Vienna Prelude (14 page)

Franz frowned slightly, uncertain that he liked this young woman. She certainly lacked the grace of her mother.
But then again,
he reasoned,
she has probably endured a terrible night.

Frau Anna must have noticed his indigation; she caught his arm. “Franz.” The word was spoken with affection, and Elisa looked startled by the tone. “Elisa, this is Franz Wattenbarger. He has been more help than I can say. He stayed here at the station all night.”

She managed a smile of gratitude. “Forgive me. I have been thoughtless.” She turned the full effect of her eyes on him, her expression a mix of sadness and gratitude and the same worry Franz had seen in Frau Anna over the days. “I thought you were just—”

He nodded and bowed slightly. “Just driving the sleigh,” he finished for her. “It has been my privilege to accompany your mother through the night.”

“Through the long night.” Anna watched as the train chugged away from the station. It seemed she still could not believe that Theo had not gotten off. “I am most grateful for the company, Franz. And perhaps soon you will also meet our Theo.”

Elisa’s expression clouded as her mother spoke, and she looked as if she would cry. Franz simply nodded and tried not to look at her face as he helped them into the sleigh. There was nothing to say. Frau Anna smiled wearily and slipped her arm around Elisa’s shoulder.

The ride back to the farmhouse passed in almost absolute silence. No doubt there would be tears and explanations in the privacy of their room, but neither Frau Anna nor Elisa wanted to show such depth of feeling to Franz. He admired their control but somehow felt that everything had already been expressed by the look in Elisa’s eyes.

The story was plain to read. The extra pair of skis and fine leather luggage monogrammed with the initials
T.L.
shouted the obvious fact that somewhere between Berlin and the border of Austria, the husband of Frau Linder had been forcibly taken from the train. Business had indeed detained him, but it was not his own business.

Yes, there would be tears later, but Franz did not need to see them fall in order to guess what his passengers were feeling. They could not see the stars that stretched from mountaintop to mountaintop; their vision was turned inward as they imagined the face of the man they called Father and Husband, and wondered where he was now. They could not hear the jingle of sleigh bells echoing from the slopes; their ears heard words shouted in false accusation, fists slamming against the flesh and bone of Theo Linder’s face. Such things were common nowadays. Such terror and uncertainty made hearts blind and deaf to things that were beautiful in the world.

Franz slapped the lines down hard on the back of Edelweiss, the little mare. As though sensing his urgency, she pulled harder up the incline toward home. “You ladies will need to sleep a while after tonight,” he said, breaking the silence. “Mama will already be up for the milking. Perhaps you would like to eat before—”

There was no answer. Franz glanced back to see Elisa with her head against her mother’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and he thought she was asleep. Then she raised her hand to brush away a silent tear. Perhaps she had not heard his voice either.

***

The wonderful aroma of pastries fresh from the oven pulled Elisa from a restless sleep. Her mother, worn out from the previous night’s ordeal, slept beside her on the massive bed. Elisa gazed up at the huge bedposts, carved into grapevines and tiny flowers. The wood was smooth and mellow with age, in contrast to the rough-hewn beams of the walls. For a minute, Elisa was disoriented. Was it morning? Had she slept the clock around and awakened to this cozy, unfamiliar room? Or perhaps she was not awake at all. Maybe the terrible events of last night never happened. She was dreaming even now while she slept in the Hall of the Mountain King.

She ran her fingers through her hair and stared into the dark rafters of the ceiling. The weight of her worry pressed down on her. None of it was a dream. The man Murphy. The Gestapo agents shoving her father off the train. Jackboots and shouts. Her clothes scattered all over. No. It had happened, and now some gentle hand had lifted her up in her blind exhaustion and dropped her into this strange place.

She heard the distinct laughter of her brothers downstairs and the friendly chiding voice of the farm wife as she scolded them for stealing Christmas cookies. And there was another voice, playful and untroubled.
What was his name?
Elisa thought of the husky young peasant with hands big like Shimon’s, who beat out thunder on the tympani. How far away that all seemed now! Vienna; her friends in the orchestra: Leah, Shimon, Rudy. It had not even been ten days, yet their laughter seemed a distant lifetime from her. Then she had only been going home for the holidays. But her trip had been a descent into the darkest hell of Faust.

