by Bodie Thoene
***
Elisa could think of nothing now but a clean, hot bath. As Leah fixed her a meager supper of dumplings, Elisa soaked in the tub, drained the dirty water, and filled the tub a second time to scrub until her skin was pink. Only then could she think about food. Only then could she let herself remember Fiori at the bookstore and the fact that she was days later than he had told her to be.
“You should go to bed, Elisa, and rest.” Leah’s eyes were red-rimmed from grief and concern. Elisa was certain that even after her stay in prison, she did not look as ill as Leah did now. The weeks of unrelenting strain had taken a toll.
Elisa shook her head as she gingerly tasted a spoonful of hot broth. “I can’t,” she said hoarsely. “I can’t stay.”
“You are going to Paris?” Leah cried. “Oh, Elisa, you must not come back here! If you go to Paris, don’t come back!”
“You’re being foolish.” Elisa glanced toward the violin case. “I have to get your papers, don’t I? Didn’t I tell you? I will not abandon you, Leah.”
Leah dissolved into tears at the words of assurance.
But despite her outward firmness, Elisa did not feel strong. She remembered clearly the warning of Marian, one of her cell mates, that she would be released soon and then rearrested. To raise hope and then shatter it was the Nazi method of breaking human will.
“But I can’t believe that it will be safe for you here,” Leah said through her tears.
Charles and Louis peeked around the door of the kitchen. Their eyes betrayed their fear. Aunt Leah was crying. Elisa was going away again. Charles was still not well, and yet they could not fetch a doctor.
Elisa saw them and crooked her finger, inviting them in. She smiled and took Charles by the shoulders. “I am going to Paris to get you travel papers,” she said softly. “Would you like to go away from here? Would you like to play in a big grassy field or climb a tree?”
Charles nodded doubtfully.
Louis crowded in. “Can I go too?”
“Yes, you too,” Elisa promised. “But first you must be patient just a while longer. You must not be unhappy, but help your Aunt Leah while I am gone.”
“And will you get Shimon free too?” Louis asked. He had heard them talking about Shimon.
Elisa glanced at Leah, whose face was a mask of sorrow. “We will do our best. But for now we will think about you two.”
Charles tugged Elisa’s sleeve and imitated drawing a bow across the strings of a cello. Louis spoke for him. “And will you get Vitorio out of jail also?”
Amazing that the child thought of Leah’s cello at a moment like this. It was right somehow. He had no voice for his heart, and neither did Leah since she had sold the cello. “Yes,” his eyes seemed to say, “we must also find some way to rescue Vitorio!”
***
It did not matter if Fiori had decided she was too late to be of help. Elisa was going to Paris no matter what. The passport photos were safely concealed beneath the lining of the Guarnerius case. She was familiar with this routine. Enough money in the right places could buy the documents that would free Leah and Charles and Louis!
As she embraced each one in farewell, a wave of fear overwhelmed her. She had been so confident and sure when she had spoken to Leah about the protection of a loving God. But that had been before her arrest, before the stench of the prison cell and the bitterness of her cell mates. That had been before the shrieks of the prison inmates and the shouts of the guards and the warning: “They will let you go and then arrest you again . . . a way of breaking your will. People will tell them anything to keep from being locked up again.”
The threat echoed hollowly within her. There didn’t have to be a reason for arrest any longer in Austria. But there were plenty of reasons why Elisa would be thrown back into the darkest Gestapo hell if they found the passport photos, if they knew!
“Hugel just turned the corner,” Leah said urgently from the window. “Going to the beer hall. Go now, Elisa, and Grüss Gott!”
“God bless.” Elisa repeated the good-bye and stepped out into the hall. Fear walked beside her, tapping her on the shoulder with each stranger she passed. Are they watching me? Is he following? Why does he turn and stare at me so?
Looks that were ordinary to her a week ago now seemed sinister and frightening as she hurried toward Fiori’s Bookstore. She wondered if the bookseller would be dismayed to see her, if he would even remember the volume of Faust she had carried. What would she tell him about the torn page? How could she explain the fact that she was days late?
The grip of the violin case was wet from perspiration as she walked onto Kartnerstrasse. On this very corner Otto had arrested her. How she wished now that she had greeted him with his silly Heil! Leah had done it with Hugel. Elisa would learn to make the repulsive greeting a natural response. She would play the dreadful game.
The bell above the door jingled as she entered. Two young men in German uniforms looked toward her. Fiori glanced up sharply from his work.
“Heil Hitler,” Elisa said pleasantly.
Fiori inclined his head. Was there a smile on his lips? “Heil Hitler,” he replied. All very natural, all for the benefit of the soldiers with the swastika armbands.
Fiori focused on his stack of receipts. He seemed genuinely surprised to see Elisa. She saw that much on his face. He caught himself, and the cool look of the merchant greeting a customer returned. “Frau Murphy, isn’t it?”
Elisa laid the volume of Faust on the desk in front of him. “Three days, you said. I am sorry I am late.” There was strain on her face and in her voice.
