“Send a wire!” Doktor Goebbels shouted. “A wire to Craine in America! The author of this story is John Murphy, the American journalist with INS!”
“But, Herr Doktor, Liberty Magazine is not under the control of Herr Craine or his publishing empire!”
“No, but Herr John Murphy is!”
“Jawohl, Herr Doktor. What would you like this wire to say?”
“Tell him that if he cannot do better to control his journalists from printing such nonsense about the suppression of dissidents and imbeciles in the Reich, we shall shut down the INS operation. Tell him that his Murphy must change his tone or be dismissed! Let us see something positive from the American press, for a change.”
After the wire had been sent to Craine in America, another wire was sent to the Gestapo headquarters in Vienna:
It is imperative in the light of such adverse and continuing publicity in the case of the Kronenberger affair that these children be rooted out from their hiding place lest they escape beyond the borders of the Reich and be used as propaganda against us. Such monstrous deformity is easily spotted, and the Fu{“}hrer questions why the Gestapo has failed to eliminate these subhuman creatures from among us. How long will the voice of this dissident criminal Kronenberger continue to protest against the will of the Fu{“}hrer for the welfare of the German race? Notify immediately what actions are taken in this unpleasant matter. Heil Hitler! Minister of Propaganda Goebbels
***
The furious order from Himmler’s Gestapo headquarters reached even the lowliest of Nazi servants in Vienna. Early photographs of the monster Charles Kronenberger were pulled from the files and distributed. If this imbecile child with the hideous face was seen, he was to be reported immediately to headquarters. Matters would then be handled quietly and discreetly. It was understood, of course, that anyone found harboring these children would also have to be disposed of. Word must not go beyond the ranks of the most loyal and dedicated party members, but this Kronenberger offspring had been an issue to rally opposition to the Reich, and they must not be allowed to raise questions again. The matter must die. Anyone connected with the matter must also die. A reward of five hundred Reichsmarks was offered for the apprehension of the enemies of the Reich.
***
The civilian in front of Otto Wattenbarger’s desk tapped his hat nervously against his thigh as he recalled the incident.
“Yes. There were two of them, sir. Almost the same size. They fell in the crowd and were almost crushed. If I had known, I would have let them be trampled. If I had known that they were these Untermenschen spawn of the criminal Kronenberger.”
Otto raised his hand sharply. “And how do you know they are the same children in the dispatch?”
“How could they be any other? The one boy had a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Like this.” He demonstrated the concealment of the child’s deformity.
Staring hard at the man, Otto challenged him. “It was a cool day.”
“Yes . . . but . . . well, they asked me to take them to their aunt. At the Musikverein. They were both blond. Quite Aryan-looking from the eyes up. I thought on such a day I should do a good deed––”
“And now you undo it.”
The informant straightened with resentment at the charge. “On the contrary. I correct my misdeed. If these . . . might be used against the promotion of the race, as our Führer says––”
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
The man cleared his throat and began again. “So, I took them there. To meet their aunt . . . so they said. What was her name?” He frowned and stared up at the ceiling. “Lena, I think. But she was not there. Not at all. Only one person was there. A musician all alone on the stage.”
“How do you know she was a musician?”
“She held her cello in the case. Like a big suitcase. I can tell the case of a cello, I assure you.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t my job to do more. This woman was not their Aunt Lena, but I left them there all the same.” He looked down at the floor, then back at Otto. “If you find this person, you might find the children. You will find this Lena person, at any rate. Easy enough. She works at the Musikverein. How many Lenas can work there?”
Otto ran his hand through his hair wearily. A dozen such stories had passed through his office since the word had been sent from the top. “You have done well to report this,” Otto congratulated the informer.
“And will I receive a reward?”
“If they are caught and your story is verified.” Otto held up a finger in warning. “I would not tell the details to anyone else, however, lest someone else decide to trace your clues. Then you will not get any payment at all.”
At that word, the face of the informer became very pale. He had, no doubt, repeated the tale in several beer halls. Otto could read that much on his face. “But, but . . . I came here first with the information.”
Otto smiled patronizingly. “Of course you did. I have it all on file. I’m simply telling you that it is time to remain absolutely silent on this matter from this moment onward. The state police will take care of the matter, and you will be notified.”
“I will not speak another word.” He raised his hand to salute.
“Sensible. I have no doubt in my mind that you will be repaid for your action in this case. Now leave the rest to us, bitte?”
Nodding in awed agreement, the man backed out of the room, leaving Otto to contemplate the story. He thumbed through the thin file, looking at the dim photographs of two small boys. One was whole in countenance and smiling broadly as his broken brother embraced him. These two, left alive, were a threat to Hitler’s policy of eugenics: selection of the fittest for breeding of the master race. Their existence was the one remaining testimony to the battle between church and Nazi Reich that had taken place in the early days.
Otto frowned as his eyes reached for the gentle gaze of the child with the torn face. Quietly he quoted the words of Faust’s demon: “Shattering those who answer innocently is the tyrant’s way of easing his embarrassment.”
