by Bodie Thoene
“Europe is awash with art treasures,” Craine was saying. “I picked up these candlesticks for a song in Munich last year. They are from a synagogue there. Quite lovely. I thought it appropriate to light the room with them. Candlesticks from a Jewish synagogue, a table from a nunnery. You see, at least I unite two hostile religions in my dining room!”
Polite laughter answered him. Polite but reserved, Murphy thought. Maybe Murphy wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy about this. Charles Lindbergh grinned with genuine approval, however, and he ate heartily. Lindy was convinced that Hitler had done great things for Germany. He did not seem to notice that those who objected in Germany simply vanished, and their possessions turned up in the house of some Reich official of high or low rank, depending on the value of the item. Lindbergh had made no secret of his admiration for “things German.” And now Adolf Hitler was about to reciprocate with the highest medal the Nazi Reich could award to a noncitizen.
The thought made Murphy’s food stick in his throat. He had seen what had happened, first in Germany and now in Austria. Sitting here tonight and trying to eat by the light of confiscated candlesticks from a synagogue made him feel like a traitor. The thought of traveling with Lindbergh to visit the Führer made him feel ill, not to mention angry. The order not to talk politics grew more dim with every passing moment.
“Winston Churchill believes that Hitler has his eye on Prague,” Murphy blurted out. “That ought to bring in quite a haul of art.”
The murmur of conversation grew still. Craine, whom Murphy had interrupted in the midst of a story about serving dishes, glared at Murphy. “And so what if the Germans annex the Czech Sudetenland? Everyone there speaks German.”
“Except for those who speak Czech,” Murphy countered. Even in the soft glow of the candlelight, he watched his host’s craggy face redden.
“How does that affect us in America?” The taboo was smashed. Politics, the most dreaded of all violations at the dinner table, loomed like a horrible specter in the hall.
“It may make the value of art drop,” Murphy replied. “There is already a glut on the market. But then I suppose there will be lots of folks over here who will just buy, buy, buy. I had my eye on the statues on Charles Bridge. Ever seen the statues on Charles Bridge, Mr. Craine?”
Craine was smiling now. His eyes had narrowed like a cat watching the tiny mouse hole at feeding time. “As a matter of fact, young man, I have walked the Charles Bridge many times. There is a statue there of St. Nepomuk. His motto is Tacui. Silence.”
The message was unmistakable, but Murphy had gone too far to stop now. “Yes. He died for keeping his silence. Protecting someone. You like that statue, Mr. Craine? I like the statues of the saints who died for speaking out.”
Craine lifted his chin slightly. “And the motto of such foolish men might be mortui non mordent.” He lifted his bushy eyebrow. “Dead men carry no tales.”
Guests laughed nervously at their host’s reply. Clever, clever man, thought Murphy. “That is what the pirates say in Treasure Island, isn’t it? Kill their victims. Steal their gold. Nobody left to talk about it.” Murphy gestured toward the silver candlesticks. “And the pirates walk away with the booty.” No one laughed. The sound of a fork against a plate sounded loud.
Craine’s left cheek twitched angrily, even though the iron-hard smile remained frozen on his face. “Then perhaps you should make your motto, Cave quid dicis? Beware what you say, when, to whom.”
“That’s a tough order for a journalist with ethics, Mr. Craine.”
This last insult finally stung the old man beyond his limit of self-control. His flush deepened and his eyes widened with rage. “You take too much liberty! Yes, that’s it, too much liberty! You! You!” he sputtered, throwing his napkin onto his plate.
Murphy rose from the table. “Liberty,” he mused. “Yes, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” He left the room feeling better than he had in quite a while.
***
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that John Murphy had thrown his job into the toilet and flushed it away.
“This way, Mr. Murphy.” The butler looked amused as he led Murphy out toward the waiting limousine. Murphy was still dressed in his dinner jacket and was being hurried away in the dark from San Sebastian without any of the suits hanging in the closet.
Outside the front portals, a gleeful, slightly drunk Clark Gable caught up with Murphy and grabbed him by the arm. “Where ya goin’ now, kid?” he asked.
Carole Lombard rushed out the door and joined them, laughing breathlessly. “What a night!” she exclaimed. “That was great! Ought to be in a script! And after you left, Clark stood up and told the old man that what you said went double for him, and besides that—” she giggled helplessly and embraced Murphy—“he told Craine that he loved to go hunting! Imagine! Asked Craine if he could go out and shoot a couple of his giraffes tonight!” She was roaring with laughter. Yet another taboo had been broken. No doubt Gable and Lombard would not be asked back to San Sebastian.
Gable was busy scribbling something on the inside cover of a matchbook. “Here.” He thrust it into Murphy’s hand. “You goin’ to ‘frisco? Stop by and tell ’em that Clark sent ya, kid. Tell ’em what you said. It happened one night, right?” The big man was also laughing as Murphy stood stunned beside the open door of the limousine. They had not even noticed him before now.
