Munich Signature (23 page)

***

The trees and flowers of Winston Churchill’s estate were in full bloom. The stately brick mansion of Chartwell seemed warm and homey amid the blossoming shrubs and the bright afternoon sunlight. Murphy felt none of the gloom he had experienced during his last wintertime visit to Churchill’s home.

A plump, matronly housekeeper directed him from the patio down a meandering path to where the great man sat in front of a half-finished canvas. Dabbing paintbrush on his palette, Churchill glanced at Murphy, growled a greeting, and then put the finishing touches on his painting.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Murphy.” He nodded toward the canvas. “Well, what do you think of my work?”

“Very nice,” Murphy feigned admiration, even though the canvas was not even half complete. “So far, very nice.”

Churchill squinted at the work and then sat back with a disapproving grunt. “Not the full picture, however, eh, Mr. Murphy?” Now Churchill turned his gaze on Murphy. “Only half the story, as it were.” He tossed the brush into a tin can filled with linseed oil and a dozen other brushes. Wiping his hands on a paint-spattered smock, Churchill then extended a hand to Murphy in greeting.

“Even unfinished it is quite nice.” Murphy sat down on the stone bench beside Churchill.

“Rubbish!” Churchill snorted. “I have a studio full of them. They are too worthless to sell and too dear to part with. An addiction . . . that’s what painting is. Steadies my nerves. Like a good cigar.” As if to make the point, Churchill pulled two cigars from his smock pocket and offered one to Murphy, who declined with an amused shake of his head. Churchill shrugged and replaced the gift. “A dreadful habit.” He struck a match on the sole of his Wellington and puffed on the stogie with satisfaction. “And a great pleasure. Somewhat annoying to my secretary, however. I have had to give up my smokes in the car. It makes her quite ill to take dictation and breathe cigar smoke while we careen along the country roads. She turns the very color of green tobacco.”

Murphy laughed at the story but was quite certain that he also would turn green in a closed automobile of such reeking smoke. “I tried smoking once. I was nine, and I set the haystack in the barn on fire. Nearly burned the place down, too. My dad says that the only good use of a cigar is to keep mosquitoes away in the outhouse.”

Churchill chuckled. “We’ve had indoor plumbing for some time now, but I never got over my little habit all the same.” He puffed in silence; then the amusement faded from his eyes. He looked toward his painting again. “Not the full picture,” he muttered. Then with a sigh he stood and paced a few steps to the edge of the pond before turning to face Murphy. “There is a good deal more to our picture than anyone is daring to show, Mr. Murphy. That is why I have asked you to come here on such short notice.”

Suddenly they were no longer discussing paintings or cigars. “I was hoping we might talk before I left for the States.”

“You are leaving tomorrow on the
Queen Mary
, I understand?”

“My wife and I and a small boy. A refugee from Germany. He requires medical attention in the States.”

“The Kronenberger child.” Churchill was already informed, and his knowledge surprised Murphy. “A few of us followed the affair in Germany. Dreadful thing. One must pause to wonder at a race of people who pour millions into the weapons of destruction and yet will not spend a penny to raise the quality of one child’s life. The enormity of Nazi aggression often tends to mask the hideous offenses against individuals.”

He lowered his voice. “But then, you have seen all that firsthand with your wife and her family. The rest of us may rage against the breaking of this treaty or that. We may fear the force of Nazi air power and discuss the plans of Hitler against the nations . . . and we forget what all that means to even one child like Charles Kronenberger.”

Now Churchill looked out across the grounds. “One blade of grass is often lost to the big picture. Such are the affairs of politics and the lives of men.” He walked slowly back to the bench and sat down. “And yet there are moments when the issues may well hinge on one another. The small story becomes the issue on which great matters are decided.”

Murphy nodded, even though he was uncertain where the great man was heading with his thought. “I had planned to stay on in Prague for a while. My publisher arranged for the crossing. He intends to meet us in New York. From there I am not sure what issues I will be covering. I expect we’ll be back in Europe within the month.”

