by Bodie Thoene
“I’ll be careful,” Elisa promised. Both knew she was not speaking of finding proper employment in America.
42
Losing Hope
Thomas had heard it all at Berchtesgaden, and now the words of Hitler to the Austrian chancellor haunted him:
“I would willingly spare the Austrians this; it will cost many victims. The troops will come first, then the S.A. and the legion! No one will be able to hinder the vengeance—not even I!”
The Führer had made it sound as though the vengeance would not come to Austria if only . . . but Thomas and a handful of others knew differently. He had seen the blueprint for Plan Otto. Hitler and the Nazis in Austria had failed to win the country by terror and coercion. Now was the moment to enact force. There was no if only.
Thomas stared at the newspaper that announced the resignation of Anthony Eden. On the same page was a speech Hitler had made to the Reichstag about Schuschnigg’s visit to Berchtesgaden:
I express my sincere thanks to the Austrian chancellor for his great understanding and warm-hearted willingness with which he accepted my invitation and worked with me.
Hope was finished for Austria. Thomas understood that. Everyone in the embassy understood that there would be no help from France or Britain if Hitler decided to invade. An air of expectancy permeated the place, almost suffocating Thomas. He thought about Elisa and wondered what she was involved with. How had she come by the secret documents about her father? What would happen to her when the inevitable end came to Austria?
The afternoon dragged slowly by. Thomas changed into civilian clothes and made his way to the crowded café where he picked at this dinner and prayed that Elisa would call him. Surely she remembered all he had told her. With the fall of Anthony Eden in England, she must sense that the end was fast approaching for her beloved Vienna.
Amid the smoke and the boisterous conversation of the Frenchmen who had come to argue the day’s events at the café, Thomas could barely hear the jingle of the telephone when it rang. He stared toward the proprietor of the café expectantly, but the call was not for him.
Thomas did not drink wine tonight. He sipped cups of strong coffee until his frayed nerves felt tightly wound enough to break, and listened to the conversation around him.
Eight o’clock:
“What is Austria to us?”
“And what was the Rhineland? The Germans will not dare to bother us, so what do we care?”
Nine o’clock:
“It is a small country, yes! But in the heart of Europe! If the Nazis take control, they cut off Czechoslovakia.”
“Czechoslo . . . who cares? I cannot even say the name of it!”
“That is because you have too much wine in you, Emil!”
It was nearly ten before the phone rang and the well-fed proprietor wiped his hands on his apron, then answered it on the fifth ring. Thomas watched him. He nodded, spoke in a loud voice, then looked around the room in search of someone.
“Thomas!” he called. “Your lady!” He raised his eyebrows suggestively as Thomas sprang up and walked quickly to the phone.
“Hello, darling!” His voice was light with relief.
If anyone around could hear the conversation above the din, they would have heard the words of a man talking to the woman he loved.
“Yes, I know all about it. It is as it seems . . . Yes, darling, please come at once. I can’t bear to have you there, so far away from me. Please listen to me—I have never meant anything more in my life! You must come to me! I was there! I heard it all, and you must believe me.”
His voice registered disappointment. His woman was obviously not ready to come to him. He continued to plead for a few moments longer. “There is no more time. It is over, darling! Over!”
The Frenchmen in the café assumed that some great affaire du cour had just ended for the German who spent his evenings among them. Love affairs always ended, and new ones began. Why then did the handsome German called Thomas look so pale when he hung up the phone? He seemed almost frightened as he took his hat and staggered out onto the blustery winter street.
One of the Frenchmen shrugged. “Too much coffee. One should always have the good sense to drink wine before ending a love affair!”
***
Theo was uncertain how long he drifted in the white mists. He was aware of a murmur of voices, the clang of metal, warm liquid soothing his skin and voices calling the name “Stern . . . Herr Stern” again and again.
