5
Departure
It seemed strange to Murphy now, as he followed Elisa back across the Old Town Square of Prague, that Theo Lindheim had purchased a house so close to the Jewish sector of the city, so near to the very identity that he had fled from in Germany.
As though she read his mind, Elisa gestured toward the tower of the town hall. Below it, twenty-seven crosses were set into the cobblestones. “My father has always loved this place,” she explained. “His family is buried in the Jewish cemetery not far from here. There is no place in Prague that has more history than here.”
“But Theo isn’t Czech.” Murphy was surprised.
Elisa smiled at him as though he were unbelievably dense. “No. He is Jewish, Herr Murphy. Or have you forgotten? If so, you are the only one who has forgotten such a significant fact.” She laughed at him and pointed at the crosses in the cobbles. “Papa used to bring me here when I was a little girl.” She stopped. “I brought Leah here. These crosses mark the place where twenty-seven Czech nobles were executed in 1621. I never can remember why they were killed. When Papa is well again, I will ask him all about it. He knows about everything in Prague. He knows it better than I know German history. Better than I know my way around Berlin.”
She looks like a little girl, Murphy thought as he watched her eyes drink in the ancient sights and legends as if they were fresh and new. “Prague is a strange place to me.” Murphy stepped around one of the crosses in the square. “Maybe when I come back you can show me around.”
“There are a thousand stories.” His interest pleased her.
“Ah, well, you know me. Always interested in a story.”
“Papa always says the old stories are not so very different than the new. Good men fighting against evil. Sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference between the two.”
“Sometimes. Not now,” Murphy said with certainty.
“Our house is not so far from the house where Kafka was born. He wrote the novel about a man named Joseph who was arrested and tried and executed without ever knowing why.” When she turned to face Murphy, her eyes were angry. “This whole year I hated Prague and this house and every thought of Kafka because it made me think of Papa. One night I went to a hill outside Dachau. I stood for a long time and thought of the stories Papa had told me about this place. Men killed for no reason other than the fact that they thought differently than someone else. Maybe that’s why Papa chose to buy a house so near . . . so near to where the old stories all happened.”
The mist drifted like a veil through the square until Murphy could almost believe that he and Elisa were the only people left in the city. He felt the heavy burden of history here. There was much about Prague that he did not want to know. He wanted to take Elisa by the hand and lead her far from this place. The windows of the buildings looked down on them like so many eyes, and Murphy could not shake the feeling that these silent eyes had seen much and they would see more before the year was out.
“Should we get back, you think?” he asked, not wanting to admit that the place suddenly gave him the creeps. He remembered being a kid at home alone and looking at the piano until the keys seemed to be teeth that would devour him. He had run outside and waited until his folks had come home before he went back into the house. Today he had the same feeling as he stood with Elisa in the square.
“Just a minute more.” She jerked her head toward the face of the Orloj, a huge clock set in the tower. “Mother would expect that we would wait here until the hour strikes.” Moments later the clock struck 8 a.m. Little windows opened before them and tiny statues of Christ and the apostles filed out. “Look at them, Murphy!” Elisa cried, and again it was easy for him to imagine her as a little girl holding on to her father’s hand.
He reached out to her, and she laughed and clutched his arm tightly as the figure of Death tolled a tiny bell and an old man shook his head as if to say he did not want to die yet. Death turned the hourglass as a miser rolled past and then a young dandy, adjusting his costume. “Papa always says those last two fellows are to show that you can’t take it with you.” Elisa laughed with delight again. And then the windows shut tight until up in the gable a rooster appeared and crowed the passing of yet another hour.
“It beats anything I’ve seen in Times Square,” Murphy said, enjoying the closeness of Elisa clutching his arm.
“Times Square?” Her cheeks were flushed as she turned to him at last.
He wanted to kiss her. She was so close, so fresh, and finally free from the worry of the last few weeks. “In New York. Maybe I can show you sometime.”
A slight smile curved her mouth. She looked at his lips, then back into his eyes. “Times Square. I would like to see it sometime.” She brushed her lips lightly against his. Then, before he could move, she stepped away and hurried back across the square toward the narrow street where the writer Kafka had grown up, to the house where Anna was cooking a huge breakfast for them.
Anna greeted them at the door and immediately took Murphy past the parlor and the dining room to the bedroom, where Theo lay propped up on a dozen small pillows.
“He has been asking for you, John.” Anna opened the door slightly and peered in. Theo was awake. “Theo, darling,” she softly crooned, “your son-in-law is here. Elisa has decided to share him with us after all.”
Murphy wished that Elisa had told her mother the truth about their arrangement. It would have made things a whole lot easier. Anna hurried back down the narrow hall, leaving him alone with Theo in the dimly lit room.
Theo held out his hand to Murphy. The hand was unchanged, though attached to a spindly, bony arm. The hand was still large and remarkably familiar to Murphy after a year. And as Murphy took that hand in his own, he could easily remember Theo Lindheim as he had been a year before in Berlin. How the winds had buffeted the little plane; yet Theo had been determined, unafraid. Now every part of the man seemed to have withered and grown old––all but the hands.
