Vienna Prelude (25 page)

Elisa tucked her chin and prayed harder—prayed for Theo to come to them, prayed that someday she might love a man as her mother loved her father.

But hope remained still and lifeless within her. No face came to her except for the face of the man who served their enemies.
Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!
If only he could somehow help her father escape! If only Theo and Thomas would come into the crowded little church and kneel beside them now! Her prayers ascended in hopes, wishes, and dreams that had no bearing on reality. She knew that when the service ended, Anna would rise alone and walk out alone to face the terrible silence of this most holy night. No word from the man she loved. No hope of help from the one man Elisa dreamed would make their world right again. There were no miracles expected this Christmas in Kitzbühel. Theo was not coming. Thomas would not help.

***

All of Vienna was asleep now, dreaming of the holy birth of a Jewish child two thousand years before. The midnight mass at St. Stephan’s had long since ended. Fresh snow covered the footprints that scattered in a thousand directions from the steps of the great cathedral.

Sporer watched two lovers from the shadows of these steps as the two walked quickly toward the Judenplatz. The tall handsome man held his arm protectively around the woman’s shoulders.

Sporer’s hand moved instinctively to the hard steel of the revolver tucked into his belt. It would be so simple to kill the couple now, and yet his orders were to wait until enough evidence had been gathered to make the deaths of these two worthwhile to the plans of the Reich.

As if sensing the presence of something in the shadows, the tall man paused beneath the streetlight and looked back toward the entrance of St. Stephan’s.

“What is it darling?” the woman’s soft voice carried easily across the square.

“Nothing,” her companion said as he continued to gaze toward the shadows. “Really—nothing.” He frowned, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.

The gesture seemed to Sporer a desecration. The woman was beautiful. Red hair and fair skin seemed to glow beneath the streetlamp. Sporer would enjoy smashing the skull of this traitor when the time came. He would look forward to the moment when Berlin sent him word that they had lived long enough. They had already lived too long in his opinion.

“It’s Christmas, love.” The woman laid her head against the man’s chest. “And we can be happy, can’t we?”

“I am worried for your safety, Irmgard.” The strong voice trembled. “If you are linked to this . . . they will make him talk before they kill him. They will—“

“No.” She put a finger to his lips. “Think about the children, darling! Think about the little packages! Of all fellows, you will make an unlikely St. Nicholas!” She laughed and then tugged his arm down the narrow lane into the shadows of the Judenplatz.

Sporer did not bother to follow. He had seen enough tonight, and it was Christmas, after all.

18

Christmas in Austria

Murphy had fallen asleep in his clothes. Now as he lay across the bed, his feet dangling over the side, he was unpleasantly aware of the dull ache in his knees and the leaden weight of his shoes on his feet.

Outside in the dim light of an icy Christmas morning, the bells of the city’s cathedrals chimed happily as though the sky was clear and bright. They rang in endless celebration, their clanging chorus vibrating icicles and rattling Murphy’s windows. He groaned softly and rolled over, drawing his knees up stiffly as he kicked his shoes off. The bottle of brandy stood as a half-empty reminder of the reason for Murphy’s headache. He was miserable. Every pore in his body felt the noise of Vienna’s bright bells. He squeezed his eyes shut and gently laid a pillow over his face to shut out the sound. Even the ticking of the alarm clock was too loud. The cathedral bells were almost unbearable. He groped to loosen his stubborn necktie.

There was only one consolation he could find in such a hangover—no doubt he would have been experiencing the same misery if he had stayed in Berlin and consumed this much booze with his comrades. Only in Berlin he was certain that the Christmas bells would be somehow more reserved and careful in their ringing. Hitler’s birthday received more celebration in recent years than did Christ’s.

The thoughts of Berlin did not ease his discomfort. He clumsily unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, leaving his necktie in place around his bare neck. His eyes burned in their sockets; his temples throbbed, and in all of it the foolishness of his Christmas journey mocked him. Who did he think he was, Sir Galahad, rescuing some damsel in distress? He should have waited a couple more days—at least until Christmas was over. There was nothing happening at the Musikverein. The cabdriver had told him that, yet still he had insisted that she would be there. What did he think? That Elisa Lindheim—Linder, whatever—
lived
at the Musikverein? That she was sitting there waiting for John Murphy to walk in?

He groaned again. His mouth was worse than dry. His tongue felt as if it were wound in gauze after oral surgery, and he opened one eye to scout for the bathroom in the event that he might throw up.
Merry Christmas, Murphy. And welcome to Vienna.

Eyeing the booze on the night table, he cursed quietly. He hadn’t been drunk in almost two years. Not since the night Susan had left him standing in the snow for two hours outside Radio City Music Hall in New York. That had been a night to forget. So why was he thinking about it now? He had picked up a tall blond Rockette after the show and had proceeded to show her a night on the town. Of course she hadn’t really been a Rockette, and after a few drinks she had stolen his wallet and disappeared out the back door of Minsky’s forever. So much for his luck with women. Now here he was deserting his post in Berlin to become the bearer of terrible news for a girl he had met only briefly.

She’s forever going to associate you with bad news, Murphy,
he reminded himself.
Just do your reporting and disappear. Don’t expect anything from this girl. She’s a lady. And you’re a reporter. A reporter with a hangover.

