Prague Counterpoint, Page 6
Bodie Thoene
Ernst shrugged helplessly. “A quite night in Paris all the same.” He glanced at his watch. “There will be a parade in Vienna today, I suppose.” He seemed to have no energy to move from the chair. “That girl you are in love with. She is in Vienna, isn’t she?”
Thomas looked away toward the staircase and the foyer beyond. “Yes. Yes,” he replied in a dispirited voice. He had thought of little else but Elisa throughout the long hours of waiting. It was for her sake alone that he was relieved that the Anschluss had taken place without a battle. But what would surely come to Vienna now with the Nazi government would be more violent than any resistance the Austrians might have shown. He had seen the plans drawn up for Plan Otto. No doubt the waves of anti-Semitic violence had already begun there.
“Bring her here,” Ernst said, reading the fears of Thomas.
“I tried. She would not come.” He stared hard at the drops of water that dripped from the eaves of the building. “Perhaps now she will.” His tone held no hope. If she were seen with Thomas, the Gestapo would certainly recognize her as Elisa Lindheim, half Jewess. It had been noted by them in Berlin that Thomas was seen with her often. Paris was not the answer for their safety. He had realized that months before. Had it not been for his small part in the plan of the General Staff to stop Hitler, he would have taken her away from Europe, but . . . “She would not come with me,” he said again. He did not say that she was no longer in love with him. He could scarcely make himself believe that, anyway. He still had hope that he could, with time, heal the hurt that had separated them.
“You had better make her come, Thomas.” Ernst seemed grateful for the diversion onto the subject of women. “You’d better go get her. If she is as beautiful as you say, you know who will want her. Vienna will be filled with officers of the Wehrmacht. And those arrogant Schutzstaffel fellows—” he lowered his voice—“some women are actually attracted to those SS types, you know.”
“Not her.” Thomas imagined the hordes of German soldiers who even now swarmed the city of Vienna. “She is a musician. Sensitive and delicate.”
Ernst laughed for the first time in two days as he looked at Thomas––the heavy shadow of his beard, the broad, muscular shoulders. His thick black hair hung down over his forehead. “You can’t tell me she likes sensitive types? You are more a prizefighter than a poet, Thomas. How did she ever fall in love with the likes of you?”
Ernst was joking, but Thomas did not laugh or reply. The crisp click of the ambassador’s shoes sounded on the stairs. He had showered and changed, and now looked as though he alone in the embassy had enjoyed a night of restful sleep. He simply nodded at Thomas as he passed the broad double doors of the room on his way to his office.
The telephone on Ernst’s desk rang, and he was forced to get up and walk unsteadily into the foyer to answer it.
The noise of the awakening world was jarring to Thomas. He leaned his head against the windowpane and tried to make out Ernst’s words as they drifted in from his station.
“One moment, Admiral. Yes, he is right here.” Ernst walked back into the staff room. “Thomas! It is Admiral Canaris! He has just arrived in Vienna and wants a word with you!”
It was natural that the chief of military intelligence would arrive in Vienna with the rest of the German bureaucracy, yet still, a phone call from Canaris in Vienna was somehow upsetting to Thomas. He wished that every German officer had simply stood up to the Little Corporal and refused to enter Austria. The presence of Canaris in Vienna was the final confirmation that the Anschluss had been accomplished. It seemed to Thomas like a personal defeat.
“Yes, Herr Admiral.” He attempted to sound alert.
“You are needed here, von Kleistmann.” Canaris did not attempt to conceal his weariness. “Himmler and his Gestapo are already hard at work on the civilian population. The least we in military intelligence can do is take over the Austrian military files before they do it for us.”
His frankness stunned Thomas. He looked over his shoulder to see if there was anyone near enough to overhear such a conversation. Of course, it was no secret that Canaris, as head of the Abwehr, hated Himmler and his Gestapo goons. “Yes, Herr Admiral,” Thomas responded.
“Tomorrow morning, the first plane to Vienna!” Canaris snapped impatiently. “Be on it.” He slammed down the receiver without waiting for a reply.
Thomas hurried to his quarters to shower and change; strangely, his depression and exhaustion had vanished. It seemed a miracle to him that he was called to Vienna. He did not think about the conquered nation any longer, or the chaos of the city. His only thoughts were directed toward Elisa, toward the little flat around the corner from the Musikverein!
***
Murphy had already been gone an hour before Elisa emerged from her father’s room. A true mercenary, he had played his part and then vanished, leaving Elisa to act out the charade alone before her parents.
“Wilhelm drove him to the airfield.” Anna shrugged uneasily. “He said he did not want to see you cry.” It was Anna who looked as though she might weep at the obvious disappointment in Elisa’s eyes.
Elisa’s bright smile faltered, only to be instantly replaced by artificial unconcern. “That Murphy!” She did not look her mother in the eye. She did not want Anna to see the hurt that cut through her like a knife. “He is always running off to cover some story, and I have never cried yet,” she lied. She turned away and began to rummage through the cupboard. “Papa said—” she spoke haltingly in a preoccupied tone—“he said he would like a cup of tea.” She stood staring at the cups.
