Prague Counterpoint

by Bodie Thoene

  There was something else he had to write first or he would never make his deadline.

  Dearest Elisa,

  I am supposed to be writing a story about the situation in Czechoslovakia, but all I can think about is a certain woman in Prague. Yesterday in the lobby of the Savoy I heard a recording of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” You see how much I have learned from you, darling? I can even spell Vivaldi now and recognize a violin!

  Murphy paused and smiled, feeling instantly better. He had wanted to write her for weeks. Wanted to talk to her, to tell her . . . everything. This was going to be a long letter, he knew. Maybe he would miss his deadline anyway. But this was long overdue. If he had not dared to tell her his feelings in person a year ago, he should at least have written her. Maybe she had not seen his heart shining through his eyes when he looked at her. But there was more to love than tender looks. Suddenly Murphy wanted her to know him! He wanted her to hear his heart the way he had heard hers when she played the violin.

  When I heard the music of spring, I found that I had closed my eyes so I could imagine you there. Three other newsmen were sitting with me, and they thought I had dozed off. But I was wide awake and dreaming of you.

  There was more to loving than sweet words, too, Murphy knew. He longed to share with her all he was feeling at this instant of counterpoint when the world was torn between rage and apathy. Both lines of the melody lead to destruction . . . the annihilation of men like Walter Kronenberger and the end of millions of children like his sons. He wanted to tell Elisa what he had come to believe—that hatred was the bludgeon that beat innocence to a bloody death, but apathy was its partner in crime! Apathy allowed evil to overpower goodness!

  Yes. Murphy wanted to tell her that, although he was certain she already knew. She was someone who really cared. Perhaps that was why he had come to love her so fiercely. There was nothing about her that he could ignore—not a hint of apathy in his passion to know her mind, or his longing to lose himself in the sweetness of her embrace.

  I should be working, but all I can think about is you. Like the music of Vivaldi, you fill all the seasons of my thoughts. There is no moment when you are not with me. There has not been an hour since I saw you last that I have not turned around in a crowd and somehow hoped that you were there.

  An hour passed, and then two. The deadline slipped away and still Murphy sat at the typewriter filling page after page with his hopes and fears. For the world. For himself. For Elisa—and for the children she might someday bear.

  ***

  At least twenty messages had been sent to Thomas through the bookstall of Le Morthomme. But this was the first time that the Dead Man had ever sent a courier to the German Embassy.

  Thomas buttoned his tunic as he descended the steps to the lobby, where the surly boy waited with a paper-wrapped volume clutched in his sweating hands. Something in the look of this small, dark-eyed youth made Thomas uneasy. He had seen him countless times at the bookstall, but now, in the foyer of the embassy, his face seemed almost distorted with a silent hatred. For an instant the memory of another face, much younger, came to mind. Berlin? Thomas had always assumed that Le Morthomme’s helper was French.

  “I am von Kleistmann,” Thomas said curtly. “You have a package for me?”

  The boy nodded, only once. “From Le Morthomme,” he said in French. His brooding eyes did not leave von Kleistmann’s face.

  “You speak German, don’t you?” Thomas snapped.

  The boy nodded, again only once, in reply.

  Thomas glared at him, certain now that he had seen him in Berlin. “You are not French,” Thomas said. The words were an accusation.

  “No. Not French,” the boy responded, now in the hard accent of a Berliner.

  For a long moment, Thomas appraised him, trying to remember where in Berlin. . . . “I thought not. I have seen you before.”

  “I am always at the bookstall of Le Morthomme,” the boy answered with an edge to his voice. Then he extended his hand in expectation of a tip. “I have come far, Herr von Kleistmann. It is customary . . . ”

  It didn’t matter who the young man was, Thomas decided. If Le Morthomme felt that information was urgent enough to deliver to the German Embassy itself, then Thomas would waste no more time in conversation with this sullen youth. He flipped him a coin, then turned sharply on his heels and quickly climbed the stairway toward his quarters.

  ***

  As Elisa stepped from the train beneath the immense red banner of the Reich, the great hall of the Vienna bahnhof was subdued and nearly deserted. Perhaps everyone going anywhere had already left. A few uniformed soldiers sat around on the long polished wooden benches, but there were no bands to bid them farewell from Vienna. There was no red carpet. No screaming mobs. Only somber silence and the weary hissing of the train behind her as she made her way toward the arched portal that led to the sunlight.

  Elisa had failed to bring the papers that would have allowed two small boys and Leah to leave this place. She felt the failure of her promise now as she made her way to the streetcar. What would she say to Louis and Charles? How could she explain that all their weeks of waiting had brought them no nearer to escape even as the danger to them grew? She regretted her promise now. She embraced the violin case where their passport photos were still hidden. Perhaps she could take them to Czechoslovakia and have documents made, although now papers from Prague were receiving intense scrutiny by the Gestapo.

  She frowned as the green-and-white streetcar clicked toward her. It was nearly vacant. A few intrepid passengers who had followed her from the building now climbed on behind her.

