Vienna Prelude (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  “I know how difficult it must be for you to respect me after—”

  “You want to earn my respect?” she snapped, wishing that she could maintain a cool reserve, but suddenly finding that it had vanished. “Read that!” She jerked her head toward the file. “Then do something about it.”

  He blanched, as though she had slapped him across the face. In a way her challenge was a slap—to startle him into the realization that winning her back was not simply a matter of a promise of marriage, a bed, and a fire in the fireplace. He hesitated, then picked up the file. Opening it, he sank slowly to the edge of the bed as he read all the details of Theo’s escape and saw his own name mentioned in the report as well. And Theo was alive! In Dachau, but as of ten days ago, he was still alive.

  “Where did you get this?” His voice was ominous; he recognized that such a file could be obtained only under great risk.

  “None of your business.”

  “What are you involved in, Elisa?” he demanded.

  “I want my father home.”

  “Elisa, do you know what it means to have such a file?”

  “Do you know what it means to know my father is rotting away in Dachau?”

  “I let him escape,” he said defensively.

  “And they caught him when his plane was forced down. You did nothing.”

  “I didn’t know. Canaris said he had been killed. I thought—”

  “If I can find out the truth, why can’t you?”

  He stared helplessly at the pages of the document. “I . . . I just don’t know what the truth is anymore.” He shook his head and looked at her pleadingly. “I thought, hoped, that what we once had was true.”

  “If it had been anything more than lust, Thomas, you could not have let me go.”

  He gazed at her. There was truth in her words. But he hadn’t really known what love was then. “I had to live without you before I knew how empty my life was.”

  “And I had to live without you before I found how full life could be.” Her answer cut him, and he winced with the sting of it.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, seeming embarrassed now by the bed and the flickering firelight. “How can I prove to you—make you love me again?”

  “I won’t love you again.” Her words were firm.

  He stood and walked toward her, pulling her to him and kissing her as she struggled against him. Again and again he kissed her until she simply accepted his kisses without response. When her coldness finally penetrated his consciousness, he pushed her aside. “What has happened to you?”

  “My heart now belongs to someone else. It isn’t yours to command anymore.”

  “And now you command my heart,” he said miserably. “Tell me what you want. You loved me once. I can make you love me again.” For an instant she shivered, as if she could read his thoughts.

  “Not that way,” she warned. “I will never love you if you force me—never.”

  The thought evidently left as quickly as it had appeared, and he was a contrite little boy again. He sat down and put his head in his hands. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I have thought of nothing but you since—since I let you go away. Nothing but you.”

  She did not answer him for a long time. “My father loved you like a son, Thomas. I—” She thought of all the good times they had shared together. He had been her friend before they had fallen in love. She had always loved him in one way or another, and now she softened in the face of his abject misery.

  “Theo Lindheim is the only father I ever knew. Elisa, believe me, if I had known any of this. . . . You can see that I am implicated in the escape. Of course I saw him go. I couldn’t help except by letting him go, but surely you see that I love him too.” He began to weep softly. He had lost everything. “I thought if I stayed, I could make a difference.”

  She did not dare move to touch him or comfort him. But she softened her voice. “If you can contact the right people in Germany, we can pay to ransom him.”

  “I simply didn’t know that he was still alive—in that hole! Do you believe me, Elisa? I didn’t want any of this. I never wanted to give you up! I thought it would all blow over. But every day it gets worse. If only you knew! If only I could tell you what I’ve been doing.” He wondered if telling her of his secret missions as liaison between the German High Command and the English foreign minister would change her mind about him.

  “My father is alive,” she replied. “If you love him, if you love me as you say you do, then give me some hope! Tell me you’ll talk to them about him.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Even if you give me no hope of ever—” He could not finish. “Just tell me you can forgive me.” He held out his arms to her and almost automatically she moved toward him to embrace him.

  She stroked his hair. Poor Thomas. “Yes. We were always friends before. I almost forgot that. I loved you from the time we were children playing on the swings; you bailed out and broke your ankle. Remember?”

  He gave a short laugh. “And you were my nurse. A little tyrant! Always warning me, telling me what to do.” His words were muffled as he buried his face in the nape of her neck. “Tell me what to do now, Elisa. I will do it. Anything—just tell me.”

  She was suddenly sad that everything had gone so wrong between them. Of course, it would have been so easy to simply blame the world and Hitler and the darkness. But there was no use in looking for blame. Neither of them had been able to see beyond their passion. They had forgotten the simple things, the everyday things that had once made them fast friends. Now they were different people. Elisa was someone else, at any rate, and she felt that her future would lead her far away from this man who longed to hold her forever.

  She looked up into his face and smiled gently. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. Shall we bring it upstairs? Then we can talk together like when we were children making secret plans. And we’ll decide what to do.”

  ***

  Leah tossed the small packet onto Elisa’s table as the kettle shrieked on the stove. “I’m glad it went so easily for you,” Leah said cautiously, testing Elisa’s willingness to participate in yet another venture.

  “You’re glad.” Elisa caught the question in her friend’s voice and stood poised with the teakettle in her hand. “And what else?”