Otto smiled bitterly. The words of the demon were true. In this case, they were as true as words from heaven. The very existence of these children was an embarrassment to the Reich. There remained no choice but to shatter them utterly.
26
Solitary Confinement
The red leather-bound copy of Faust lay on the night table beside Theo’s Bible. Within hours of his arrival in Prague, Theo had asked for it. Elisa could clearly remember the night in Berlin when she had watched her father pick the book from his library shelf. She had never asked him why he had chosen such a volume from among the thousand priceless first editions that he owned.
Tonight, as the round-faced Czech doctor finished his examination, he lifted the book and smiled curiously. “You are an admirer of Goethe’s Faust, Herr Linder?” he asked, absently turning the pages. He seemed fascinated with the edition. Only last night he had pored over it as Theo had slept. Now Elisa stood in the doorway as her father answered.
“More so of Marlowe’s,” Theo said, his eyes moving from the book to the face of the doctor.
After a long moment, the doctor sighed and closed the cover. “Marlowe. The English writer. Very good, but I have not read his version, I fear.”
“Someday you must.” Theo took the book from him and thumbed through the pages as well. “My daughter Elisa is married to an American. Perhaps she might pick up a copy for you. A small token for your kindness.” Theo was looking at Elisa now. The doctor had not noticed her behind him, and he followed Theo’s gaze and sat silently considering her.
Elisa felt uncomfortable when he did not reply but continued to stare expectantly at her. “Of course,” she blurted at last. “My husband is in London now.”
“There is a possibility she will be joining him soon in Vienna,” Theo added grimly.
“Vienna?” The doctor frowned and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “A dangerous place
indeed, nowadays. Easier to get into than out of, as they say. But if you are married to an American . . .” He again looked at the edition of Faust in Theo’s hands. He stood abruptly and changed the subject to the issue of Theo’s health. “You are a man of great stamina, Theo,” he said in a cheerful voice. “And Anna makes a better physician than I do in this case. Soon enough you’ll be strolling along Charles Bridge and sightseeing in Old Town again.” He pumped Theo’s hand vigorously; then with a slight bow at the waist, he turned to Elisa. “And you, Elisa––” his plump cheeks were flushed—“will you still be here in three days when I come back to check on your father?”
“I hope by then to be with my husband,” Elisa replied, hoping that her impatience to return to Vienna did not show.
“Ah well,” he said in mock disappointment. “All this time I have come here to enjoy your mother’s cakes and tea and to catch a glimpse of Theo’s lovely daughter.” He laughed. “He is practically recovered, you know, and now I shall have less reason than ever for coming.”
Elisa felt relieved by his announcement of her father’s health, even if he was half joking. All week he had come and spoken in urgent whispers as he examined Theo. His voice and manner had somehow frightened Elisa. Today, his lighthearted attitude lifted any final worries about Theo’s recovery from her mind. “Mama will still make you tea and cakes.” She smiled as the doctor closed his black bag.
“Then perhaps we shall see each other again before you leave,” he said cheerfully, patting his rotund belly. He clicked his heels and took his leave.
Elisa showed him to the door and then watched out the window as he walked briskly toward the square. Just beyond the corner, the doctor was joined by another man, tall and lanky, wearing a coarse wool suit. The doctor uttered a few words, and both of them looked back toward the house. Their faces were anything but cheerful. Elisa felt a chill as she watched them through the slit in the curtains. Some moments of conversation passed before the doctor took the young man’s arm and they walked slowly out of her view.
***
Leah used the last of the stale bread, carefully cutting away the mold on the crusts. Not once had she left the apartment since they had first entered it. She dared not leave Charles and Louis alone, yet the thought of taking them out terrified her.
Their complexions grew more pale each day. Again and again the image of the farm in the Tyrol, where Elisa had taken other children, came to Leah’s mind.
Louis toyed listlessly with his food. No eggs. There never had been any milk. And now there was no butter to soften the rock-hard toast.
“You should eat, Louis,” Leah said irritably, looking out the window and across the rooftops of Vienna toward the Judenplatz. Who is left that I can trust? she wondered. And what, dear God, has become of Shimon?
“Will we go shopping soon?” Louis asked. He looked unhappily at his toast. Charles stared hungrily at his own, then dipped a corner in his tea and carefully tasted it.
“We can’t go anywhere yet.” Leah softened her tone, realizing that she must not let her own frantic worries be obvious to the boys.
“Why not?” Louis was whining now. “You said we would get the pastry from your locker, Aunt Leah, but you forgot.”