“Thanks, Mr. Gable.” The two men shook hands warmly.
“I admire a guy with guts,” Gable replied. Then he turned to his beautiful companion. “Come on, Carole; let’s get out of this joint. I hear there’s some good duck hunting over near Bakersfield!” He shouted the last comment, hoping that Craine would hear him.
Murphy shoved the matchbook into his pocket as the automobile wound slowly down the long road toward the coast highway. Twenty minutes later, the gate to the Craine property was raised and Murphy asked the driver, “Where are you taking me?”
With a shrug, the driver stopped just outside the gate beside the dark, lonely road that ran along the California coastline. “Right here. Mr. Craine’s orders. ‘Take him to the road and give him the boot,’ he said. Sorry. This is the end of the line.”
And so, at twenty after midnight, John Murphy stood outside the gates of the Craine Castle and untied his bow tie. He was leaving a little better off than he came, at any rate. At least he was wearing a dinner jacket now instead of coveralls. It was a long way to ‘frisco and no traffic was in sight, but at least Murphy was a free man again.
***
Leah was almost back to the apartment before the image of the empty cupboards and hungry children intruded on her thoughts. If they were forced to remain in hiding, then she would have to buy food enough to survive on for a while.
She mentally calculated her funds. What had been meant for train tickets would have to be stretched to feed them for an uncertain time period. She fingered the bills and few meager coins in her pocket. Stopping on the crowded sidewalk outside a pastry shop, she caught her own small, worried reflection in the glass as dozens of uniformed men walked past her and shouldered their way into the shop.
She turned away and resolutely began the two-mile walk toward the farmers market. There, Austrian farmers brought heaps of fresh vegetables to sell to local housewives and grocers from the central areas of the city. Produce was less expensive when purchased in the open-air square, even if it was more inconvenient. Leah and Shimon had shopped there a thousand times and had come home with bags full of everything from fresh trout to cabbages. Always before, the shopping excursion had been carefree and full of playful bartering. But that had been before.
This afternoon, the trip to the farmers’ market was an encounter with terror. Nearly every street had been converted to one-way traffic. This made it easier for the SS men and Gestapo agents who manned the innumerable barricades and roadblocks to stop vehicles and pedestrians for document checks.
Men and women were still being arrested on s
ight if their papers were not in order. Beyond the barricades leading into the marketplace, Germans bargained with Austrian farmers for food that was being bought up in massive quantities for shipment back to the large cities of Germany. Undisguised resentment stamped the faces of many Viennese as the huge troop transports that had carried soldiers into the city now carried heaping cargos of food away from it.
Leah stopped to stare into the window of a shoe store as she tried to gather her thoughts. Twenty-five yards away was the end of a long line of pedestrians waiting to cross the barricade into the market. How could she pass without being stopped? And if she was stopped, how could she avoid arrest? How clever are these agents of Hitler, she thought. They make it impossible even to purchase food without the stamp of Nazi racial approval. The terrifying reality of her predicament came crashing down on her once again. She could not go forward into the line, but how could she go back to the apartment without food for the boys?
She closed her eyes for an instant as if to shut out the nightmare that had become Vienna. What was she to do now?
A tap on her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts. “Frau Feldstein?” a man’s voice whispered.
Leah opened her eyes with a start and drew her breath in sharply as she faced a small man in a green wool Jäger’s jacket. He was in his seventies, Leah guessed. He regarded her kindly, but his eyes darted fearfully from her face to the barricade and SS men, then back to her again. She did not reply but simply stared at him. The fear had become reality. She had been recognized.
The little man tugged on her arm. “Come into my shop, quickly,” he said softly. She noticed that he wore a cobbler’s leather apron beneath his jacket.
Stunned, Leah followed the man through the glass door of the tiny shop. The smell of leather filled her senses. A bell above the door jingled as he shut out the sounds of the sidewalk behind them.
Leah stood rooted in the center of the shop. The little shoemaker regarded her with undisguised pity. “Leah Feldstein. I have heard you perform many times. The Sunday matinee.”
“I . . . I . . . I . . . am not . . . ” she began, but trying to deny her identity was foolish and useless.
The little man simply smiled kindly. He drew down the shade and flipped the Closed sign over.
“We feared you had been arrested. Your husband, we heard, was taken the first day.”
Leah just stared at him in reply. What could she say? Like the man in the pawnshop who had robbed her of her violoncello by a threat, this man could also call the authorities.
“You have come to the farmers market,” he continued. “Not a safe place. They will arrest you here.”
“What do you want?” Leah asked hoarsely, wondering why she had not run away when he first said her name on the street. Now she was trapped. The door of the shop was locked. The Gestapo and the police van were half a block away.
“It is not safe for you.” The shoemaker shuffled past her. “You. Such a great cellist. You will certainly be recognized, and they will arrest you and throw you into prison, as they have done with every other brilliant and talented Jew in Vienna.” His face contracted into an angry mass of wrinkles. “They are thieves, all of them.”