Through his soaring fever, he was dimly aware of white sheets, white walls, sunlight streaming through a window. Someone lifted his head and placed a cup to his lips. He drank warm broth and the voices praised him from the mist. “Sehr gut, Herr Stern . . . gut.” He awoke again to the sound of footsteps echoing briskly against a tiled floor. Gently hands stroked him, bathed him, dressed him. He wondered if he had died, but his aching body dissuaded him. No. He was not free yet.
“Herr Stern . . . where is your family?” German voices coaxed him.
He did not answer. He would not. This kindness—the food, the care—was simply a trick to make him tell where Elisa was and Anna and the boys. He would have none of it, and long after he was able to form words and speak, he remained silent.
“His mind is gone.”
“Herr Stern? Can you hear my voice?”
“Herr Stern, if you will tell us where your family is, we can get word.”
Theo lay very still. He would not open his eyes until they were gone. He would not betray his family. He would not.
“Who is he?”
“Not Professor Julius Stern. No. They say the professor died. This one should have died as well.”
“Will we send him back?”
There was no answer. The footsteps left his bedside, and Theo opened his eyes. Thoughts came with difficulty. He tried to piece the days and nights together, but time had vanished. He could grasp none of the events since the professor was shot. It was obvious that Theo had been taken to a hospital. The smell of disinfectant was strong. His own body was clean, even if it was unrecognizable. He still wore the wristband with the name J. Stern inscribed on it. Why had they mentioned the professor? he wondered.Why had they brought him here and pulled him from the brink of death? Was it truly to trick him into telling the whereabouts of his family?
Theo was certain that, indeed, they would send him back. Back to Dachau or some other dark place. But now he would rest silently. He would drink their broth. It was good, and he could feel strength returning to him. He would take what they offered without offering them the information they wanted in return.
“Herr Stern? Do you have a wife?”
He would not say the name of Anna, who was by now safe in the little house in Prague.
“Where is your family, Herr Stern? We must know if we are to tell them you are ill . . . Herr Stern? Can you hear?”
He would not mention sweet Elisa, who still played her violin in Vienna.
“Perhaps the fever has made him deaf.”
He would not tell them of the men and women he had worked with for the sake of the children. So many children in Germany . . .
“Have you any colleagues? Anyone at all we might get a message to?”
This was only a temporary reprieve from death. He had seen his own fate as he watched the men of Barrack 8 die. He knew that he must also die at the whim of his captors, but for now, he would not give them even a small satisfaction.
“Herr Stern? Herr Stern? Are you feeling better? Herr Stern? Can you hear me?”
“The fever destroyed his mind, I tell you. This one might as well have been left to die.”
***
As though drawn by some invisible hand, Elisa stood overlooking Dachau once again. Behind her, the taxi driver sat behind the wheel with the engine still running. He was impatient with her curiosity about such a place as this. She was paying him handsomely for the side trip, but still he did not like it.
She stood on the hill and stared. Her skin
was very pale and she did not move until at last he called to her out the window. “Fraülein!”
She glanced briefly at him.
“Are you planning on coming here on your next holiday?” He joked, but the machine guns and high walls were no joke. Being here in broad daylight was no joke either. “Hurry up!” he yelled, “or I am leaving.”
Elisa tossed her head and turned away from the sight of the grim place. She carried no hope in her heart now, but somehow it was like standing at a graveside. No, not at a graveside. There was peace in that, and there was no peace here!
“Fraülein!” the driver called again.
Elisa nodded and climbed back into the taxi. “It is so big,” she said as though she had not seen it before.
“And they always have room for more,” the driver returned. “Why do you want to come to such a place?” He wheeled around.
“I knew someone here,” she answered.
“A guard or a prisoner?”
“Not a prisoner,” she answered. Her father was free now. He had still been a free man inside the walls, of that she was certain.
“There are as many prisoners now as free men,” the driver mumbled, and Elisa sensed he did not like the way things were moving in Germany.
She did not reply, and they rode back to the city in silence. Inside the hotel her passport was checked again at the desk, and a tall corpulent man with a square face and broad shoulders questioned her purpose for being in Munich.