  Wordlessly she paid her fare and took a seat on the shady side of the car. She laid her violin case on the seat as protection from anyone who might wish to sit beside her. She had to think what she must do now. She could not count on any help from anyone.

  Leaning her hand against the glass, she watched as her beloved Vienna slipped past. Never had she imagined that she would long to leave this place filled with so many happy memories. But all that was over now, just as Murphy had warned her it would be. There was nothing left to stay for. If it had not been for her friends and now the children, she would never have come back. The Vienna of her joy was dead. The Vienna of bright music and carefree times had vanished in one night. The melody was locked away.

  Elisa looked down at her violin case. Suddenly she remembered another promise she had made, one much simpler to fulfill. Yes! I will get Vitorio out of jail, she thought as the streetcar chugged to a stop near the little shop of the pawnbroker who had cheated Leah.

  Perhaps Elisa would not have to return to the flat in total defeat! The thought of it made her almost happy as she hurried toward the shop Leah had told her about. Sunlight glinted on the window, and through the glass Elisa saw a jumbled mix of every sort of musical instrument on display. Violins, cornets, oboes, trumpets, a bassoon, and two violas—and there, in the corner of the display, stood the dusty cello! Vitorio, the fine Pedronelli violoncello that had been so lovingly cared for by Leah, was now baking in the sunlight behind the glass of a pawnshop! Inwardly Elisa cringed; then she exulted in the fact that it had not been sold. That, at least was something!

  Pushing open the shop door, she entered a small room that was more cluttered and dusty than the display window. The shopkeeper looked exactly as Leah had described him. From bald pate to tiny Hitler mustache, the man seemed every inch the arrogant Nazi. Today he wore the armband. He looked up and smiled at the sight of the lovely blond Aryan woman who had entered his shop.

  Elisa smiled pleasantly and raised her hand. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler!” His greeting made his smile even wider. She had not attempted to soften the hardness of her old Berlin accent. He took her as a true woman of the Fatherland. He bowed curtly and rubbed his bald head nervously. “How may I help you this morning?”

  “I am looking,” Elisa said, glancing toward the shopwindow, “for some sort of instrume
nt to bring to my nephew as a gift. I am a musician myself. I came here to play for Himmler’s visit and . . . well, I wish to bring back an instrument from Vienna, where all the greatest musicians have lived!”

  “A delightful idea! Delightful!” He hurried out from behind his counter. Brushing his hands on his apron, he shuffled toward the window where a green velvet curtain served as the backdrop for his display. “I have all kinds—everything! All the Jews in Vienna have been trying to sell their junk in here, but I only buy the best! Just the best!”

  Steal the best, you mean. Elisa tried to curb her thoughts and continued to smile, nodding her head. “Well, I’m not interested in anything of great quality! I could buy a fine instrument easily. I know the difference. But this is for a child. He is quite clumsy, and no doubt whatever I get him will simply be a curiosity.”

  The shopkeeper climbed on a box and leaned into the window to pull out a violin and a flute. “Something small, like this, perhaps?”

  “Not a flute. I am a string player myself.” She let her eyes linger on the violin he held up. It was indeed a fine old instrument, and Elisa could not help but wonder how many others besides Leah had been cheated. “A lovely example!” She reached for the violin. “Truly a beautiful instrument!” she cried, setting down her own case and getting out her bow.

  “I purchased it from a little Jewish fellow! He pretended to be German, but I can spot them! I know a Jew when I see one! Sneaky eyes.” He pointed to his eyes and nodded. “I paid dearly for that little gem; indeed, I did!”

  “No doubt.” Elisa raised the instrument and tuned it; then she began to play as if she stood on the stage of the concert hall. The music of Beethoven’s spring violin sonata filled the shop as she closed her eyes and swayed with the melody. How the seller must have grieved to part with such an instrument! Elisa thought. She stopped midway through and looked up to see an expression of glee on the shopkeeper’s face. Whatever he had paid for it, he was now convinced that he had acquired a priceless treasure.

  “Beautiful tone!” He clapped his hands together. “And you play very well, Fraülein,” he added.

  Elisa could see that he was mentally calculating how much he could charge her for such an instrument. “Indeed,” she said with awe, “you have a treasure in this instrument! Whatever you paid for it, I am certain that you are the one who got the bargain.” She placed it respectfully on the counter. “How much?”

  He raised his chin slightly and gazed soulfully at the violin. “I myself paid one thousand shillings for it.”

  “A bargain,” Elisa whispered. “You have something here of such value!” Then she added, “Do you have a case?”

  “A case? Why, certainly. A case.”

  “You should leave it in its case. Out of the sun and dust, or it may warp. It will certainly be ruined.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” He appeared instantly worried. “Of course.” He did not want to lose the thread of the conversation. “You were asking how much?”

  “Yes, I was.” She nodded. “But if you paid one thousand, I am certain that your price is beyond what I can afford. I am only a poor musician myself.”