“Within the month,” Churchill repeated vacantly, “Europe as we know it may no longer exist. That, my friend, is the big picture. Small details such as human life under the dominion of the Nazis seem to be of little concern to our mighty governments. That is the great tragedy of our time. Peace at any cost is not peace at all.”

“President Beneš . . . the Czechs have managed to hold ground,” Murphy began.

Churchill silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I would not want to be in the shoes of President Beneš. The ground he has held is quicksand, I’m afraid. Czechoslovakia is in the center of the storm. Germany on one side and Russia on the other.” He pressed his palms together as if he were cracking a walnut between them. “Comrade Stalin has only just finished killing thousands of his best officers simply because he heard they might be friendly toward the Germans. By the time the purge in Russia is over, countless lives will be snuffed out.”

“But Stalin has given no indication that he is interested in Czechoslovakia,” Murphy protested. “The danger is from the West. From the Germans.”

Churchill cleared his throat. “And what if our little friend Beneš should not only hold his ground against the Germans, but should find some way to sign a treaty with Herr Hitler? Suppose the Czechs should manage to solve this internal problem with the racial Germans in the Sudetenland? What then?”

“Then it would be settled. Things would quiet down, and . . .” Murphy’s voice drifted off as he pictured the vise of Russia and Germany that held the Czech nation. Hitler raved against the Bolsheviks in Russia. Stalin declared that no one was safe with the threat of Nazi Germany in Europe. The government of Beneš was a democratic island in the midst of these two tyrannies. It was the thin line that kept two straining, snarling dogs from tearing each other apart. If that wall came down . . .

Churchill looked pleased. “I can tell the reality of the situation has penetrated your brain. And now, if only our own Prime Minister Chamberlain and the leader of France could see the situation as simply and clearly as we seem to.” He sighed and slapped his thigh in frustration. “But they cannot seem to grasp its significance. If France and Britain do not stick by their treaty obligations to defend Czech soil from invasion, then most certainly we are looking into a dark future for Europe. Czechoslovakia is indeed an aircraft carrier in the heart of the Continent. Either for Hitler or for Stalin—either choice is a dreadful prospect—or, if we stand firm for her, Czechoslovakia will be a stronghold for the democracies.” Churchill puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as both men sat in silence.

It did seem like a simple matter, Murphy mused. Now the riots in Czech-Sudetenland made sense. The Nazi party had gained a powerful political foothold in the mountainous region of Czechoslovakia. It was that very territory that served as a strategic military position for the Czech Army to keep Germany on its own side of the fence. If the Sudetenland were torn from the Prague government, then it would be only a matter of time before the Reich marched across the border. No doubt Russia would then advance from the north. The warring giants would crush the little nation—and with it, people like Anna and Theo would no doubt perish as well.

“Surely Britain and France will not let Beneš down,” Murphy whispered.

Churchill chuckled grimly in reply. “Did you not hear what Chamberlain had remarked about the Czechs? ‘Not top drawer,’ he said. Not even out of the middle. Mr. Murphy, he has again stated his conviction that the Slavs are inferior, that we in England would be fools for considering going to war on their behalf. He is determined to give away the freedom of others to forestall the inevitable conflict that must come to our island in the end. Only six weeks ago he signed the Anglo-Italian pact with Mussolini that gives that dread government the right to pursue their aggression in Abyssinia and Spain. We British merely retain the right to stay out of it.”

“I was in Spain for almost a year.” Murphy’s thoughts filled again with memories of bombed-out towns and dying women and children in the streets. “The Germans and Italians did not even bother to paint over their insignia on the wings of their planes. Target practice. That’s what Spain and Abyssinia are. The Fascists are practicing for what they plan to do to England and any other country that gets in their way.”

“Well, then. We see eye to eye on the matter, Mr. Murphy.” Churchill clapped him on the back. “So what do you intend to do about it?”

Murphy laughed nervously. “Me?”

“You have a mighty pen and a willing publisher, I hear. These matters must be explained on your side of the Atlantic as well. A little pressure from President Roosevelt, and the American public might hold some sway over our umbrella-toting prime minister.”

