The colonel addressed him. “No doubt that is so.” He smiled slightly. “I have always regretted that we have banished such talent from the German concert halls. We have banned Jews from performing while we flock to see performing bears and monkeys.”
“At least bears and monkeys do not pretend to be human as the Jews do, Herr Standartenführer. And if there were bears who could play instruments, they would not be allowed to sit with the Aryan musicians on the stage.”
“Perhaps, Sporer,” the colonel replied, amused by the discussion. “Unless the bears were needed to fill a vacant place.” He nodded toward Leah; then he addressed them. “I have always had the highest regard for talent. Even that found in performing bears.” He enjoyed his own joke. “Even talented Jews must have some place in the world.” He spoke to Leah. “I recognized you at once, Frau Feldstein. Twice last year I heard you perform here in Vienna, and once before in Salzburg.”
Leah felt a wave of relief. This was a man who appreciated good music and musicians. Perhaps there was hope. “My performance was satisfactory?” She tried not to think of the fact that they had just been compared to performing animals.
“Quite so.” The colonel tugged on his gloves. “’Dvořák 104 in B minor,’ I believe. Quite nice. And then Bloch’s ‘Hebraic Rhapsody.’ Of course, such music will not be played any longer in Vienna since it is written by a Jew.”
“A tragedy,” Shimon said softly.
The eyes of the colonel flashed resentment at Shimon’s remark. “Perhaps the orchestra in Palestine will play it? We really have no need of it here, do we? With so many fine German composers. A pity, yes. The pieces are amusing examples of the cleverness of Jews. But not a tragedy.”
Shimon was sorry now that he had spoken. The humanness of the colonel seemed to evaporate in his defense of German policy. “Yes. German composers are . . . of course . . . ” He fell silent under the withering glare of the colonel. He wanted to shout his argument that good music was unaware of the heritage of the musician, but he dared not attempt to reason with this racial madness.
“You are a musician also?” the colonel asked Shimon. “I do not remember you in the orchestra.”
“I am a percussionist,” Shimon explained.
“No real talent in beating drums.” The colonel rose slightly on his toes as he pronounced his judgment. “Even bears and monkeys could do as much, ja, Sporer?”
Sporer laughed loudly in reply. “This one is more the size of a bear, I think.” He sneered at Shimon. Then, in an unexpected movement, the colonel swung back his riding crop and whipped it forward hard between Shimon’s legs. With a cry of agony, Shimon dropped to the ground. Leah screamed and flung herself between Shimon and the brutal men who threatened to strike him again.
“You see, Sporer—” the colonel grinned—“even a bear may be controlled and brought to his knees with a well-placed blow.”
Shimon was doubled over in pain. He gasped, unable to speak.
“You are animals!” Leah shouted. “Go away! Leave us alone!”
“The mate of the bear is upset.” Sporer moved as if he might strike Leah.
The colonel put out his hand to stop him. “Wait,” he said, still smiling. “The Führer has expressed that the culture of Vienna continue as it has been. For the time being, even Jews will remain in the orchestras. At least until artists of Aryan blood may be found to replace them.”
Leah stroked Shimon’s head gently, trying to comfort him. She did not hear the words of the colonel. “My darling,” she said softly. “Poor darling.”
The colonel nudged her with his boot. “Get up,” he demanded.
Leah’s face was streaked with tears of rage. She had seen enough this morning of the arrogant superiority of the Aryan race. She would not answer to it again.
“He says, ‘Get up!’” Sporer grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away from Shimon.
“Why have you done this?” She glared at their tormentors. “Why?”
Cool and totally oblivious to her emotion, the colonel raised an eyebrow slightly. The scene entertained him. “You have a concert this afternoon at the Musikverein, do you not?” he asked.
“There is no music left in Vienna on this black day!”
He slapped her hard across the mouth. “You will be silent, Jewish bitch! And then you will hear the will of the Greater Reich for Vienna!” There was nothing human left in the colonel’s expression now. He believed all that he had been told. He was the master race. He was of pure blood, and Leah was subhuman, who was worth nothing beyond the amusement she might provide for the German officers who had arrived by the thousands in Vienna.
Leah did not look at him anymore. Her eyes remained on Shimon and the cobblestones of the Judenplatz. She remembered Rudy. The severed fingers of poor Rudy. She was silent.
The colonel continued, satisfied that he had won the insane and pointless argument. “There is a concert today at the Musikverein, Frau Feldstein. Good German music for the men and officers of the Wehrmacht. It is a chamber piece, if I remember correctly. There is no need for this bear to beat his drums.” He nudged Shimon, who still fought for breath. “But you—” he narrowed his eyes at Leah—“you are the principal cellist, are you not? Most certainly until a comparable German cellist is brought in to take your place, you will be needed at the Musikverein to perform.”
Leah shuddered. They intended to make her perform while Shimon was left here as a hostage! Like an animal she must entertain the master race on command. “Shimon must come with me.” She raised her chin defiantly.