“They have me tucked in so tightly, John Murphy, that I can hardly move.” Theo’s voice was shrunken and hollow as well. “I think they are afraid I will disappear.”
Murphy inhaled as the delicious aroma of Czech sausages filled the old house. His stomach rumbled hungrily. “With food like that, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Murphy sat down across from him.
“Imagine—” Theo touched his fingers to his thin face—“I used to scold Anna for stuffing me with such good food.” For an instant his eyes reflected the faraway faces of ten thousand hungry men. Loaves of bread heaped upon a truck, and something else . . .
“Anna said you want to talk to me?” Murphy’s voice called Theo back from the memory.
Theo nodded and glanced down to where the metal identification bracelet was still attached to his wrist. He held the crudely stamped plate out for Murphy to see. J. Stern, the plate read, followed by a number.
“They called me Stern,” Theo explained. “They said that Theo Lindheim had died in a plane wreck. I was Jacob Stern. Too many of my friends might have objected, you see, if Theo Lindheim was in Dachau. Too many friends who have important things yet to do for the true heart of Germany.” There was pain in his eyes. “That is why I could not ask them for help. I know they have things that they must do, or there will be no more Germany.” He faltered and looked toward the ceiling. “One man could not matter compared to that.”
Murphy felt somehow uncomfortable. This old, broken man had deluded himself into thinking that he had friends left within the borders of the Reich. But there were no sane men left in power in Germany. Murphy had witnessed the eerie torchlight processions down Wilhelmstrasse: the book burnings, the ritual bonfires beneath the banners of the broken cross. “They have all gone mad I’m afraid, Theo,” Murphy said gently.
Theo turned his gaze on Murphy and smiled as though he knew a secret that he would not tell. “Not all. Not everyone has gone mad. Some have gone to Switzerland. Some to Paris. Some to Prague. And some
to Dachau.” He waved his arm back and forth until the metal bracelet spun around his wrist. Then the smile faded, and he searched Murphy’s face. “And some truly courageous men remain behind. They live and breathe and hope and pray in the valley of this terrible shadow of death. You must believe that those men exist, Murphy. Somehow the English and the French and . . . those outside must believe those men exist. That they will act if only . . . ”
Murphy bit his lip. “Theo,” he asked, “you know what has happened in Austria? You know what happened last night? The Germans crossed the frontiers. Took the country. There was no one within to protest. And hardly a word of protest from the rest of the world. Where are these men you are talking about? these courageous Germans who will stand up to Hitler? Who are they? What are they waiting for?”
Theo did not answer. He looked even older and more tired, as if Murphy’s questions smashed a hope that he had clung to through a year of hell. He simply shook his head from side to side in reply.
“Can it be? Is everyone gone from my country? Have they all run away or been murdered or . . . have they come to believe the words of the madman?” Tears brimmed in his eyes as he grasped Murphy’s hand tightly. “I heard the thousands of voices over the radio when he spoke at the Sportpalast. Sometimes the guards put the broadcast through the speakers. And the people cheered Hitler. How they cheered when he said it! I could not believe my ears! Julius and I wept when we heard him say it!” Tears ran down Theo’s cheeks now.
“When he said what?” Murphy wished they had not spoken of such things. He grimaced at the sight of Theo’s agony and looked down at his hands.
“The voice of Hitler,” Theo continued in a faraway voice. “From the loudspeakers on the high walls and guard towers. It filled the camp. We stood shivering in the yard. From the cold. From the guns. The dogs. The electric wire. And then he said it: ‘We want no God but Germany itself! No God but Germany! No God!’ And the voices of thousands cheered his words. How they cheered! And beyond the walls of our prison the night was so dark. So very dark.” He began to shake his head again more slowly as he quietly relived that night. “No God? Germany? The German race before God? That night we heard the voice of Judas a million times over calling for the crucifixion. And it was dark. Judas, his back framed in the doorway as he left the table. I saw it there before my eyes, Murphy! I saw Judas walk out into the darkness.”
A chill coursed through Murphy at Theo’s words. He could not think of anything to say. He sat, blinking back at a man who had watched as Evil entered the heart of his country. Finally Murphy shrugged. “I . . . didn’t hear . . . that speech. Must’ve been in Spain.” He shuddered. Spain was bad enough.
From the doorway behind them Elisa’s voice called gently to her father. “Papa?” Murphy knew at once that she had heard Theo. She stepped into the room. “Papa––” She swallowed hard and groped for words. She leaned heavily on the chest of drawers, and even in the dim light, Murphy could see that her hands were shaking. Theo’s memory was now her own. “There are still men left . . . good men!” Her voice was trembling.
“Elisa,” Theo began hoarsely. “Child––”
“You can’t stop believing, Papa! I know they are there! Thomas told me!” The words came in a rush now. It didn’t matter that Murphy was in the room. She seemed not to notice.
“Thomas?” Theo’s voice was filled with amazement. “You have seen him?”