Anna put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, then reached around her and plucked a cup and saucer from the shelf. “Those Americans,” she said angrily. “Just like they seem to be in the moving pictures! No idea of family or––”
Elisa turned defensively. “But he’s not, Mother! He is . . . from the first he has been . . . ” Tears welled up in her eyes. Why was she defending John Murphy, of all people? She bit her lip. So here it was, in spite of herself, in spite of his obvious disdain for her, she loved him and now Anna would know!
Anna looked stricken. Their first perfect morning of reunion was marred. She put out her arms to Elisa. “Of course he is wonderful, darling.” Anna hugged Elisa tightly. “He brought you safely out of Austria. And he brought your father safely home to us!” Her sympathetic voice made Elisa cry even harder. “He must be very wonderful for you to love him so much, Elisa. You have not cried like this since Thomas—” Anna stroked Elisa’s hair gently.
“Oh, Mama!” Elisa said softly through her tears. There was so much she ached to say, but she could not. She could not bear the thought of disappointment in Anna’s eyes. I gave myself to Thomas and he left me anyway. I don’t know if I ever really loved him. But I let him use me. In the end I lost him. And now I have lost Murphy. Lost his respect. The adoration that was in his eyes. I told him about it, Mama, and now he’s gone too.
Anna took her by the shoulders. “Wilhelm brought his car back!” she said excitedly. “You know how men are––”
No, Elisa wanted to say, I don’t!
Anna wiped the tears from Elisa’s face with the hem of her apron. “Hurry, Elisa! You can drive to the airfield and buy a ticket to London, and . . . maybe his plane isn’t even gone yet!” Anna was writing the scene as if she and Theo were the players. “If it were your father, that is exactly what I would do.”
But it isn’t Papa. And I’m not you. Murphy would roll his eyes and tell me to go home. “He said I couldn’t go with him,” she answered quietly, looking at the clock. When did he say his plane was leaving?
“Of course he said that.” Anna guided Elisa out of the kitchen. “He realizes that you might want to be with your father, and––”
Oh, Mother, how can you know? It’s all so crazy. So terrible and confusing. He is simply a paid escort.
The violin and a small scuffed leather suitcase sat together beside the bed. Anna retrieved them. A romantic
to the end, she was vicariously living the romance of her daughter––even though no romance existed.
“You have time if you hurry, darling. He said he would be back in two weeks. We’ll all be together then.” Anna was grinning broadly.
Elisa was blindly going through the motions of accepting this unthinkable suggestion. She would spend an hour or so away and then come back with the sad news that Murphy’s plane had taken off and there simply were no more seats available on any flight to London. A flurry of quick hugs followed. Then, feeling foolish but relieved to have a little time alone to think, Elisa drove away in Murphy’s green Packard sedan.
***
“The plane to London?” asked the clerk behind the ticket counter distractedly. “It left a half hour ago, Fraülein.”
Elisa put a hand to her forehead. Her disappointment was unreasonable, she told herself. She was not even sure why she had come to the airport. She had expected Murphy to be gone. She certainly had not taken her mother’s suggestion seriously. And yet, here she was, near tears because John Murphy was already well on his way to London.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” The clerk squinted past her to the men and women in line.
She jerked her head up as the thought of Leah and Shimon hurled through her mind. “Yes! Vienna! Is there a plane to Vienna today?”
The clerk looked at her incredulously. “Vienna?” he snorted. “Look over there, Fraülein!” He pointed to a large group of people who sat disconsolately on the hard benches of the lobby. “They have just arrived from Vienna. The very last flight. No planes are going to Vienna! And no more are coming out for a while.” Then he consulted a clipboard. “As a matter of fact, all flights to Germany have been canceled!”
Elisa blushed. Everyone within earshot was staring at her. Who in their right mind would want to go into Vienna today unless they were somehow associated with the Nazis? “I am a musician,” she said in attempted explanation. “With the Vienna Philharmonic.”
The clerk stared at her over the tops of his glasses. “Well, if you go back there, you’ll be playing a new tune, I can tell you.”
She turned away, feeling the scornful looks of the others who had overheard her.
“Himmel!” laughed the man in line behind her. “A million trying to get out of Austria, and this one wants to get in! To play a concert!”
Elisa sat behind the wheel of the Packard for what seemed like a long time. She cradled her violin in her arms and stared blankly at the dashboard. No doubt the trains would not be crossing the frontier in Austria either. She and Murphy had driven to Prague. Could she not simply drive back to Vienna? Now that her father was safe, why shouldn’t she simply recross the border of Austria as she had done in Germany a dozen times in the last few weeks? Could there possibly be any more danger in the act of returning to her apartment than she had already experienced smuggling passports and children out of Germany?