“If he goes with you, how do we know you will return?” The colonel’s voice was patronizing, as if he were speaking to a five-year-old child. “No, I think not. The music you play today does not call for tympani.”
“Please let us go.” Tears filled her eyes again. Surely there must be some fragment of mercy in this man. “We have papers for Palestine.”
“We have not seen these papers,” the colonel said sympathetically. “How are we to know?”
“They are in our apartment!” Leah replied. “Please––”
“Where in your apartment?” The colonel cocked his head slightly.
“In my husband’s desk. You will see. We have sent our personal things to Palestine already.”
The colonel snapped his fingers at Sporer. “Go get the documents,” he commanded gruffly. “These Jews have violated Reich law. They have sent belongings out of the country without permission of the office of––”
“But––” Leah could hardly find her voice at the horror of this accusation. “But we sent out things weeks ago . . . from Austria, not from Germany!”
“Austria is Germany!” the colonel shouted. “And now, it is the will of Germany that bears and monkeys and even Jews perform on command! Your husband remains here in our expert care until your illegal activities are investigated! And of course, you must play today. You must play joyfully to welcome the union of Germany and Austria!”
***
Bill Skies, Timmons, Johnson, and a half dozen more correspondents were being held as virtual prisoners in the International News Service offices not far from the Rothschild Palace. They were Americans, French, and British, and not in any real danger, but they had watched as four of the Austrian journalists were taken away at gunpoint by the Gestapo for “questioning about ideological irregularities” in their support of an independent Austria.
Bill Skies would lodge a formal protest when the heat was off a little, but for now, the heat was on everywhere. A game of Hearts was started over an empty desk. Three members of the SS and two Storm Troopers watched with interest. Timmons shared cigarettes with their jailers, and the atmosphere became almost friendly.
“Why is it you Amerikanischers are so hostile toward the National Socialist Movement?” a young, hard-muscled SS soldier asked as he leaned in to study Johnson’s cards.
Johnson pressed his cards against his chest and snapped. “Because you are all a bunch of snoops
!”
The SS man blinked in confusion of the term. His comrades rattled off several German attempts to explain Johnson’s comment. They all fell flat. “What is schnoops?” asked the SS man.
“You tell this cracker what a snoop is, Timmons,” Johnson was angry at Timmons now. “After all, you gave them half a pack of the Lucky Strikes.”
“Just tryin’ to relieve a little tension.” Timmons spread his hands in innocence.
Johnson yelled back. “You wanna relieve yourself, go to the toilet! Don’t invite the SS to play cards with us!” Then he turned to the young soldier. His eyes were popping with rage and the veins in his neck stood out. “Snoops! I’ll get you snoops! You’re a bunch of Peeping Toms.”
“Peeping?” The soldier stood and stepped back. He had the power to arrest this American as well, and he would—if he could figure out what he was talking about. Another soldier shrugged.
“Yeah! Looking into people’s private lives! Over their shoulders at their cards!” He threw his cards into the air and they fluttered down onto the floor. “You arrest people for thinking! You’re crackers! You and that boss of yours!”
The soldier drew himself up very straight, and arrogant superiority descended on his boyishly handsome features. “Herr Johnson!” He screamed his reply. “I must ask you to cease such madness and ravings! If you one word utter about the Reich which is not favorable, I will arrest you for subversion as well!”
Johnson didn’t care at this point. He glared at Timmons. “You see what kind of scum you gave your Lucky Strikes to? They won’t even let me say what a whimpering fairy that maniac they call the Führer is!”
Bill Skies coughed loudly, as if he were choking on his cigar. “You’re drunk, Johnson. Shut up! He’s drunk.” Skies grimaced in horror at the SS men, who were pulling out their pistols.
“I ain’t drunk enough!” Johnson was still shouting. Then, an angelic smile passed across his face. “Just listen to this, you pig-faced Aryan albino! You want to hear what I think about you and your Hitler in German? Ja? In Deutsch, ja!” Johnson then let loose with a stream of scathing epithets that needed no translation in any language.
Jaws dropped. Eyes turned to steely rage. The Amerikanischer Journalistin had explained without a shadow of a doubt what he thought of Adolf Hitler, the SS, the Storm Troopers, the Gestapo, and by the way, the meaning of the word schnoop.
It would take more now than a few packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes to get Johnson out of the Gestapo clinker, but for the moment he felt a whole lot better.
***
Walter slipped what little money he had left into the envelope along with photographs of the boys for the passports. As a German citizen, Walter had been forced to register with the Austrian Immigration Office. He had been a refugee from Nazi Germany then. Now Austria was Nazi Germany. It was only a matter of time until the name and address of Walter Kronenberger appeared on a list.
He tucked the envelope into the pocket of Charles’ jacket, then changed his mind and slipped it down into the boy’s tall knee-high stocking. “You must guard this very carefully, Charles.” He took him by the shoulders. “It is very important that you do not lose the envelope. Inside is a little money. Do you understand?”
Charles nodded, his towhead bobbing in the scarf that covered his mouth.
