Vienna Prelude (11 page)

“Come on.” Theo led her to a bench and placed luggage and skis beside a marble pillar. He glanced at his watch. “A few minutes until boarding.”

Elisa wished they had waited until the last minute before they had arrived. This moment seemed worse than all the rest. Worse than the store. Worse than the house. But she nodded, still smiling, and sat down. Her father remained beside the luggage.

Within a few seconds a small man walked toward them. He seemed almost lost beneath the flapping of a heavy coat. Elisa did not look directly at him as he stood to one side of her and cleared his throat. Was he one of the men who had followed them from the house?

“
Bitte,”
he said quietly.

Elisa glanced at him absently as if to ask,
Me?

He smiled a quick, too-polite smile and extended his hand. “Your passport, Fraülein?”

Her father had already stepped between them. He towered over the unctuous little man. “Your reason for demanding my daughter’s passport?” He was smiling and courteous but firm.

“She is your daughter, is she not, Herr Lindheim?” he asked, undaunted by her father’s size.

Yes, he was the man from the house, Elisa realized.

“So what?” her father asked.

“A Jewess, yes?” the man continued.

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “A German.”

The little man shrugged. “A matter of interpretation these days, Herr Lindheim.” He had obviously talked with her father before. The man jerked his thumb toward a small sign that was on the end of the bench:
No Jews Allowed
. “The law.” He smiled more broadly.

Elisa stood up as though she had been burned. Her face flushed red. In all her time in Austria she had not seen these odious signs on public benches. In the few days she had been in Berlin, she had ignored them. No one had asked. But people were being arrested for smaller offenses than this. “I have been abroad,” she said in explanation.

“One can be arrested for such ignorance,” the man returned. “The law is the law, and we must enforce infractions. As an example, you see?”

Theo Lindheim simply stared down at the man as though he could not believe the words.

Elisa licked her lips and swallowed hard. She looked up at her father, then stepped farther away from the bench.

“She looks quite Aryan, Herr Lindheim.” The little man leered at her. “Are you certain she is your daughter? Perhaps the milkman stopped in while you were away? A little visit with your wife from an Aryan milkman and here is the result—”

Theo Lindheim did not reply. The color was deep on his cheeks.

Elisa felt tears of fear and shame sting her eyes. She prayed her father would not respond to this brutal sport. She put her hand on her father’s clenched fist. “Papa?” she whispered, knowing that if Theo struck the Gestapo agent, it would mean the end. It was the law. A Jew striking an Aryan meant execution.

The little man showed his teeth again. “Ah well, even if she is not your daughter she is still
half
Jewish. It is still against the law for her to sit on public benches.”

Theo did not bother to correct the little man concerning his daughter’s racial heritage. Elisa also kept quiet, and the agent pulled out a small leather notebook. He flipped open the pages and frowned, as though he was searching an official record. “And she has done so several times in the last few days, I’m afraid. Here. Yes. On the seventh near Tiergarten. And tonight she rode in a taxi—”

Elisa felt as though she would faint. The world spun around her, and she eyed the passengers who hurried past. They all looked embarrassed by the inquisition; they all looked afraid. “I did not think . . . the law was not in effect when I left.”

Theo put his hand up to silence her. “What do you want?” His voice was weary. “Why have you confronted us here tonight? You know where we are going and why.” He pulled out his passport and the special permission papers that had been granted to him as a Jew so that he could leave Germany for two weeks.

“Perhaps you should realize, Herr Lindheim . . . ” The ratty little man enjoyed his work, and Elisa hated him for his power. “There are a few men like you protected by your war record and by the memory of President von Hindenburg. Out of respect to him, the Führer overlooks the fact that you are Jews, yes? But von Hindenburg has been dead for two years, Herr Lindheim. And the law is still the law.” He turned his eyes on Elisa. “Maybe it would not be so bad for you to stay with us a few weeks. To guarantee your father’s return. Perhaps you would learn to respect your betters.” He spoke in a sweet and patronizing tone that sickened Elisa.

She longed to sit down on the forbidden bench. “Am I under arrest?” She stepped nearer to him and matched his looks with fierce eyes.