“I am a musician,” she answered truthfully. “I am here perhaps to purchase another instrument. I understand that there are many available for sale here at reasonable prices.” In fact, she had carried the violin to Munich to drop off nine concealed passports at the shop of an instrument repair man a few blocks from the Marienplatz. This was the most simple of all the operations so far. There were no unhappy children or brokenhearted parents to deal with. It was a simple matter of leaving the case and returning half an hour later. She had recognized the name of the repair shop the minute Leah mentioned it to her. Once before, Elisa had needed an adjustment on her bridge when she had played in Munich, and she had taken the Steiner into the shop of this very man.
“Yes,” the man behind the tall desk answered. “Since we are getting rid of the Jews, you can find a thousand bargains. From diamonds to musical instruments, I suppose.” He frowned and looked at the passport. “You are a Czech national? Married to an American. Ja. So that is why you speak such good German.” He smiled and handed her back the document. “Danke, Frau Murphy. I hope you enjoy your stay and find what you are looking for.”
The encounter had been uncomplicated. She was relieved as she settled into her room overlooking the old part of Munich. She hugged the violin case and looked down the Marienplatz. She felt somehow as if she were rescuing her father. He was dead, she knew, but to help others made her feel as though she were helping him.
How many thousands were there right now in Munich, she wondered, who looked for some miracle to save them from this madness? And how many more were there like the instrument mender, who worked discreetly in their little workshops to help the trickle of human life flow to freedom?
She wished that her father could have found someone to shelter him last year when his plane was forced down. Couldn’t God have led him to an instrument maker? Or a tailor? Or a farmer with a heart that remembered freedom? “Why didn’t You lead him, God?” she asked for the first time since Thomas had told her that there was nothing more to hope for.
She thought about her mother. When Anna accepted Theo’s death, she let go. There was nothing left to be done, and too many questions could only lead to despair. Perhaps there was one thing to do: make certain that she would help as many as she could who might find themselves in the same terrible situation as Theo had.
Elisa took her evening meal in her room. She wore the gold band on her finger and kept the American passport within reach at all times. When she slept, the passport folder rested on the night table beside her bed. It was her one tenuous hold on courage. Frau Murphy, they had called her. The name sounded American. Beyond question of the Gestapo. The thought helped Elisa to sleep a deep and dreamless sleep. Tonight there were no nightmares of trains or boxcars full of bones; when she awoke, she was hungry and eager to accomplish what she had come for.
***
It was market day again. The organization picked the most crowded times for her to come to the city. Elisa ate well at the hotel, although she could tell the citizens of Munich were not able to get hot rolls and butter as easily as she could. There were long lines of scowling women waiting outside the bakery in the Marienplatz.
Elisa held tightly to the case and made her way through the throngs toward the instrument shop. There were no lines outside its door, and the glass windows revealed that there were no customers inside. She smiled confidently. It was all so well planned, so beautifully arranged. This was not a place where any illegal activities would be suspected.
A carved wood violin hung above the door. Elisa recognized it, and even remembered the old violin maker when he greeted her from behind the curtain of his workshop and shuffled out to help her. The place smelled like varnish and wood shavings. Like home. Of course a violin maker would help! He understood souls, music, prayers in the melodies. No one like that could stand by and watch lives destroyed. Why didn’t Papa remember this place and come here when he needed help?
The thought pained her. For an instant, she tried to rewrite the story, tried to see her father here in his uniform asking the old Bavarian instrument maker for shelter. If Elisa had been God, she would have written it that way. And Elisa would be carrying Theo’s passport to him right now. But it was not to be.
“Guten Morgen!” The old man adjusted his eyeglasses in appreciation of the lovely young woman before him. He did not remember her, or the fact that she had come to him with the Steiner years before. Or if he did recall, he did not mention it. As a matter of fact, there was not even a hint that anything unusual might be happening here. “How may I help you?” He looked at the band of her finger. “Frau—”
“Murphy.” Elisa gave her new name. She felt proud of it, even if it was all pretense. “I need my bridge adjusted.” She opened the case and pulled back the blue scarf.