The answer seemed suddenly simple. Anna had given her the excuse she had needed. They would believe that she had gone to London with Murphy. Vienna was only a few hours’ drive from Prague.
She started the car and headed back the way she and Murphy had come only the night before.
7
Captivity
Already hundreds had been arrested and taken away from the Judenplatz. Why they were taken and not others was a complete mystery. Papers were checked, names compared against a list, and those whose names were on the list were loaded onto the troop lorries and driven away. No one had been allowed out of the area unless he or she could somehow prove to be of Aryan racial heritage, rather than Jewish.
Leah’s legs ached from hours of standing. Those detained in the square had not been provided with drinking water. Younger children began to cry from thirst or hunger. But there was no worse torture than being denied access to toilets for so long. The Nazis had gleefully made themselves tormentors in this small way. They seemed delighted when someone asked to use a restroom. Permission was always denied, and the target of their amusement was made to stand apart from the group until at last, after hours of agony, he soiled himself. Then the mocking began. “Dirty Jew! Filthy, stinking animal!”
Again and again this was repeated. But, Leah thought, it is the Nazis themselves who are the animals. There was something inhuman about the way they denied such a basic need. The men and women they humiliated in this way were then taken under guard to the public restrooms where they were made to scrub the toilets with prayer shawls and holy objects taken from the synagogue.
A tall German SS colonel was in charge of all this. His black tunic was meticulous, his trousers pressed with a razor crease, his boots polished until they glistened in the morning sun. Mostly he was silent. His junior officers asked questions as the colonel listened; then with a jerk of his head he separated those who could stay in the Judenplatz for now from those who would be taken to the new Gestapo headquarters for further questioning.
Leah instantly recognized the colonel’s second in command. Dressed in civilian clothes, he wore his swastika armband on the sleeve of a rough tweed coat. His hair was combed down over his forehead in the style that Hitler himself wore. Round, wire-rimmed glasses glinted in the sun.
“That couple there, Sporer––” The colonel pointed his baton at Shimon and Leah. He glanced at their clasped hands.
Sporer nodded and strode briskly toward them. The clipboard was tucked under his arm. His face was thin, and his mouth curved slightly up at the corner as though he enjoyed his work. He looked as he had in his photo in the paper after he had been arrested by Schuschnigg for the riots. This was the man who had pulled Elisa to the ground and had cheered as others had gathered in hopes of raping her. A chill coursed through Leah as Sporer ran his eyes over her, sizing her up like an animal for butchering.
Leah looked away from him and forced herself to stare directly into the face of the SS colonel. Blue eyes. Blond hair. The perfect picture of Hitler’s handsome young Aryan god.
“Your names?” Sporer asked in a bored voice.
“Shimon and Leah Feldstein.” Shimon held out their identity cards.
Shimon’s voice was strained, and Leah wondered if he, too, remembered the photograph of Sporer in the newspaper. Sporer had been one of the first Nazi terrorists released after Schuschnigg and Hitler had met in Berchtesgaden. Men of such viciousness must be important to Hitler’s Reich, Leah thought. And now this man held their lives in his hands.
Sporer’s cheek muscle twitched as he read over their documents. “Jewish musicians,” he muttered to no one in particular. “There will be no purpose for you now that Austria is one with Germany, certainly. In the Reich it has been decreed that German music will be played by racially pure Germans.” He continued to stare at the identity papers and then searched through the list of names attached to his clipboard.
“Musicians?” asked the colonel. There was a flicker of something human in the face of the officer. He almost smiled at Leah.
“Your politics?” demanded Sporer, letting the pages of the list fall back.
“We are simply musicians,” Leah answered. “Must everyone in Vienna be political?”
Sporer raised his chin as if to challenge her. “You are a liar,” he said triumphantly. “Both of you are Zionists.”
“We plan to move to Palestine,” Shimon began. “But we are not political activists.”
“Again you lie! Your names are here!” Sporer’s voice was loud enough that several in the group turned to see what was happening. “We have your names! Everyone knows that Zionists are Communists!” His eyes gleamed as though he had captured criminals. He turned to the colonel. “Their names have been mentioned by two others whom we have interrogated.”
“We have visas to Palestine,” Shimon argued.
“And so have ten thousand others!” Sporer snapped. “Along with illegal passports.”
“Our papers are in order.” Shimon’s face showed a hint of fear for the first time.
The colonel listened to the conversation with curiosity. Leah did not turn her eyes away from him. “So you are Zionists,” the colonel said at last. “With papers to Palestine.” He seemed amused. “Are you aware that the Arabs who riot in Jerusalem daily are more rabid anti-Semites than you will find anywhere?” He tapped his riding crop against his leg. “You are musicians. For whom will you play in Palestine? I hear of no great orchestras being formed in the desert.”
He seemed to speak with genuine interest, and Leah answered him politely. “Yes, there is an orchestra there. Just begun in 1936.”
“No doubt formed by outcast Jews from Germany,” Sporer replied haughtily.
