Prague Counterpoint

by Bodie Thoene

  “There are plenty of nuns and priests in prison to keep him company,” Elisa said. “The collar of a cleric is no guarantee of safety—unless the fellow is willing to trot along behind Hitler.”

  “Well, then, it looks as if we have run out of options. I’ll learn to speak Czech. I have always been an admirer of Dvořák! Music sounds the same in Prague as it does here. And then . . . maybe somehow . . . Shimon . . . ” The brave façade began to crack as she realized that she would be leaving Austria without him—if she was lucky enough to get out at all.

  “Leah . . . ” Elisa tried to think what she might say to comfort her friend. There were no words left. They had all been spent, and yet all the politicians and all the words in Europe had not managed to purchase even one life. Not even the life of the gentle tympani player. Their words could not rescue Leah or Charles or Louis. Words had not saved Walter Kronenberger or his wife. They had not softened the heart of a society that murdered honorable men and deformed children and the aged and the weak.

  Stubbornly Leah brushed back a tear that had managed to escape. “You are going back then.” It was not a question. “Don’t drive through the Sudetenland. The Nazis . . . ”

  She was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door. Hugel must have come back! She blanched and stood rooted before Elisa.

  Elisa touched her elbow, wondering how she could leave Leah even for a short time! Her sweet friend had reached the end of her control. “I’ll get it,” she said. “What can he do to us?”

  The knock sounded more insistently. Elisa trembled inside in spite of her brave words. Both of them knew full well what Herr Hugel could do.

  “Coming!” Elisa called. She touched the knob, then turned to make certain that the boys were still in the back room. Leah put a finger to her lips to warn them of the need for silence; then she closed the bedroom door and nodded at Elisa. “Who is there?” Elisa asked sweetly.

  A low voice replied. “Otto.” There was a long silence. “Please, let me in.”

  ***

  “It is arranged. The murder of a prominent Nazi official in Paris tomorrow, just to set the stage. And then another murder tomorrow night in Prague. The events will seem unrelated, but . . .”

  Evening invaded the little apartment, but they did not turn on the light. Leah brewed tea. Otto stirred it absently as it grew cold. “Already the troops are beginning to move toward the frontier. By the back roads. Farm roads. Military exercises, they have told the newsmen. Does anyone believe it?” He looked painfully from one face to another. “I am certain Chamberlain received the message, and now you have heard his reply: ‘The problem of the Czechs is not Britain’s problem!’” He bit his lip and stared into the cup as if he could see the future there. Indeed, he had seen the future clearly. “And so, tomorrow night at the National Theatre in Prague they will assassinate President Beneš. Sporer will be there, waiting with a thousand of his men to begin the demolition of that society also.”

  Elisa cleared her throat, feeling that Otto had some reason for telling them this. “Why have you come here, Otto? Not to unburden your heart, surely.”

  “My heart is of little importance in this.” He drew a breath and plunged in. “Sporer must be stopped. You have seen him. You can recognize him. President Beneš must be warned somehow, and then––”

  “You want me to go to Prague?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I have failed your test. I will not turn my back on Leah. I will not leave her here. Or the boys.”

  “I thought of that.” He looked down at his hands as if to say they were tied. Then he said, “Where are they? The boys?”

  “You will frighten them.” Leah pointed to the swastika band on Otto’s sleeve.

  He tore it away. “I want to see them.” He stood, and without asking permission, he opened the bedroom door and switched on the light. Charles and Louis lay sleeping on the bed. Charles’ breath rattled fiercely. Otto gazed gently at the child’s pale skin and frail body. He switched off the light and quietly closed the door. “They will kill him,” he said with a certainty that sent a chill through Elisa. “There is a reward for the sons of Kronenberger. They will find him soon enough, and they will not—cannot—let him live. To take him out of the country could cost the life of President Beneš if you are caught.”

  “I did not say I would go.”

  Otto’s eyes burned fiercely through the dim light of the room. “You must go.”

  “Not without Leah and the children.”

  “You cannot take Leah. And the two boys seen together will mean certain capture.” Now his voice took on excitement. “But little Charles cannot stay here in Austria. Not another day.”

  “I won’t leave Leah!” Elisa put her arm defiantly around Leah.

  “You must leave me,” Leah answered quietly. “Can’t you see, Elisa? If you’re planning to bring me a Czech passport, that will not do any good at all if there is no Czechoslovakia to go to!” She was smiling now at the irony of it all.

  Otto nodded in curt agreement. At last someone was talking sense. “Good. You see the reason of it.”

  “But, Leah . . . ”

  Otto turned on the lamp beside the sofa. “I’ll have the travel documents made up tonight. I know a man . . . I can do this.”

  “But . . . for whom?” Elisa was stunned by Otto’s change of heart.

  “For Charles, of course. They cannot stay together. I will take Louis and Leah—”

  “But where?”