The agent shrugged again. His grin faltered just a bit, and Elisa sensed his motive. He was acting on his own initiative in this matter; he wanted money, not Elisa.

Her father must have realized the same thing. “There is a fine, I believe,” he said in a hushed tone. His anger and disdain were undisguised.

The smile returned. “A thousand Reichsmarks.”

“I don’t have that much,” her father said quickly. “It is against the law to take so much out of the country as a Jew. Have you forgotten?”

“Everyone knows you always take more than that.”

“Only if one is leaving permanently.” Theo sounded impatient as the loudspeakers blared out the boarding call for their train.

“You can leave tomorrow, then,” insisted the little man. “One day, more or less—”

“Perhaps five hundred? And a bank draft for the rest when I come back? I am certain you will still be on the corner of Wilhelmstrasse.”

Elisa had the distinct impression that this exchange had taken place more than once between her father and this little man—perhaps many times, over many trivial issues.

“It would be wise if I were to search your luggage,” came the reply.

“You know I am a man of my word, Herr Müller.”

Elisa was surprised that her father used the man’s name.

Müller nudged Elisa’s suitcase with the toe of his shoe. “Open,” he ordered Elisa. Then he gave the violin case a kick that sent it toppling from the heap.

She resisted the urge to cry out, even though the instrument was valued at many times more than they were permitted to take from the borders of Germany. Obediently she knelt and opened her bag. Herr Müller reached down and in one motion held up the case and dumped its contents. Ski clothes, sweaters, bras, and panties that had been packed so neatly fell in a jumbled mess onto the tiled floor. Elisa looked away as Müller held up a bra and laughed. It was then that she noticed another man: tall and lanky with dark brown hair and a distinct expression of anger on his young face. He grimaced slightly and looked down as she caught his frank and open stare. He sighed and shook his head thoughtfully as he took out a notepad and strode to where Müller pawed through Elisa’s clothes.

Another Gestapo man?
Elisa stayed beside her bag. She was humiliated but defiant as Müller commented on every article of clothing.

Her father could do nothing.

Müller remarked on the lace of Elisa’s bra. “Typical of a Jewess. German women wear plain wool and cotton. Decadent. Ridiculous extravagance.”

Just then the tall young man spoke up. “Arresting these people for underwear violations? A new Reichstag law? Something about what women should wear?” He had an American accent, and a slight smile curved his lips when Müller jerked his head up at his interruption. A dozen other people hurried by as though nothing were happening.

“Gestapo business!” Müller snapped. Then he added with disdain, “Not the business of foreigners, Englishman.”

“American,” corrected the young intruder. “And you’re wrong. It
is
my business. I am a news reporter. You want to see my press card?” He extended his wallet. Müller had turned his attention on him now but did not even bother to inspect his credentials.

“So? What has this to do with you? Or your newspaper?”

“We’re always interested in new laws in Germany. I mean, suppose some American couple came here to honeymoon and the wife got arrested on violation of lace statutes?” He shrugged as though he were perfectly serious. “That is the material for international incidents.”

“Get out of here before I arrest you also!” Müller hissed.

The newsman had already extended his hand to Elisa. “John Murphy.” He introduced himself as though he were meeting her at the theatre. “The
New York Times
.”

She nodded. “Elisa Lindheim. And Theo Lindheim.”

Murphy shook her father’s hand. “
The
Theo Lindheim, I presume?”

Theo looked embarrassed, uneasy. “Simply Theo Lindheim.”

Murphy began to jot notes. He asked Müller for his name. Müller raised his chin angrily. “Also none of your business. They have violated an ordinance,” he added defensively. “Now if you will leave me to it. . . .

Murphy frowned thoughtfully. “Violation of ordinance.” He wrote each word down. “Which one?” He pointed to the clothes. “Something, uh . . . ” He searched for words. “You see,” he said, changing the subject, “I have been asked to write a little piece on everyday life in Germany. I’ve seen an unusual number of arrests lately. This is as good as any. Beautiful young woman, wife of Theo Lindheim, arrested. You see? It makes good copy. She’s Aryan and he’s Jewish?”