“Will you call the Gestapo?” Leah could see the face of the pawnbroker once again. In her mind, the fresh pain of watching the cello pass into the hands of the vile man stung her once again. “What do you want? I can’t pay you. I haven’t got enough even for . . . ”
The shoemaker shook his head vigorously. “Frau Feldstein! It is an honor to have such an artist in my shop!” he exclaimed. “How would I ask you for anything? I must ask instead what desperate need has brought you out into such danger! I go to the concerts and you are not there. They fill your place with a cellist who cannot distinguish forte from piano, and my wife and I worry and worry about the little cellist Leah Feldstein who must surely be in a dungeon someplace, and . . . ”
Leah stared at him in disbelief. At last she was faced with someone in this vast city who was concerned! The outpouring of his sympathy caused her façade to crack. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “I only came out to buy . . . for food,” she said through her tears. “I have not seen . . . I do not know what they have done . . . ”
“There, there, Frau Feldstein!” The shoemaker clucked his tongue. “Of course you must eat. You have fed half the souls in Vienna with the beauty of your playing! Wait here! Wait here! I am just an old man of no use to anybody. A shoemaker without a talent these Nazi beasts might envy and destroy! Wait here, Frau Feldstein. I will purchase your food for you, and it will be an honor to do so!”
He quickly dragged a chair over for Leah to sit in, and then, with a timid pat on her back to comfort her, he slipped out the door and stepped into the long line waiting entrance into the farmers market.
***
It was dusk when Leah entered the lobby of the apartment building, her arms laden with groceries. Herr Hugel regarded her with a cold sneer from the half-open door of his quarters.
Even before she entered the apartment, Leah knew that something was terribly wrong. Propping the grocery bag against the doorjamb, she stepped cautiously into the dreadful silence of the dark room. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom after a moment. She could see the pencil and paper on the table just as it had been when she left the boys hours ago.
A sickening fear welled up in her. She quickly brought in the sack of food, closed the door, and switched on the light. Where were the boys?
“Louis?” she whispered. “Charles?”
There was no answer. The bathroom door was ajar, the toilet seat up. The place had an unpleasant odor, sour and forbidding.
“Louis?” she called again, opening the bedroom door. Curtains askew. Dresser drawer slightly open.
What had the strange, triumphant look of the fat concierge meant? “Charles?” she called, her voice half choked.
A muffled, sleepy reply came from under the bed. “Aunt Leah?” Two blond heads peeped out from beneath the footboard as the boys squirmed out from a space so small she could not have imagined they could fit!
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly certain that indeed Herr Hugel had been here. “You’re safe!” She knelt down and they ran to her, burying their faces against her and weeping silently with relief that she had come home.
“He came here,” Louis said quietly through his tears. “He was . . . he came for us, Aunt Leah.”
“But he didn’t find you!” She stroked their heads and wiped their tears.
“Don’t go away again!” Louis cried, while Charles simply laid his head against her shoulder and patted her back.
30
Abduction
“That was Wilhelm on the phone,” Anna called to Elisa from the kitchen. “Finished his first solo flight, and he’s coming home tonight for dinner!”
Anna had accepted Wilhelm’s enrollment in the Cadet Air Corps stoically, Elisa thought, and perhaps even with a touch of pride. Over the weeks she had seldom worried openly, and when she did, Theo had chided her gently. “You married a flyer, remember?” he would say. “Can you expect your sons to stay planted on the ground?”
Such a reminder had always calmed her, and the very nearness of Theo seemed to make the whole world a less fearsome place. Like Theo, Anna believed in the treaties that Czechoslovakia had with the French and British. Even when the riots in the Sudeten territories became more fierce, Anna clung to the belief that it was a civil matter that could not involve the air force, and certainly Prague was far removed from such things. She was, in fact, more concerned about the rickety airplanes Wilhelm flew than she was about the threat of Nazis in Czech-Sudetenland or any possibility that the German army might cross the border and claim that territory for the Reich.
Elisa could see in her father’s eyes, however, that he did not hold the same illusions as Anna. When the venomous voice of Hitler crackled over the radio, Theo ordered that it be turned off instantly. But they both knew that refusing to belie
ve the danger did not lessen the reality of the threat.
Tonight the evening meal was a special occasion in the little house in Prague. For the first time in over a year, Theo was to resume his place at the head of the table. And dear Wilhelm would sit proudly beside him in his airman’s uniform.
Elisa spread the lace tablecloth as her mother worked in the kitchen. The whole house was scented with the delicious aroma of chicken roasting in an orange-cranberry glaze. It had always been a favorite of Theo’s, and Anna had prepared it especially for tonight. True, Elisa thought, it is not the grand table we enjoyed in Berlin, but that does not matter. It is the faces around the table that count. Nothing else.
Elisa decided that she would not ruin such an event by letting her countenance reflect even a moment of sadness or worry. For the sake of her father and mother, she would smile tonight and laugh as if there were no haunting dreams or terrifying reality shouting from her soul.