“I knew I liked him!” Shimon laughed.
“Bravo, John Murphy!” Leah clapped her hands in approval.
“You are all traitors,” Elisa pouted.
“Not really, Elisa,” Rudy said in a patronizing voice. “We all simply do not want to see you spend your nights stagnating in your little flat. This slap is encouraging!”
By now, more members of the orchestra had joined in the game.
“So?” Shimon asked Elisa. “Do you accept his offer to go out with him tonight? Or does he tell us all what happened and get the interview with Rudy?”
“Blackmail! I accept under duress. And he won’t enjoy it either!”
Rudy shook his head thoughtfully at her angry reply. “You are not getting a bargain here, Herr . . . Murphy, is it? She must go out with you for at least three nights, or you can tell us why she hit you. Our orchestra is like a little family here, you see.” He inhaled deeply. “You see? Smell the coffee brewing? We even have breakfast together and we love gossip. Elisa should be nice to you.”
“It’s too late.” Elisa stood up. “I will never be nice to him.”
“In that case”—Murphy was still smiling—“three nights after performance. Coffee at Hotel Sacher . . . or I tell.”
“Then . . . yes! You are a cad. A stage-door Jäger! The love of decency does not abide in you!” Elisa stormed off.
Rudy extended his hand to Murphy. “Very good, Herr Murphy. I have never seen Elisa so . . . roused up, you might say. If you are all those terrible things, as I suppose most American journalists are, then I congratulate you! And you may have the interview gratis. You are a man after my own heart. As a matter of fact”—Rudy patted Murphy on the head—“we even look to be about the same size. You should wear proper attire tonight, I think. I have a fencing mask at home. Shall I bring it?”
Laughter rippled through the group. Elisa was the only one not backstage. She had taken refuge in the bathroom until the instant rehearsal was scheduled to begin, and then she slipped out to her chair, not daring to look up at any of her smirking friends.
***
Murphy had rented a tuxedo for the night’s occasion. As he took his place on the aisle of row ten, he felt confident that he matched the splendor of those in the audience around him. As the members of the orchestra filed in, Murphy noted with amusement that with only one exception, they all glanced toward him and indicated their approval of his presence with a barely perceptible nod or smile. He nodded back, raising his hand with a slight wave until those seated around him whispered their conjecture about who the handsome young man in the audience must be.
“Certainly someone important.”
“Then, why isn’t he in a private box?”
“Probably royalty.”
“Yes. The aristocracy are all impoverished. That explains it.”
So Murphy had become a duke or a prince for the duration of the performance. People bowed in deference to him during intermission. He did not speak to anyone for fear of blowing his cover. Throughout the night, only one person ignored his presence completely. Even though he knew he was in the clear line of Elisa’s vision, she did not acknowledge him once. As a matter of fact, she looked everywhere but at him. Occasionally Leah glanced his way, however, approval radiating from her eyes. He liked her a lot. She might prove to be a valuable ally as the season progressed, and he was quite sure that Leah liked him too.
The evening’s program was the Mozart violin concertos. The full orchestra was not performing, and Murphy noticed that there was no need at all for Shimon’s drums. He assumed that the big man was probably back home in bed. Rudy Dorbransky, however, soloed with a mastery of his violin that defied his claims to be little more than Vienna’s greatest cad.
Rudy had granted the interview that afternoon, and he had begun the conversation by claiming that nothing was more important to him than wine, women—and his violin. Then Murphy asked questions, and he had discovered that there was much more to the virtuoso performer than temperament. He was, off the record, deeply committed to an independent Austrian state.
“Without it,” Rudy said solemnly, “you will see us no more in Vienna. You will no longer hear our music. Vienna is a melting pot. Tonight you will hear the sweet melodies of Wolfgang Mozart. The Nazis will claim his music is only theirs. But he was not a German. He was Austrian—a part of the great nation of Austro-Hungary ruled by Franz Josef. Listen, Herr Murphy, there is beauty and love and acceptance in the music. Austria gives birth to Mozart, and the Germans compose the ‘Horst Wessel’ song, ja? And ‘Deutschland Über Alles—Germany Over All.’” He stretched out his strong hands. “That is one tune my fiddle does not know. If such terrible songs come to Austria, then I will leave. Like the rest, I will run! In the meantime I will not step down from the stage because some madman shoots his pistol from the gallery. You ask me if I am afraid? I play the music of my Austria; he plays something else. As long as there is Austria, I am not afraid.”
Murphy had wanted to tell him to get his passport in order, that the end of Austria seemed to be approaching, but he did not. He only listened with admiration to the words of Rudy Dorbransky, as now he listened with awe to the music he played so beautifully. In the end Rudy had asked him not to print his brave words. “They are for my heart alone to know, and certainly there are those in Vienna who would kill me more readily for what I have told you. There is no use stirring the kettle to boil. Let them think I am a mindless, harmless Jewish violinist. It is much safer that way for me.”
As Murphy listened to the depth of emotion expressed in Rudy’s playing, he wondered how anyon
e could think the man was mindless. And with that realization, Murphy shuddered at the thought that there was indeed a mindlessness that would silence such great talent because the definition of beauty had somehow become linked with race and blood and Aryan culture. Rudy’s self-made image of “man-about-town” may have protected him on some levels, but it could not protect him from what was coming. Not even the profundity of his talent would protect him from the brutality of those who defined beauty as German-Aryan.
Murphy had never actually intended to write an interview with Rudy Dorbransky for publication. He had only used that as an excuse for his presence at the hall that morning. He had come to see Elisa. Now, as he watched the young man in the spotlight, then turned his eyes on Elisa, he was struck again by the madness of German rhetoric. Rudy was openly Jewish in a culture threatened by the insanity of Mein Kampf. Elisa carried her mixed race with the confusion and secrecy of one who had already seen the vision of fire and yet could not believe that the flames were even now licking at her heels. Rudy had already decided when he would leave. Elisa refused to acknowledge that she would ever leave. This made Rudy more sensible than Elisa in a thousand ways.
This morning’s barter had been a game; but the truth was, even as Murphy sat through the performance, he was calculating how he might best persuade Elisa that Hitler’s fire was about to leap over the Alps and consume the varied beauty of Austria, whose citizens, for the most part, believed that differences made life more interesting. It certainly kept after-dinner conversation lively and coffeehouses open and flourishing until all hours. Unhappily, these very differences threatened to destroy Austria. The radical left and the violent right had, in their fanaticism, caught the vast, reasonable center in a terrible cross fire. Chancellor Schuschnigg shuttled back and forth between the two extremes, trying to bring reconciliation to them all, even as Hitler’s secret vassals, the wolves of the Reich, gnawed away the foundations of reason.
Reason! Yes. That is the word. And how can I make her listen to reason? If Theo Lindheim had survived, she would be out of here by now. She adored her father. She would have listened to him. What can I say to her? What?