The old man stared at the Guarnerius as if it were an old friend. “Ja.” His voice grew distant, and Elisa imagined that at some time Rudy must have come into this very place. Or perhaps Irmgard Schüler, the woman murdered with him in Vienna, had carried it here?
His old eyes misted slightly. He touched the Guarnerius. “Of course. Frau Murphy. A beautiful instrument.” He cleared his throat as if to rid himself of emotion. He lifted the Guarnerius, then plucked the strings to enact the little charade. A slight smile played on his lips. He seemed to be remembering.
“When should I come back, mein Herr?” she asked him, suddenly remembering that the name of the shop was Guarnerius Violin Repairs. “You are fond of Guarnerius violins?” Elisa smiled at him. He was almost cradling the instrument.
“Ja, this one especially.” he whispered. There was no one to hear.
Elisa had guessed correctly. The old man had been part of the whole plan while Elisa was imagining that Rudy was an irresponsible playboy. The old man knew the Guarnerius. “It is magic,” Elisa said, noticing the tears brimming in his faded blue eyes.
“Yes.” His whisper was so quiet. “Once my father’s. Once mine. Then my daughter’s; then into the hands of a master. Now yours.”
“Your daughter?” Elisa tried to make a connection. The old man’s name was Töne. Rudy had gotten the violin from Irmgard Schüler.
“Her name was Irmgard,” said the old man. “Töne before she married. Yes. She was mine.” His face became animated as Elisa pieced it all together. She would have embraced the old man, but just then the bell above the door jingled and another customer entered with a young boy in tow.
“A half hour then, Herr Töne?” Elisa said as though nothing h
ad passed between them.
“No more. A quick walk through the marketplace is all, Frau Murphy.” He quickly put away the Guarnerius and turned his eyes on the woman and her son as Elisa left the shop.
She felt suddenly as though she wanted to cry. There had been so much that Leah had not told her. Leah had defended Irmgard Schüler before Elisa had known anything at all. The old man had lost his daughter in the battle. How many children had he saved who were not his own? He could have turned his back and claimed that they were not his responsibility, but he had not. And the priceless violin, the Guarnerius that his father had named the shop for, had become his offering to the service of God’s work. He had lost his daughter. Elisa had lost her father. In a way, they shared a fellowship of suffering that made them family.
She wished she could comfort the old man when she returned for the violin, but the shop was now occupied with two other customers. Herr Töne addressed her with correct distance, accepted payment, and she knew that nine passports had been left behind; and the old man had sent his heart back with her to get more of the same!
***
The crash of breaking dishes awakened Theo from a deep sleep. The voice of a man cursed, then retreated down the hall.
Theo propped himself up on his elbow and looked out the window at a patch of clean blue sky. He looked around the small, spotless hospital room, sensing that very soon he would be taken from this place. There had been something in the urgency of the voices that disturbed him. They knew his body had grown stronger, but they remained convinced that his mind had been damaged by the ordeal of imprisonment and his terrible illness. They would inevitably take him away. He had heard it in their voices.
Outside in the hallway he could hear two women talking angrily, but he could not understand their words. There was a harshness that sent a chill down him. Perhaps they had come to take him back.
He had done his best to prepare himself if that was the case. In the night, when they only entered his room occasionally, Theo had lain awake and exercised, slowly and deliberately tightening, then releasing the muscles in his legs and arms. When the corridors were still and the night-duty nurse had passed by his room, he would sit up and place weight on his legs until he was certain that he could walk again. Not far, but at least from the barracks of Dachau to the morning roll call. Perhaps some prisoner younger and stronger than Theo would help him through the work at the quarry just as he had helped the professor. Perhaps he could survive the ordeal a little longer. He still had hope to offer the others, after all.