“Yes. In the Tyrol. And at my flat in Vienna!” She knelt beside the bed. “He is a good man, Papa, just like we always knew he was!”
Suddenly Murphy was no longer thinking about Germany. The memory of Elisa in the arms of Thomas von Kleistmann was fresh and painful. She had written about this Thomas guy in her note to Murphy. It was plain now that she still loved him. Murphy watched her face as she talked about him to Theo.
“He loved you like his own father,” she said. “And he is still your son and the son of Germany.”
Murphy stood and walked out of the room unnoticed. He had heard enough. Always it seemed, Thomas von Kleistmann stood between them. And why not? Murphy thought. Von Kleistmann had more claim on Elisa than he did.
Wilhelm and Dieter, Elisa’s brothers, milled around the parlor. They eyed Murphy with curiosity. Or maybe it was suspicion. At any rate, Murphy concluded, they were probably hungry. Fresh sesame kolaches were heaped on a plate in the center of the dining room table. A platter of eggs and one of sausages flanked it. Anna carried a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen.
“He is doing well,” she beamed. “Don’t you think, Murphy? Elisa said you prefer to be called Murphy instead of John. Very American-sounding, if you ask me. Are you hungry?”
Murphy was not hungry any longer. “This looks great. Like something my mother would fix.” He noticed two envelopes addressed to Leah and to the maestro at the Musikverein. They were beside his plate. “But the truth is––” he pocketed the notes––“I have to get to London. I . . . ” He tried not to look at the disappointment in Anna’s eyes. “I can’t stay. We’re going to broadcast live . . . about the Anschluss, and I . . . can’t stay.”
“But . . . but, John . . . Murphy!”
“I am sorry. I’ll make it up to you another time, but I can’t stay. Mind if I take a few of these rolls along with me, though?” He tried to sound casual. The truth was, he simply wanted to leave before Elisa walked into the room. There was the front door. There was nothing to stop him from bolting out right now.
“Rolls? Why yes. As many as you like. But can’t you . . . ?”
Murphy stuffed four kolaches in his pockets, then turned toward Wilhelm, who was eyeing him with open hostility. “Wilhelm? Do you drive?” Murphy tossed him the keys to the car. “Can you take me to the airport? I hate good-byes. Hate to see your sister cry.” Murphy gave Anna a quick hug. Wilhelm was beaming now. “Tell Elisa to take good care of the car until I get back, will you?”
6
Call to Vienna
Members of the German consulate in Paris were still dressed in the clothes they had put on the day before––neckties askew, coats and trousers rumpled, and faces unshaved. Throughout the long night of the Austrian Anschluss, they had been harangued with frantic phone calls from Berlin.
“What is the French response to our action? Have they given indication that they will mobilize? What word do you hear from them? Do they intend to carry out their pledge to protect Austria?”
Now, in the cold light of morning, it seemed that the only men in Paris who had gone without sleep were the Germans within these walls. From the beginning of the crisis, the French government had remained silent. No doubt Premier Daladier had gone to bed at his usual time with the thought that he would read all about the fall of Austria in the morning newspapers and later in the briefs on his desk.
The top three buttons of Thomas von Kleistmann’s tunic were unbuttoned. He had dozed in his chair occasionally through the night, and now his neck was stiff. He ran a hand over his swarthy, unshaven cheek. His beard felt like sandpaper. His eyes were gritty and burning from the chain-smoking of anxious men who had little else to do.
Ashtrays on the polished tables were overflowing. A blue haze swirled in the air as the first light of morning streamed through the windows. Half-consumed glasses of schnapps and cups of cold coffee were scattered everywhere, leaving rings on the tabletops and spots on the carpets around the sofa and overstuffed chairs in the staff room. Now everyone but Thomas von Kleistmann and Ernst vom Rath had drifted off to their quarters.
Thomas looked out at the wet, shining cobbles on the street outside the embassy. No French troops had clattered by to save the Austrians. No angry Frenchmen stood outside the gates to protest the German action. Nothing had changed. No one cared at all except possibly the Austrians themselves.
With a sigh, he turned away from the window. Across the room, Ernst vom Rath sat slumped in a large easy chair. His naturally pale skin seemed almost transparent with exhaustion. He was watching Thomas with
unhappy despair. No doubt their thoughts were drifting along the same dark channels. They had both risked much to warn the English and the French of the approaching takeover in Austria. Living in the midst of ardent Nazis, they had chosen to follow their loyalties to a higher morality.
And this is where their conscience had brought them. What good had their efforts been? Hitler had proven himself to be an absolute genius. Had he not fulfilled his promise to unite Austria with Germany? And not one drop of German blood had been shed! Just as he had told his fearful generals: “Britain and France are spineless! They will not raise a finger to stop us!” Now the Little Corporal would be raised publicly to the level of deity!
Thomas held Ernst’s gaze. What use has it been, these risks of ours? What use for the generals to tell Hitler he will plunge us into a war? He has proved them wrong. Maybe we are wrong also. We are so small. So insignificant! What use was it, Ernst? Although the words were unspoken, they passed clearly between the two men.