Elisa did not correct him. She began to gather her things with the hope that Müller would somehow be distracted by this brash American journalist. She did not care if he thought she was Theo’s wife. She would only be happy if they could catch their waiting train.

“She is his
daughter
,” Müller spat. “And no more in Germany will you see Jewish industrialists with beautiful German women!” He narrowed his eyes as though he were pronouncing the end of all such terrible relationships.

“Yes. I forgot.” Murphy stuck out his lower lip. “Another law.” He turned to her father. “So what are you in trouble for?”

“My daughter sat on a bench,” he said. He raised an eyebrow and a flicker of understanding passed between the two men.

Murphy scribbled in his notebook:
Sat on bench
.

Müller stepped between them. “If you interfere, you will also be arrested.”

Murphy held up his hands innocently. “Don’t let me stop you. I’m just out for a story, see?” He stepped back and stood with his pencil poised. “It is all yours. Spell your name for me.”

Müller stood blinking at the American journalist. He had missed his opportunity for the five-hundred-mark bribe. He could not take a single mark while this American observed. But Lindheim would be back, and they would settle the issue of violations then. “Herr Lindheim,” he said politely, “please accept this warning. The law is the law. There is little we can do but enforce it. This time since your daughter”—he glared at Elisa—“has been abroad, we will be lenient.”

Murphy smiled benignly and nodded as he wrote the word
lenient
and underlined it. “Yes. Very good.”

“You must, however, respect the law of National Socialist Germany if you are to be welcome here as our guest.” Müller’s face showed that he feared he had gone too far with those words. “Germany is fair with everyone who obeys her laws and statutes.”

The announcement sounded again on the loudspeaker. “May we go, Herr Müller?” asked Theo Lindheim.

Müller
, scribbled Murphy. “Good show, Herr Müller. You make a good impression for the Fatherland.”

Müller smiled in relief. He nodded abruptly. “Remember what I have said, Herr Lindheim. Yes, you must catch your train.”

Murphy took over the conversation as Elisa and her father scrambled to repack her scattered possessions. Müller did not even seem to notice as they struggled off with their arms loaded with gear. She heard Müller proclaim “Heil Hitler!” at the end of the interview.

Murphy responded with, “Twenty-three skidoo!”

Elisa’s heart was still pounding as they rushed toward their compartment. The door seemed very far away, as if it were at the end of a distant tunnel. Voices and faces were a jumbled blur of noise and light. Now she was not sorry to leave Berlin, even if it was forever.

Only after the train was hours from the station did she think again of the brash young American who had certainly rescued them.

8

The Dragon’s Prey

Within a few short days, Wilhelm and Dieter Linder had learned to laugh all over again. From early morning until the last stubborn rays of sunlight disappeared, they skied on the slopes of the Kitzbühel with the two youngest Wattenbarger brothers. Wilhelm had grown quite fond of seventeen-year-old Gretchen Wattenbarger and cast longing looks in her direction over meals with the family. Herr Wattenbarger had taught them the finer points of milking cows and churning butter, and they had made themselves useful wading through muck in their tall Wellington boots. What the Wattenbarger children considered drudgery, Wilhelm and Dieter attacked with an enthusiasm born of too many long months cooped up indoors in hostile Berlin. Mucking out stalls was a delight to them. Herr Wattenbarger used their work as an example to hold up to Friedrich and Helmut, the youngest of his four sons.

Franz joined in the fun each evening, teaching the boys to play the card game of Watten. Otto, however, simply ate his meal in silence and then retreated to the privacy of the small farm hut across the pasture. Even the Linder boys frowned when they looked at Otto. There was something serious and unhappy about Otto’s manner; his entrance into a room would cause their laughter to fall silent.

Anna Linder was still polite and correct in her conversation, but unlike her sons, the worry had not left her face or her voice when she spoke. Wilhelm and Dieter had stopped being so careful, but she remained cautious and veiled in her conversations. She laughed at the antics of the children and, Franz thought, there was a genuine happiness that her sons were enjoying themselves after what must have been a difficult time. But her laughter often stopped before anyone else’s. She looked away, and Franz could almost read her thoughts.
Yes.
She is wondering about her husband, her daughter.