  He frowned and stuck out his lower lip, judging that he had started too high in the negotiations. “Well, then, perhaps another violin?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He placed the second instrument in her hands. It had a high table like a Stradivarius but was an obvious copy. “Beautiful!” Elisa said with mock astonishment. “You truly have the finest instruments anywhere. That is what I was told: The best for less!” She read the words off a placard above the door.

  “My motto, Fraülein,” he agreed proudly.

  As Elisa tuned the instrument, she mentally remarked that the “best for less” was always at someone else’s expense. She raised the instrument and began to play from the Dvořák American composition. This violin was not nearly as fine as the first, but Elisa was certain that the little man could not tell the difference. When she was finished, she cradled the instrument gently and said with admiration, “Better even than the first, don’t you think?”

  “Never have I heard such a tone!” he agreed. “Such beauty!” He pursed his lips. “I only paid eight hundred for this one. I could let you have it for––”

  “You only paid eight hundred!” she gasped. “Dear sir, if I did not already own a violin and if I had the money, I would buy this for two thousand for myself! What an instrument! What glory!”

  He seemed pleased but puzzled. “Really?” he mumbled. “This I purchased from a student, who––” He caught himself, not willing to reveal that he had lied.

  “You must not let this one go for less than that,” she advised. “You would be cheating yourself. What an instrument!” Then she plucked a string and leaned close to confide, “But you must not leave it in the sun in a shopwindow. It will warp and be of no use to anyone except to carry home as a souvenir!”

  “Indeed! Well, I have never dealt with instruments much before this sudden rush of Jews to sell everything.” He had not even heard himself reveal his fraud—he was not really an expert on instruments, after all.

  “Well, I never could afford something this fine. I would not dare to give such an instrument to a child like Gus. Perhaps something more sturdy. Like a viola?”

  The shopkeeper, overwhelmed by his good fortune, pulled out both violas on display. Elisa played them easily, careful to choose music that was uncomplicated but beautiful. Each instrument sounded little more than adequate, but by the time she finished, the shopkeeper was certain that he was in possession of two of the lost Stradivarius violas! “I am fortunate indeed! I am blessed by the heavens! You will not believe what I paid for these!”

  “Oh, yes I would believe it. But you must not sell them for anything less than three thousand each, or you will be cheating yourself!”

  “Indeed! Three thousand!” The man was ecstatic. “I won’t; I promise. Perhaps I should take them to the Musikverein. Someone there might wish to purchase such instruments.”

  “Without a doubt,” Elisa replied. “But you must take them out of the window as well. They will be of no value to anyone at all except as a child’s toy!”

  He laid them reverently on the counter beside the others. He was thrilled with the discovery of this hidden treasure, not to mention the free appraisal. “I will see to it, Fraülein.”

  “Now what is left? Violins? Violas?”

  “A guitar, Fraülein.”

  She shook her head in disapproval. “Never touch the things. Instruments of sluggards and . . . Spaniards!”

  He drew back in revulsion at the word Spaniard. Had Hitler also declared them inferior? “Of course not. Certainly not. Not anything that is even remotely German about a guitar.”

  “He is just a child. A rather large and clumsy child, at that. I need something that will convey the mood of Vienna but is not really of much value. It is just a memento, you see.”

  He frowned. He was pleased that he had such an inventory of great value, but now what could he sell her? “Are you interested in . . . might you like . . . is a cello anything you might be interested in?”

  She glanced toward the window. “Like that old beat-up thing?” She nodded toward Vitorio and silently breathed an apology. “I don’t know.” She hesitated, plucking the strings of a violin. “It is rather large.”

  “Cellos are sturdy, Fraülein.” He was already wrestling it out of its corner in the window. “Just the thing for a small boy. Or a large boy.” He presented it to her proudly.

  Elisa raised her eyebrows in disdain. “Really? Who told you that?”

  His brow furrowed in a frown. “Why, the woman who sold it to me said––”

  Elisa plucked the string coolly. It was out of tune, and she winced at the sound of the sour note. “Hmmmm? What did she say?”

  “That it was very . . . valuable.”

  “What did you pay for it?” Elisa already had heard the ridiculous number from Leah. Thirty
-five shillings for an instrument that would sell at an auction for no less than three thousand. The violoncello had not been purchased. It had been stolen.

  “Not too much,” replied the embarrassed shopkeeper. Now he searched his mind for an amount that did not sound too high for such a monstrosity. Such a piece of junk.

  “How much?” Elisa raised her eyebrows as if to say anything was too much.

  “Two hundred,” lied the shopkeeper.

  “Two hundred! Two!” Everything in her tone told him that only a complete fool would pay that for such a thing. She plucked the string again. The wobbly note bounced around the room.

  “Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe. Let me think. Good heavens! No, I could not have made such an error as that. It was . . . thirty-five, I think. Two hundred for the other one that I sold yesterday.” He was lying again, but at least Elisa had gotten him to admit the actual price he had given Leah.