Walter turned to Louis with the same serious expression. “And do you remember where you are going?”
“But, Father,” Louis protested, “you are taking us. Must I remember?”
“In case we are separated, Louis,” he explained gently for the third time, “you must know. Tell me the name, Louis. What place will you ask for if we are separated in the crowd?”
Louis stuck his lower lip out slightly. He did not like the thought of losing his father in a crowd. “But––”
Walter gave him a little shake as if to jar the word loose. “Say it!” Even this slight show of sternness brought tears to the eyes of Louis. Walter could not bear it. He hugged the boy close and stroked his hair. “You must be very brave, Louis. Both of you, Charles. Today you must be little men for me, or my heart will break!” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Musikverein,” Louis mumbled.
“There’s a good fellow!” Walter patted him on the back. “And who have you come to see?”
“My aunt. Our aunt. Only she is not our aunt really.”
“But you mustn’t say that. You cannot say that she is not your aunt, Louis. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded. “Yes.”
“What is the name of your aunt?”
The boy thought for a long moment. “Leah.”
“And how will you remember her name?”
“Because it sounds like Louis. Like my name.”
Charles clapped his hands in approval. He had memorized it all along with Louis, even though he could not express it. There was no last name to remember. The name Leah had been whispered to Walter months before, the night they escaped from Germany. He had hoped that he would never be required to use the information.
Walter stood up and surveyed his sons. They were dressed as he was, in leather shorts and green wool Jäger’s jackets that matched down to the stag-horn buttons. They looked the part of Tyrolean peasants who had come to see the great show of the German war machine. Walter could only hope and pray that they would not be stopped for a document check. His papers clearly bore the name of Walter Kronenberger, and that name was known as the enemy of the Reich.
“There is a concert today at the Musikverein.” He looked to Charles now, who seemed somehow better able to grasp the situation. “There is always a concert on Sunday. If we are . . . separated, you must be certain that you get there. Go to the back door. There is an old man who guards the door. Louis must tell him who you wish to see.”
“But what if she is not there?” Louis was trembling at the thought of being lost.
“The man who stands at the door will know where to find her.” He handed each boy a bundle tied in a scarf. “Cheese and bread to eat while you wait.” He tried to smile. “Like a picnic.”
“Will you eat with us?” Louis eyed the bundle. He could not smile. His father was leaving. Maybe forever, like their mother had left them.
Walter did not reply. He tucked the small suitcase under his arm and opened the door and walked out into the dark hallway. Charles looked back at the bed, then up at the water-stained ceiling high above his little head. He was memorizing, Walter knew. He noticed everything. If Louis forgot this moment, Charles would remember for both of them. His young eyes were filled with the sorrow of understanding that was far beyond his years. He followed his father into the hall, then motioned to Louis that it was time to leave the safety of the room that had been their home.
8
The Refugees
The walls of the Tower of London glistened in the bright afternoon sunlight. Like a tour guide, the cockney taxi driver rattled off the list of hapless Englishmen and women who had been executed there over the years. Somehow Murphy found the grim recitation a pleasant distraction.
“Look at ’enry the Eighth––” The cabbie shoved his cap back on his balding pate and gestured toward the tower. “Why, I says to meself when poor King Edward resigned the throne for Mrs. Simpson, why not leave the poor bloke alone! Didn’t ’enry the Eighth marry six times? An’ most of ’is wives ended up right there in that tower gettin’ their ’eads looped off! An’ then ol’ ’enry’s daughters! The Tudor sisters––”
“Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth?” Murphy was enjoying this strange application of history to current politics.
“Right, gov! Bloody Mary, we call ’er now! Just like ’er father, she was. Bumped off the Protestant clergy that support ’er father. Even ’ad little Elizabeth tossed into that very tower there! Then when Elizabeth’s turn came to rule, quite a bit of blood was shed as well! Rulers are always going t’ bump off the opposition, I say. ’istory is proof of that! So what’s all the grief over this ’itler chap
, anyway, I ask? An’ why should an Englishman give a rip what ’appens in Austria? Never been there meself, an’ I never intend t’ go either!”
Murphy did not reply. He turned his head to stare back at the tower. Indeed, England had come a long way since Henry the Eighth and Bloody Mary. Now, rather than executing the loyal opposition, the government made them political outcasts. No doubt, Winston Churchill would have been axed if he had lived a few centuries earlier. Now, he was simply shoved onto a back burner. At the present, most of England held the same opinion as this cabdriver: “What’s all the grief over this Hitler chap?”
“You know the song, gov?” The cabbie grinned over his shoulder, then burst into song: “There’ll always be an England. . . .”
Murphy smiled politely. He was too tired to argue. His head was throbbing by the time the cab pulled to the curb in front of the INS offices on Fleet Street. He counted out the fare from Heathrow Airfield, then held it for a moment when the driver extended his hand expectantly. Maybe it was worth a word to explain to this self-styled philosopher just what was happening in Europe. Maybe he would pass the information along.