  “And”—Leah sat down and shoved the packet toward Elisa—“this.”

  “I am too tired to play guessing games.” Elisa did not even pour the water into her cup. Her legs still ached from the journey to the Ruppen-Alp. Her mind was swimming with thoughts about her father and Thomas and the children—faceless children with nowhere to go. “So tell me what you want, Leah. Why have you stayed up waiting for me half the night? I can barely see straight. Just tell me what you want to tell me; then let me go to bed, will you?”

  Leah looked tired too. She smiled a half smile and unwrapped the packet. Two passports spilled out onto the table—fresh, clean, official passports with the seal of Czechoslovakia embossed on the front.

  Elisa’s first thought was that these were the papers for the children she had just carted off to the Tyrol. She groaned. The three could have gone directly to Prague and saved her a trip.

  Leah flipped open the front cover and revealed photos of two very young children. One, Elisa guessed, was about two. The other was an infant. Residence was noted as Prague, and their names were Maxmillian Linder and Celeste Linder. Elisa was listed as their mother and Pietr Linder as their father.

  Elisa gasped and stared at the writing on the document. “Me?” she cried. “What is this, Leah?” She laughed and pitched the passports back at her unsmiling friend.

  “It was a decision we had to make while you were gone.”

  “What decision?” Elisa wished that Leah would have waited until morning to spring this on her.

  “Their real parents”—Leah opened the passports so that the cherubic faces of the children looked in on the conversation—“are Zionis
t activists.”

  “Like you.”

  “No.” Leah studied her to measure the effect of her words. “They are in Germany. Munich, to be precise. Their days may be numbered. If they are arrested, the sort of confinement Germany offers would be fatal to the children.”

  Elisa rested her cheek on her hand. “I’m so tired,” she whispered. “I am dead on my feet and you approach me like I am a cat about to spring and run away. Just talk plainly to me, Leah, or I may throw you out of the apartment.”

  Leah drew herself up. “All right. We need you to go to Munich to get the children. And then to take them to a safe house in Prague.”

  “Go back to Germany again?” Swastikas and barking SS men swarm before her eyes.

  “Yes. For the sake of two children.”

  Elisa studied the faces and names of the children. “Linder. Little Linder-kinder. My mother will be so proud to have grandchildren. I am happy to see they are not born out of wedlock. My husband’s name is Pietr? Is he handsome, Leah?”

  “Are you telling me you’ll go?” Leah looked confused by the punchy banter.

  “Yes. Anything. Only let me sleep awhile first.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, then? You are cleared for five days from the orchestra. We’re only doing small chamber pieces. We don’t need you right now, anyway.”

  “That makes me feel even better,” Elisa remarked dryly as she stood and stumbled out of the kitchen, kicked off her shoes, and fell into bed with her clothes still on.

  ***

  The risk of returning to Germany under a false passport and carrying illegal documents did not fully occur to Elisa until the train passed from Austrian soil onto Germany’s frontier. She relived the horror of her escape from Germany the year before as men and women in uniforms and trench coats swarmed onto the cars. But Elisa raised her chin and looked as though she were above the fear that seemed to course through the other passengers.

  Throughout the trip, she sat next to a young woman whose Aryan pedigree was impeccable. Her papers were in order, and yet she was ordered off the train and strip-searched simply because she had the dark hair and eyes and looks defined by the Nazi investigators as “Jewish.” The young woman did not return to her seat.

  If the searches going into Germany are so thorough, she wondered, what will it be like coming out of the country?

  “You are Czech?” asked the officer.

  Elisa was suddenly intimidated by the question. Would he not recognize that her accent was that of a Berliner? She had spent a good deal of time in Prague. The best she could do was imitate the high German accent of the Germans who lived in isolation in Prague. “German,” she answered. “But born in Czechoslovakia. As so many of our people.”

  “Aha!” He smiled at her answer. She was racially Aryan, and he accepted her reply. “Yes. You speak very well. We see quite a few Germans from Czechoslovakia . . . the Sudetenland, who speak a Slavic tongue as well.” He rocked on his heels in a self-satisfied way. “Natural, I suppose. Do you? Do you speak a Slavic language?”

  Elisa could speak a halting form of the Czech dialect. She did not know how to answer. “My parents were both from Berlin. They would not permit me to speak Czech, except to the housekeeper.”

  Yes, this was an appropriate answer. A good Aryan answer. Keep even the language pure. “Then you can help me, Fraülein,” he said with a smirk. “There is an elderly gentleman from Prague. A Slav. He speaks no German, and I cannot make myself understood. Would you—”

  Elisa’s smile froze on her face. If she refused to help, the officer would sense that something was wrong. If she accepted, then the elderly Czech would undoubtedly know that she was not from Prague. He would instantly take her for the foreigner she was. It was a dangerous game to play. “Ja. Herr Oberleutnant.” She addressed him in a title far above the rank indicated by the insignia on his uniform. This seemingly unintentional flattery pleased him.

  “Good! Come with me.”

  The smile still fixed on her face, she followed him down the corridor to where a little man sat, surrounded by three other Reich officials who questioned him in broken Czech.