Elisa sat up. Had it only been last night that her father had plucked the slim volume from the bookshelf? She slipped from beneath the quilt and tiptoed to his rich leather suitcase. Careful not to awaken her mother, she opened it and sat for a moment as the aroma of his bay-rum aftershave and pipe tobacco filled her senses.
Papa
. It was like having him come into the room.

With a cry, Anna woke up. “Theo?” she gasped. “Theo? Is that you?”

“No, Mama.” Elisa was instantly sorry she had opened the bag in search of the copy of
Faust
. “Papa put a little book in his suitcase. I was just looking—”

“Oh.” The syllable was racked with disappointment. “Oh,” she said again.

Elisa sat cross-legged on the floor and gazed at her mother’s agonized expression. She seemed suddenly so old. Elisa had never seen her look so worn. “Go back to sleep.”

Anna shook her head and sat up, her legs dangling from the edge of the bed. “What time is it?”

“Suppertime soon,” Elisa replied quietly. She found the little red volume tucked beneath a neatly folded shirt. “Here it is, Mama.” She held it out.

Anna took it almost reverently. “
Faust
,” she whispered. “Of course. Germany.” She uttered the name heavily, as though she spoke of a dead loved one. “Faust.”

“What should we do, Mother?”

“Do? What can we do? Nothing. Not now. Hope and pray they release him. We must not tell your brothers. If the Gestapo does not let Theo go, we will have to go back.” She bit her lip. “Unless we can find some way to stay across the border after our Ausweis expires. They cannot punish him if we have some legal reason to stay.”

She contemplated the smooth red leather of the book. “Like Faust, we need time. But time runs short, and the Dragon is . . . ” She faltered, then looked up at Elisa with a half-embarrassed smile. “I am talking nonsense.”

“You are right about the boys. They shouldn’t have to worry. They could let it all tumble out. And—I assume no one knows any of this.”

Anna nodded. “Young Franz knows
something.
”

“Franz. Yes. The one who drove us home last night. How much does he know? Is he to be trusted?”

“He knows nothing, really, Elisa.” Anna seemed almost too weary to care anymore. “But he
guesses
. At least, I think he does.” She seemed puzzled by him. “Sometimes he looks like he is drawing a picture of me with his mind. A good young man, I think. No Nazi.”

“Still, it is not wise to tell anyone anything of our business.”

“You are right. The only secret kept is the one we do not tell. Whatever Franz thinks he sees in me cannot be proven. He would not try to hurt us. But his brother—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “His name is Otto. And to him we must not reveal anything at all. He is strange; even his mother appears puzzled by him.”

Elisa had only seen Otto at a distance when they arrived at sunrise this morning. He gave them a cursory glance as he walked by and entered the cow barn. Elisa had felt instantly ill at ease, and after her time in Berlin she did not like such looks. He seemed to resent their arrival. “Perhaps he is—”

“One of them? No. I don’t think so. No. This family is all Austrian. His mother told me he lost his young wife last year and since then he has been troubled.”

Elisa felt foolish. She was seeing a Nazi behind every bush when in fact Otto was just a grieving husband. “Poor man.” She looked at the feather bed and wondered if it had belonged to him and his wife. “No wonder.”

“All the same”—Anna was not so quickly moved—“it is better to say nothing at all to anyone. We must just keep smiling. As far as anyone knows, your father is delayed by business. And we will hope and pray that it is true. Maybe they will let him go. It must be just some silly mistake. Theo Lindheim was a great hero of the Fatherland. The memory of old von Hindenburg. It will not let this foul little Hitler harm a great hero like Theo.” She was talking very quietly as though the words were meant to comfort herself.

“Of course, Mother.” Elisa joined in the optimism. “After all, they said they wanted only to talk to him about contributions or some such nonsense. Something about a donation for the Zionists.”

Anna sat very still and silent, frowning down at the floor. “I did it,” she said at last. “For young Herschel Grynspan. Yes. I gave him a little money for the meetings. A small thing. How do they know such small things, Elisa?” She shuddered.