  “To my parents’ home. In the Tyrol. Franz can help them across the Swiss border from there.” He said it as if it were already accomplished. “Elisa, you must take Charles. He is too ill to hike out over the passes. And his appearance has marked him here.” He shook his head. “There is even a poster up on the wall of the Gestapo office. A photo of the child. His lip makes him unmistakable, even though the picture is old.” Otto had taken control now. “Do you have the passport pictures?”

  “Yes!” Relief flooded through both Elisa and Leah. They embraced and then scrambled to retrieve the violin case where the photos still remained hidden.

  “We will have to destroy this.” Otto held up the picture of the child with the sad eyes and broken face. He tore it in two. “Burn it,” he commanded. “From the nose up he looks just like Louis. We will use the same picture on both of their documents. You can conceal his mouth. I have seen the way you did it. A scarf maybe. Or a bandage.” He frowned in thought. “No. They have taken to stripping off bandages as a routine now.”

  “What can we do?” Elisa asked as the momentary exhilaration was replaced by an ominous sense of what lay ahead. The memory of other searches was fresh in her mind. Yes, the Nazis would tear away a bandage from the face of a child.

  Otto glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll think of something,” he said irritably. Time was precious, and he had much to do. “I’ll do my part. Documents and . . . ”

  Leah sat forward in her chair. Her expression was tense and hopeful. “Herr Wattenbarger,” she hesitated. He looked up at her; the gentleness she had glimpsed had vanished. “My husband is in prison. Somewhere. Maybe here in Vienna. His name is Shimon Feldstein. I . . . I cannot bear to leave without him.” Her voice became pleading, but Otto’s expression did not soften. He was doing all he could do. At some point his heart had to harden. Leah had brought him to that point.

  “You will have to bear it, Frau Feldstein.” He shoved the photos into his pocket. “We all must bear our share of that which is unholy and unjust.” He looked toward the door. “I cannot do more than this.”

  “Otto!” Elisa wanted to shout against his fresh display of hardness. Had he become so calloused that even here, in secret, he could not show compassion?

  “No, Elisa.” Leah read her friend’s outrage. “He is right. He is hard, but he is right.”

  Otto did not address the issue as he moved toward the door. “Be ready to leave by midnight. I want no delays.” He slipped out of the apartment. Neither
woman spoke as the sound of his heels receded down the stairs.

  46

  Death Warrant

  The two women did not wake the boys but switched off the lamp and sat quietly talking in the darkness of the front room. Elisa could not make out Leah’s features, but the sound of her friend’s voice etched a memory on her heart that would remain there always. This was the moment of their good-bye. Elisa felt it. The bittersweet sense of ending surrounded them both. And yet, they did not speak of farewell or forever.

  As they remembered together, Leah laughed—the clear, sweet laughter of a bell. Behind the laughter, Elisa could hear the chimes of St. Stephan’s ringing the hour. From now on when she heard the bells, she would remember this moment, this wordless farewell.

  They talked about Shimon and Rudy, about the time Murphy had brought ham to the Zionist party. They recalled conductors and professors at the Mozarteum in Salzburg, and sneaking by the dorm mothers after hours. What memories they had! Why had they not recognized then that it had been nearly heaven in its rightness? How had they missed the fact that those had been the final fleeting moments of their innocence and joy?

  “Remember during Mendelssohn’s Reformation Symphony?” Elisa asked. She hummed a bar from the symphony. “’A mighty fortress is our God’ . . . and crash! The music stand fell down!”

  Leah’s bell-like laughter rang out. “And later Rudy said it was the ghost of Martin Luther because Mendelssohn was Jewish and never should have been plagiarizing a Lutheran hymn. Remember?”

  The room filled with peals of laughter and then silence. The unspoken thought came to both of them that now Mendelssohn’s music was not allowed to be played here anymore. But they did not speak that thought, or the one that followed: Maybe someday the music of the Jewish composers and musicians would be heard again in Germany. In Vienna. Maybe someday the voice of God would be recognized in their creations. But never again would these two play it together. This was good-bye. They knew it. This was forever.

  Elisa reached out and took Leah’s hands—strong hands, able to play for hours without ever tiring. Beautiful hands. Trimmed nails and calloused fingertips that danced over the strings. Elisa wanted to raise those fingers to her lips and kiss them good-bye. But she did not.

  “Whenever I hear the Reformation I will think of you,” Leah said. “’A mighty fortress is our God’ . . . I didn’t know the words to it before.”

  Elisa could not find a voice to answer for a long time. “God bless your hands,” she murmured at last. And then those strong hands reached for her; gentle arms embraced her.

  “I will not forget,” Leah whispered. “Never will I forget.”

  ***

  The cellar beer hall was filled with smoke and the clamor of the boisterous men who gathered there. Barmaids with trays balanced high above their heads wriggled through the press of bodies. Foam spilled from steins and clung to drooping mustaches and stained vests of the patrons who sang and toasted and discussed the events of the day.