  “Stand aside,” barked the officer who had questioned Elisa. “The Fraülein is from Prague. She can help us.”

  The little man looked at Elisa. The officer showed him her passport. Czechoslovakian. The emblem of his nation on the front. The man looked from the passport photo of Elisa back into her eyes again. She silently prayed that he would not give her away.

  “From Praha,” said the officer, laying his hand on Elisa’s shoulder.

  The man looked at the passport again and nodded grimly. Elisa managed a smile. She sat down beside him. Could he see her eyes pleading with him? Of course you will know. You will know I am not a native of your country. But please! Understand what this means.

  The Czech adjusted his pince-nez and greeted her cautiously.

  She replied in broken Czech. The corner of his mouth twitched. He did not let his eyes look at her passport again. From the instant she opened her mouth, he knew it was false. The knowledge flickered in his eyes for the barest instant; then he broke into a wide grin and greeted her in enthusiastic Czech, as though she were indeed from Prague.

  “I am so glad to have a fellow countryman to talk to!” he exclaimed.

  She felt the eyes of the German officers on her. “Thank you. And how can I now help?” The word order was mixed up. The little man paid no attention to her fractured use of his native tongue. He had grasped the situation and took firm control.

  “Tell the Germans I have come to visit my brother in Munich who is ill.” He repeated the message twice, slowly and in different intonations so that Elisa would understand.

  Dutifully, she repeated his words in German, which she hoped contained a trace of a Prague accent.

  “You sound almost like a native Berliner,” said one of the officers.

  “Her parents were from Berlin,” explained the officer who had brought her. “They had the good sense to shelter her from such a harsh and lowborn language as these Czechs speak.”

  The officers nodded in unison. It was easy to see that this lovely young woman was of the highest Aryan heritage. They watched her admiringly, and their attention was suddenly turned from the old man to the beautiful translator. A few more questions were directed toward him; then they began to question her.

  The old Czech looked at her quizzically. “Thank you, madam. We help each other in these times.”

  She left the compartment, still feeling cornered as the officer escorted her back to her own seat. “Now tell me why you have come to Germany at this time?” He smiled and rocked up on his toes again.

  “My family is from Germany,” she replied. “So much is happening here for the sake of the German people. I simply wanted to see—”

  “You are alone in Munich?” He tugged his earlobe thoughtfully.

  Jesu, juva! she silently prayed. She could see the spark of interest in the officer’s eyes. “Yes. Just sightseeing.”

  “I know Munich well. I am free tonight when we arrive in the Bahnhof. Would you allow an officer of the Reich to show you some of the sights?” He moved nearer to her.

  “Herr Oberleutnant,” she said demurely, “I am quite weary.”

  “Just an hour or two,” he insisted. “Have you had your evening meal?”

  Could he see the stab of fear that coursed through her? “I am . . . I . . .” She stumbled over the words as though she had forgotten how to speak German as well.

  “A favor.” He raised an eyebrow. “For the good relations between the Fatherland and the displaced Germans of the Sudeten, ja?”

  He was Gestapo. His very nearness made Elisa feel ill. And yet there was no way to escape him, it seemed. As the train lurched onward toward Munich, he sat down beside her in the empty place where the dark-skinned German girl had sat. What became of her? Elisa wondered. These men could do as they liked.

  She cleared her throat. “I do not know yo
u,” she said firmly.

  “I am an officer in the Reich. That is sufficient introduction,” he retorted.

  “Is that a guarantee that you are a gentleman?” she asked haughtily. She did not like the look in his eyes.

  “The Reich would not have it any other way.”

  Elisa knew that these new German supermen were paid a bonus for marriages to a woman of pure Aryan lineage. Blond-haired women with fair skin and light eyes were pursued and adored. Love was not a question in Germany. Only purity of race. “What can you show me of Munich in an hour?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Whatever you would like to see,” he answered, slapping his hand against his knee. “It is the New Year tonight! Heil 1938! There are dances, costume balls—” His eyes danced with excitement. “Would you like to see the beer hall where the Führer was arrested as a young man? I can show you where it all began, if you like, and then you may go back to Czechoslovakia and tell the Germans there that it will not be long before they can truly call themselves Germans again! Would you like that, Elisa?” He put his hand on hers. “I insist; as an officer of the Reich, I insist that you be my guest.” His voice was pleasant as he spoke, but there was no missing the fact that he had made a decision, and she would have to obey.

  “How can I refuse?” She played the role of a flattered woman.

  “You cannot,” he said with satisfaction. “You must be my guest for this evening in Munich, but I will be your slave, ja? I have an automobile at my disposal, wherever you wish to go. And if you decide you would like to stay longer than an hour or two, I am off duty until four o’clock tomorrow morning, when my train leaves for Berlin.”

  Elisa could not believe what was happening to her. As she stepped into the official staff car of the Gestapo agent outside the Munich train depot, she wondered if she might meet her father sooner than she had expected—in Dachau! She held tightly to the violin case and prayed that the officer would not see her hands shaking.

  “Herr Oberleutnant,” she began as the car pulled away from the curb.