Murphy nodded. Again he imagined Anna and Theo, Elisa’s family, in Prague. Indeed, they had been through enough in Germany for a lifetime. Now once again they faced the possibility of Nazi invasion. “First of all I’m going to transplant a few blades of grass—” he replied absently.

“Blades of . . . ?”

“My wife’s family. Small details in the big picture. I have to make certain that we get them out of Prague.”

“Not easy these days. They are Jewish, are they not?”

“Elisa’s father is Jewish.”

“The quotas of every nation are filled now. And the Mufti in Palestine has taken up the methods of his mentor, Herr Hitler. Daily the Arab population is rioting against the immigration of additional Jews into the Mandate. Of course, never mind that the majority of Arabs have come into British Palestine from other Arab countries. The Mufti simply will not have another Jew in Jerusalem, he says.”

“Chamberlain isn’t bowing to that kind of pressure, is he?” Murphy was astonished at this information. “He certainly won’t revoke the British commitment to a Jewish homeland—not
now
, when there is nowhere else for the Jews of Europe to run.”

Churchill did not answer for a long time. “It is common knowledge that the Arab Mufti Haj Amin and Adolf Hitler are on very good terms. Chamberlain seeks peace at any cost.
Any cost
. As long as it does not cost Britain.” He cleared his throat again. “If I were you, Mr. Murphy, I would do my best to get your wife’s family into America. Surely your publisher can assist you in obtaining visas for them. Within a matter of weeks the British government will close Palestine to all immigration. That is my prediction.”

Raising his eyebrow slightly Churchill slowly shook his head. “I am afraid this Jeremiah has no vision of good things in the future. No. It does not bode well for any of us. We are being led, docile and meek, to the edge of an abyss. What voice will turn us around? Are we blind? Are we deaf?”

Churchill extended his hand in farewell. The interview was at an end. “You have a crossing to make, Mr. Murphy. I wish you luck. I have offered you no hope and have passed along the heavy cloak of Jeremiah. Perhaps we will meet again soon. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot even hope in my error any longer. Godspeed.”

14

The Queen Mary

Two forged French passports for Louis Kronenberger and Leah were open on the table before them.

“But you see how very good the passports are!” Leah pleaded. “Can we not simply
drive
across the border?”

Marta and Karl Wattenbarger exchanged glances. “You tell her what you and Franz have seen, Karl,” Marta prompted her husband.

The sad-eyed Tyrolean farmer spread his calloused hands in helpless frustration. “Everywhere there are photos now of you and Louis. Charles is also in the photograph. They have pieced something together. Identified you and Louis somehow. Your faces will condemn you. Here in Austria if you are captured, these passports Otto had made for you may well condemn him.”

“The snows have melted,” Franz said quietly. “We can take you out over the mountains.”

Leah nodded bleakly. She had hoped that somehow Shimon would be freed and join her here for the journey. That was not to be. She cleared her throat in an effort to find words. “Then we have no choice.”

“I am sorry,” Karl said. “The choices are made for us in this.”

The lines of Marta’s kind face deepened with concern. “You must go to France from Italy. Hitler and Mussolini are cut from the same cloth, Leah dear. Soon Jews will no longer be safe in Italy, either. No matter how the Holy Father speaks out against such evil, the course there is set.
Do not delay in Italy!
”

“If we can reach Paris—” Leah closed her passport and pressed it in her hands— “I have friends there, two sisters who roomed with Elisa and me during our school days at the Mozarteum. They were luckier than we were.” She smiled sadly at a memory. “Not luckier—they were smarter than we were. Elisa and I wanted to stay on in Austria to study and work at the Musikverein. They were ready to see the world. And so they took jobs in Paris.”

“They will help you?”

“I soloed in Paris last year. Sonia and Magda begged me to stay in Paris with them, but by then, you know, Shimon and I were—” She sighed, full of questions about what might have been different if she had stayed. Perhaps Shimon would have joined her there. Perhaps . . .

As if reading her thoughts, Marta placed her hand on Leah’s. “Do not begin to doubt God’s guidance now, child. Do you think He could not see that two little lambs would need you to help them in Vienna? And so you are here now. We must not doubt . . . only
pray
.”