  It was here that Herr Hugel found his only true moments of peace, here among men like himself who had no real roots, who had only recently found their true purpose in the service of the Greater Reich. Hugel leaned over the table, listening to the accountant from the porcelain factory tell his story.

  “Not a word to anybody! That’s what the Gestapo fellow told me! ‘We’ll get back to you on the matter,’ that’s what he said.” He looked around at his enthralled audience. “But he never did! As far as I know, the Gestapo caught the brats and that officer got all the reward! I gave him all the information. About how I took them to the Musikverein. Looking for their Aunt Lena, the one said. I left them there with that woman cellist. The only person there, she was, and she didn’t want them either! But I left them all the same, and if she knew, she might have collected the reward on them.”

  “Ah well, what can you do with five hundred Reichsmarks?” someone teased.

  “I could buy us a night of beer, that’s what!”

  Hugel raised his stein, sloshing his beer on the man next to him. “Then here’s to the reward! Finding the two brats and the lady from the—” he paused with the stein to his lips—“what was this woman you left them with?”

  “A cellist. A case as big as a coffin! You couldn’t miss it. But she didn’t want them. Probably took them right to this Lena person and dumped them off. That’s what I told the Gestapo fellow. Find this cellist, and you’re going to find Lena and those brats. That’s what I told him, and I suppose he’s already done all that and never mind my reward!” The group around him were all nodding in sympathy. It didn’t matter that the Nazis were in power. Government was corrupt no matter what. Officials made sure the common man never got what he deserved.

  “What do you say, Hugel? Are you buying tonight?”

  The question went unheard and unanswered. Where the enormous bulk of Hugel had been sitting, only his beer stein remained. The froth still oozed from it onto the table.

  “Well, where is the fat man going in such a hurry?” They watched Hugel shove his way through the crowd on his way to the exit. In his haste he nearly knocked over a barmaid and sent her tray of steins toppling on the floor. “Twenty years he’s been getting drunk here, and I never saw him leave a full stein on the table. Never saw him pass by a barmaid without giving her a little squeeze, either.”

  The men in the beer hall laughed and shrugged and split Hugel’s beer among themselves. That was all the reward they could expect.

  ***

  Otto waited in stony silence as the engraver labored over the passports and travel documents. It appeared as though the papers were only for one child. Otto would give Charles the passport, then handwrite a note on Gestapo stationery giving travel permission. Louis would carry the authentic travel documents and Leah would travel as Otto’s sister.

  “A foolish thing,” he explained. “Left their papers on the train.”

  The engraver needed no further explanation. He was being well paid. Otto had an impeccably ruthless reputation. Such a man was certainly not a smuggler or a forger of false documents. “It will be a while longer.” The rotund little man bent close to the document.

  “We’ll miss our train!” Otto snapped.

  The man shrugged. It was not his fault that papers had been lost. Was he responsible for a missed train? “These things take time.”

  Time! That was one thing Otto did not have. Now he regretted telling Elisa that he would provide the papers tonight. He could have sent her on with the promise that he would see to Leah and the children! Precious minutes were ticking away, and here he sat in an ink-stained office with a printer who seemed not fully awake! He had broken the first rule; he had softened for just a moment, and now the outcome might be decided by the ability of the engraver to work a bit faster!

  “If our glorious Führer can command a building be built in three months, and it is up in three months when the architect said a year––” Otto straightened his back and peered arrogantly at the man—“then why can you not reproduce documents, simple ink and paper, in an hour?”

  “You have asked for French passports, Herr Wattenbarger. French travel visas! This is the Reich! Why did you not awaken someone at the French Embassy for this?”

  “How do you think they would feel if a Gestapo agent pulled them out of bed, eh? Be sensible. I do not want trouble for my sister and her son!”

  The printer continued his slow, laborious task. “There are a hundred of our agents in France now carrying French documents that I forged! Even the French cannot tell the difference. Therefore, if you want quality, you have come to the right place. If you want speed, go someplace else.”

  “Do you know who you are speaking to?” Otto was arrogant. It made little difference. The engraver was an artist, unimpressed with the workings of the Gestapo.

  “You are just another customer to me,” he said curtly. “These things take time.”

  ***

  Charles watched mutely as Leah pack
ed their things in separate bags. Elisa had kept some children’s clothes in store for the little ones she had smuggled through to safe refuge in her work in the underground. Now the few items left would be used for these boys since their own clothes had been lost in the square. As Charles continued to watch Leah, he remembered how his father used to pack for them. Always two sets of little trousers and nightshirts had been packed together. Always together.

  Louis sat half asleep on the edge of the bed. “But where are we going?”

  Leah did not look at Charles. “A nice man is going to take us high up in the mountains. To visit a farm. Would you like that?”

  Elisa had spoken of climbing trees and running in meadows. Charles was too ill to do either. Did Leah mean that he was going to this place, too? Why would she not look at him? Charles wondered. And why were his trousers not folded next to those of Louis?