“We must be very careful, Mother. Papa would want us to be careful!”

***

It was not a discussion of German policies toward Austria that drew nearly fifty newsmen to the village of Berchtesgaden but rather the events unfolding in Spain. Since July of 1936, a civil war had been raging between the leftist Republicans and the right-wing Nationalists led by the Fascist Franco.

Earlier, Mussolini had pledged Italy’s support of Franco in return for concessions in the Western Mediterranean. Now Russia had moved in to aid the left. This move opened the door for Hitler to forge a union with Italy. Today Hitler and Mussolini were together in Berchtesgaden.

The press gathered together in a small restaurant two blocks from the train depot. Murphy sat quietly in the smoky room and listened to the speculation in a babble of ten or so languages. It was common knowledge that Mussolini distrusted Hitler and had been open in his disapproval. Italy had signed a pact with Austria against German aggression and had guaranteed to step in in the event that German troops ever threatened the little nation that separated Italy from Germany. Yet for nearly two days, Mussolini and Hitler had been locked in deep discussion about Russian intervention in Spain.

When at last Hitler and Mussolini made their appearance before flashing cameras and shoving reporters, it did not take a genius to imagine the results of their conference. The Reich would follow the lead of Italy and increase military aid to Franco’s forces in Spain. Together Italy and Germany would stand firm against the aggression of the Communists in Western Europe. When all other nations stepped back to do nothing,
Il Duce
and
der Führer
would link arms and form a mighty wall.

Murphy shuddered involuntarily as he watched the two leaders smiling and chatting before the whirring news cameras. A French reporter raised his hand and shouted the question, “How will this union affect Italy’s treaty with Austria?”

Mussolini inclined his head slightly, glanced at Hitler, and replied loudly, “Not at all. The matter was not discussed.”

“How will Germany aid the forces of Franco?” shouted another reporter.

Hitler leaned close to his interpreter, who repeated the question. “The Reich has recently recognized General Franco,” Hitler said. “Now we have put lightning in his hand.”

Blitzkrieg!
The word had been bandied about in Nazi circles for months. Murphy had heard it many times from Göring, who was eager to try out the new armaments and aircraft of the German war machine. Spain would now provide the perfect proving ground for the German war toys. Hitler looked pleased with himself. He posed for more photographs at the side of Mussolini. The friendship of these two would undoubtedly please Franco, who was at a standstill in his siege against the forces in Madrid. But the sight of Mussolini grasping the hand of Hitler was certain to strike dread in the hearts of the Austrians just across the border.

Murphy felt angry at the entire charade. He was relieved when the show ended, and the two leaders drove off through the cheering crowds recruited for the occasion by the German Propaganda Ministry. The ability of Hitler’s minister of propaganda to rustle up so many people for such occasions always amazed Murphy. The swarming multitudes seemed capable of making more noise than a mob watching a football game back home. But he always had the distinct impression that many among them were literally cheering for their lives.

In all the clamor, the whereabouts of Theo Lindheim and his detention receded far in the background. There was no opportunity to discuss what he had seen two nights earlier, and, much to his disappointment, no one was willing to listen. “An official matter,” he was told. “Not your business.”

Murphy finished his notes and pocketed his notebook with the helpless feeling of a nonswimmer watching another man drown. The smile on Mussolini’s face somehow seemed even more ominous and unsettling than the tears of Elisa Lindheim. While Britain and France pledged “noninterference” in Spain, the two Fascist powers of Germany and Italy were using events in Madrid as an excuse to flex their muscles. Murphy could only wonder if everyone in England was sleeping, or crazy, or maybe both.

Two British reporters had watched the same spectacle today; both were convinced that their stories would be lost amid the drama of King Edward’s abdication and Mrs. Simpson’s new wardrobe.

“It’s much more pleasant to read a fairy-tale love story than a union of two trolls plotting to carve up Europe between themselves,” said James Ward of the
London
Times
. “It will take six months for the House of Commons and the British public to remember that there
is
a Hitler. And Spain? You know what the English think of the events in Madrid! It’s a long way to Tipperary, Murphy boy. And the New York papers aren’t any more interested in this Italian-German courtship than London is!”