Leah imagined the box of Demel’s sweet rolls, which by now must be a fuzzy green lump in her locker. She wondered if the lock had been changed yet—which blond Aryan musician would take it and take her place in the orchestra. Suddenly she was angry all over again. Did anyone in the orchestra care what had happened to their Jewish colleagues? Had anyone even bothered to check on the fate of Leah and Shimon? Was the management aware that Shimon had been arrested and their visas to Palestine had been taken? “And why doesn’t Elisa come back?” she muttered. Just like the sweet rolls in her locker at the Musikverein, the three of them were growing a little fuzzy in their solitude. Herr Hugel prowled around the first floor of the apartment building not daring to bother Leah again after that first morning. But how could she slip the boys past him even if they had someplace else to go?
“You can go shopping without us,” Louis said hopefully at the urging of Charles. “Father left us often when we lived in Germany.”
Leah still did not reply or turn away from the window. Like a prisoner gazing out beyond bars to freedom, she longed to stretch her legs and carry a basket into the farmers’ market. Milk. Eggs. Fresh bread. Cheese and heaps of cabbages. And yet, to spend their precious few shillings on food now would put them just that much more beyond the reach of train fare to the Tyrol and the farm, where such things magically appeared on the table in the Herrgottseck. Elisa, have you forgotten?
A gentle tug on her arm finally brought Leah’s mind back from beyond the Viennese rooftops. Charles gazed solemnly up at her, worry and sadness in his eyes. He had seen other adults stare out the window. His mother. His father. And now Leah had done the same. She felt suddenly ashamed. She was supposed to be confident and in control. It seemed terribly unfair to let the fears that haunted her at night still remain in the morning. She cupped his sad, broken face in her hand. “What is it, Charles?” she asked gently.
He took her hand and she followed as if he were the adult leading her to some answer. They walked the quick few steps through the tiny front room to where the cello case stood like a silent sentinel in the corner. He touched the scarred case and guided her hand to it as he opened his mouth and tried to sing the first few notes of a Bach suite she had played. “You need to think,” he seemed to say, “and here is where you will best think for us!”
Leah obeyed meekly, as she had done as a child when her father had bellowed that she must practice, or why on earth had they spent a fortune on lessons and the instrument? “You are not like other children, Leah! Let them play their games; what good will it do them? They might hop and run, but they are still on the ground, ja? You must play the cello; then you will fly above the rooftops on your music!”
This morning, Charles sat beside her on the sofa as she played. His eyes followed every movement of her fingers and the sweep of the bow across the mellow strings of the violoncello.
***
The guesthouse at San Sebastian where Murphy stayed was furnished in dark medieval splendor. Huge tapestries purchased from the king of Spain hung on the walls. The floors were covered with priceless Oriental rugs. The bed Murphy slept in had once belonged to Cardinal Richelieu, who served Louis XIV of France. The huge armoire, where Murphy’s new clothes now hung, once belonged to the Sun King himself. The bungalow was named Casa del Sol, “House of the Sun,” the butler had told Murphy on the first day. Windows opened to the beauty of sunsets over the Pacific Ocean, and Murphy had watched the sight with awe the first time. But that first day had given way to a second, and still Murphy had not been taken to meet his host.
The first day’s schedule was a blessing; Murphy had been so exhausted that he fell into Richelieu’s bed and was conscious of nothing at all for the next eighteen hours. When he awakened the afternoon of the second day, he was told, “Mr. Craine is busy with other guests.” Murphy was taken to be fitted with a new wardrobe of business suits and hats, advised that he simply could not meet the Chief until he had the “proper attire.” After all, one could not have conversation with America’s king of publishing while dressed in coveralls!
Now, as the sun cooled itself in the ocean, Murphy paced the length of the Oriental carpet and back again. He was angry. He had been rushed all the way from Europe at a whim of the Chief, and then shoved off into this glorified prison while Arthur Adam Craine “entertained his guests.”
The shrill laughter of a woman drifted up from the swimming pool; to Murphy the sound was like fingernails on a blackboard. While Craine and his Hollywood celebrities sipped champagne, Murphy and the events of Austria had been locked away, out of sight and out of mind. Nothing unpleasant must disturb such privileged people, after all, Murphy thought sarcastically. The real world must not intrude on San Sebastian. No thought of Hitler could be allo
wed to mar conversation or pull attention from the millions of dollars of European art that Mr. Craine had acquired.
Murphy sank down unhappily onto a chair that had once belonged to some king or another. He had already forgotten who. It didn’t matter. The fact that Murphy was in the midst of some of the world’s greatest art treasures did nothing to cheer him up. While Craine showed off his art collection here, men like Hitler and Göring were robbing Austria of her national art treasures. Things had come to mean everything, and human life itself held no value unless it served the Reich.
As Murphy gazed forlornly at the priceless objects that surrounded him, he felt that same current of perverted values here in the palace of America’s self-proclaimed king. Craine determined what was important in his domain. Proper wardrobe. Proper conversation. Nothing unpleasant over dinner, thank you. And by all means, one must not mention that Europe was sliding toward the abyss of war. No, leaders like Hitler and Mussolini were too intelligent for that! Keep a lid on it! After all, as long as Craine could still purchase art from European dealers, America was safe!