“Of course.” He smiled broadly. “I have the appraisal written up for you. In the back room.” He started to rise, but Elisa stopped him with a frown and a shake of her head.
“Since I saw you—” she opened the book to the torn page—“an accident. A page was torn from the book. I don’t know how this will affect the value, but . . . ”
He did not reply but picked up the volume and hurried into the back room, closing the door behind him.
Elisa felt ill. What if Otto had torn away something of vital importance? She felt somehow that she had failed before she had even begun. She frowned, holding back tears of anger at Otto and at herself for not simply raising her hand in the ridiculous Nazi salute! If some urgent message had been lost because of her stubbornness . . .
Only a minute passed before Fiori emerge again, motioning for her to join him at the counter. He placed the book gently between them. “A volume of great worth,” he said slowly. “A pity about the torn page.” He took a cigarette paper from his vest pocket and opened it. Printed on the paper was Le Morthomme #4 Rue de la Villa Paris Friday Evening.
Elisa tried not to let her eyes betray her emotions as she quickly memorized the address. Fiori tapped tobacco onto the paper and deftly rolled a cigarette. “Do you smoke?” he asked with a half smile.
“No,” she answered, barely able to take her eyes off the cigarette as he struck a match and held the flame to it. The address rose up in smoke. Yet it remained vivid in Elisa’s mind as she silently rehearsed it again and again. Friday evening. Only one day, and I must be in Paris. Friday evening. Whatever Otto tore must not have damaged anything. Thank God! Thank God!
“You might do better to take the book elsewhere. You are going to Paris, you say?”
She replied with a nod as she continued to stare at the glowing tip of the cigarette.
“Good,” said Fiori. “With the damage as it is, the value will drop significantly here in Vienna. But perhaps in Paris. In a foreign market you may do well.”
She felt as if she were dreaming. This was the moment she had been waiting for since she left Prague! “Go to Paris,” Fiori was saying. “Take the message to Le Morthomme. Leave Vienna tonight.”
“Yes. Then I will take it with me.” Her voice was barely visible. “If you think it would be best.”
“And will you be coming back to Vienna?” Fiori asked. “Be sure to
come by and let me know if it goes well for you, Frau Murphy.”
There was no more to be said. She would have to get her ticket. There were things to do for Leah and the children. She managed to smile as Fiori tapped the ashes onto the floor. She wondered if he could see her relief. Perhaps she had not failed after all.
At the Vienna train station, a brass band played a series of military marches as two hundred SS Blackshirts took their places on either side of a long red carpet that stretched across the enormous terminal lobby. Crowds of excited men and women pushed against the soldiers, jockeying for a clear view.
“What is going on?” Elisa asked a janitor as her stomach contracted with anxiety.
The lean old Austrian rested against his broom and eyed the mob with amusement. “Himmler is leaving today. Came to Vienna to make certain no prison cell is left empty, I hear.” He caught himself, aware that what he had just said could land him in one of those cells. He raised his hand laconically. “Heil Hitler,” he said, returning to his work.
Elisa had witnessed the madness of Nazi parades in Berlin as Hitler had come and gone from the Chancellery. But she could not comprehend the enthusiasm of the crowd for the head of the Gestapo. Himmler had the manner and bearing of a mild schoolmaster but a heart of ruthless darkness that rivaled that of the Führer himself.
The band began to play the “Horst Wessel” song as a long black limousine pulled to the curb. The soldiers broke into song:
“Raise high the flags! Stand rank on rank together.
Storm Troopers march with steady, quiet tread . . .”
These men were Himmler’s own private army. They were the elite among the heartless. Their black garb had made them more than human—or less than human.
The roar of the crowd, the music, and the sight of Himmler striding through his ranks of murderers and thugs made Elisa feel as though she had stumbled onto a scene from the book she carried in her pocket. Demons seemed to circle the building, floating high among the steel rafters on the melody of the Nazi hymn, then swooping low and soaring above the bloodred path where Himmler walked. Could anyone besides Elisa see them?
Did these frantic human souls who shoved and shouted their adoration hear the accusations the fiends shrieked at Elisa? “Turn now and look at this woman! Tear her violin case to pieces! Rip the pages from her book! She seeks to destroy us! She is one of them! Tear her to pieces! To pieces!”
Terror returned to her as she saw ten hapless men and women being rounded up by plainclothes policemen and shoved away from the celebration. Of what were they guilty? Were they Jews? Or had they simply failed to raise a hand in salute?
Her heart pounding, Elisa made her way to the nearly deserted ticket counter. The clerk stood on his tiptoes, hoping to catch sight of the man who had established the brutal law of Germany so completely here in Vienna. With trembling hands, Elisa placed her passport and travel documents on the counter as the band began to play “Deutschland Über Alles.”
The clerk, himself wearing a Nazi armband, clicked his heels and raised his hand high in salute. Elisa did not look. She could not make herself raise her eyes to pay homage to the flag or the monster who stood at attention beneath it. Did the Gestapo watch her? Did they mark her lack of enthusiasm down in a book? And if they asked her why her eyes were lowered, what could she tell them? I am praying, dear God! Praying for my country! I will tell them I am praying for my homeland!
The music ended. Himmler raised his voice to speak from the platform beside the train. “And so, already we have made great strides to slash the cancer of Jews and Communists and Socialists from Vienna!”
Great roars of approval echoed in the hall.
“We shall not cease until all the malignancy is cut away and cast into the fire that will purify our race and the Fatherland of all who are subhuman!”
A great wave of applause erupted and then the chant, “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”
Even the clerk joined the shout.
“And when we are done cleaning our own house, then we shall go on and on! They shall not escape from our grip! The hand of Providence has cast them into our grasp! We shall crush them with the vengeance of all the gods of the German race! It is the mighty goal of this generation to destroy all who are not . . . ”
Then the demons hovered close to Elisa. Their voices rasped as one: “Here is a Jewess—strip her, tear her to pieces! Here is one of the race defilers—she must not live! Kill her, send her head to the Führer! Look! Look here! This one is for your sport!”
Elisa jumped as a human voice interrupted. “Quite an event, eh, Fraülein? Not every day a man like Himmler comes through! Now, how can I hope you, bitte?”
Elisa swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “I need a ticket to Paris, please.” She extended her American passport. “To Paris.”
39
The Goodness of Small Things
It was nearly eight in the evening when Elisa stepped from the train. Inside the vast canopy of the Paris Gare de Lyon station, loudspeakers blared departures and arrivals, and travelers hurried to purchase tickets or catch their trains. Here, unlike Vienna, no uniformed guards or Gestapo agents checked papers. The pleasant, blue-coated Paris police strolled amiably among the noisy confusion, occasionally tipping their hats to pretty women.
A policeman nodded and touched his hand to the brim of his hat as Elisa walked past. She smiled with the sort of relief that could only be felt after comparing the terrified passengers in Vienna to those here in Paris.
The bookstalls along the Seine would be closed now, but Elisa carried in her memory the address of Le Morthomme. Her contacts in Prague had told her that the old bookseller would welcome her no matter what the hour. She had much to tell him since her terrible encounter with Otto Wattenbarger. She could not even be certain that the message she brought with her from Vienna was still intact.
The flat of Le Morthomme was above his tiny, dusty shop in a ragged Left Bank neighborhood filled with artists’ studios and coffeehouses. She saw the sign above the shop two blocks before the taxi reached the place. Rare Books Appraised—Le Morthomme.
The light in the apartment was still gleaming through a dingy window. Elisa scanned the grimy street and asked the driver to wait. He protested loudly, but she stepped out without paying him, so he had no choice but to obey.
Steps leading to the flat were in a narrow alley that smelled like rotting garbage. From the high windows of the brick building next to the shop, Elisa could clearly hear the sounds of a man and a woman arguing violently over the cost of a new hat for her. Piano music filled the street, competing with the voice of a woman soprano practicing a scale. There was no privacy in the neighborhood of Le Morthomme, and Elisa found herself wondering how many clandestine meetings were held here, which were really a secret to no one. She felt eyes staring down at her.
She climbed the leaning steps, careful not to grasp the railing for fear it would give way. The door opened before she was even halfway up, and a black-and-white cat scampered out, brushing her legs as it ran by.
The door began to close, but Elisa called out, “I am here to see Le Morthomme!”
A heavyset woman with gray hair and a scowling face stepped out on the landing. “You wish to see Le Morthomme, eh?” It was more of a challenge than a question. “Do you not know the time?”
“I have just come from . . . just arrived, and I am leaving again shortly.” Elisa paused on the steps and took the volume of Faust from her coat pocket. “I have brought this for appraisal.”
The woman’s cracked lips pressed together as she looked from the book to Elisa’s face. “Well?” she asked. “Business is business. Come in, then.”
The smells of freshly baked bread, garlic, and cheese permeated the little apartment occupied by Le Morthomme and his stout wife. The furniture was worn but not shabby, a pleasant mix of antiques from several different periods. Dark, shining wood floors were covered with fine Persian carpets of different designs. The dil
apidated exterior of the building concealed the pleasant warmth of the small rooms that had housed the couple for over fifty years.
Elisa sat across from the old man as his wife brewed tea and brought a plate of eclairs. Le Morthomme rested his hand on the cover as though he were taking an oath. “I expected you yesterday,” he said.
“I was arrested,” Elisa admitted with shame in her voice. “I don’t know why. It was horrible!” She explained briefly about Otto and their chance meeting on the street as Le Morthomme eyed her with interest. When she finished her story, he gazed down at the book and then back at her face.
“And you say he tore the page from the book and burned it?” He clucked his tongue. “A pity. Such a fine volume here.” But his sympathy seemed only to extend to the edition of Faust, not to Elisa. “This is your first time as courier, is it not?” he asked.