Still he had not been able to shake the haunting sadness in her eyes, or the soft sheen of her hair as it tumbled down over her slender shoulders that night on the train. The thought of her made him ache all the more. He sat up too suddenly and shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water over his face. Bleary eyes stared back from the mirror, and he could feel each individual tile beneath the sole of his feet. He brushed his teeth and smiled grimly with the foamy toothpaste still in his mouth.

“No doubt about it, Murphy,” he mumbled aloud. “You got it bad for this girl. Mad-dog Murphy. Foaming at the mouth.” He spit and splashed cold water over his face again, then worked to remove the knotted necktie that dangled in the sink. With a sigh, he gave up and flipped it over his shoulder.

Outside, the chorus of Christmas bells continued to chime. Murphy leaned heavily on the doorjamb and squinted toward the window. If Elisa was in Vienna, she could hear the bells now as he could. Somehow that awareness made him feel tender all over again. Protective. Worried for the Ghost of Christmas Future.
Elisa!
The familiar ache returned, more painful than his throbbing head. He would wait here in Vienna until the Musikverein opened, and he would find her. He would stay as long as she needed him, do whatever he could do to help. Then maybe she would look at him with those ocean-deep eyes of hers and see John Murphy looking back at her.

He shook his head slowly at the foolishness of his thought. “One night on the train, and look at you!” he muttered. “
Look
at you!” After one night on a train, he was certain he could not be in love, but it felt bad enough, whatever it was.

He tugged on the tie in one final, futile effort to loosen it; then he padded back to the bed and lay down carefully. One thing was evident to Murphy; he was no knight in shining armor, but the lady was in distress whether she knew it or not. So Murphy would sleep this off and then do his best,
whatever
that meant. It was pure fact that his motives were mostly rotten—at least he
suspected
that they were not totally pure. Maybe he
would
still be in Vienna if the bewildered girl on the train had been homely and dull. But one thing was certain: He wouldn’t be feeling this way about the whole mess. He wouldn’t be lying here, on Christmas morning, with a hangover and aching like a schoolboy with his first crush.

He wanted to see her again—welcomed the excuse, as terrible as the errand was that brought him here. And that made him angry at himself. Yet at the same time it compelled him to stay and search for her. Life had been all right before he had met her. He had not felt particularly empty or lacking in anything. He could buy what he needed to keep himself satisfied. Now suddenly he knew he was alone, empty and miserable. And he’d been miserable even before the brandy and the hangover.

It was Christmas in Vienna, and all he wanted under the tree—under any tree—was Elisa Linder.

***

The portrait of Emperor Franz Josef hung on the red silk-covered walls of Sacher’s restaurant and stared down at Murphy. Although Murphy would not admit it to the waiter, he was not impressed with the taste of the Sachertorte and ordered apple strudel instead.

“The Musikverein?” The young waiter frowned. “There is not a concert there until New Year’s Eve, Herr Murphy. Each year there is an all-Strauss concert. And then again on New Year’s Day. But both are probably sold out. There are many other musical events in the season, however.”

“No,” Murphy replied bluntly. “I’m interested in the first thing at the Musikverein.”

“It is the Vienna Philharmonic that plays there. And of course on Sundays there is the concert. But you will never get a seat now. Those are subscription tickets. Held by the same families for a hundred years, and—”

“New Year’s Eve?” Murphy interrupted, mentally calculating a week-long stay in Vienna.

“Must it be the Musikverein? You can see, today the street musicians are out in force already.” He sensed Murphy’s concern and felt somehow personally responsible to see to it that a customer got satisfaction in Vienna. This concern, known as
Gemütlichkeit
, permeated the city; it was part of the atmosphere that made Austria so charming.

“My friend is a violinist with the orchestra, you see, and I want to hear her play.”

“Which orchestra, mein Herr? There are several in Vienna. The Symphony, the Philharmonic, a dozen chamber orchestras—all of them playing some time or other at the Musikverein.” He frowned again. “No doubt she will be playing for the season now. They all are. She gave you this address and nothing more?”

Murphy felt more foolish than ever. It was obvious that Elisa had some reason why she would not give more specific information than the building on Bösendorferstrasse. Perhaps she had intended that he write her there first. Such a general address would certainly add to her protection. She had not mentioned which orchestra she performed with, and it might take Murphy weeks to check with every one of them.

“Musikverein. That’s all she told me.”

“
Ja.
Maybe you should go there. Someone might know where she lives, Herr Murphy.” The waiter could tell that Murphy had not come to Vienna for the sake of musical appreciation. “You might also go to the Vienna State Opera House,
ja
? Just around the corner. If she is well known and perhaps plays with the Vienna Philharmonic . . . and at the Konzerthaus is the Vienna Philharmonic.”

“How far?” Murphy looked out as a trolley car trundled past the window.

“Not far. Lothringerstrasse.” The waiter looked amused. “This violinist?” He smiled. “She must be very pretty,
ja
?”

“Hmmm,” Murphy answered distractedly. “Big. A couple hundred pounds. Really big.”

“Ah yes!” The waiter grinned broadly. “My Gretl is also big. More to love, I say!” He winked. “She is young and soft?”

“Soft, anyway,” Murphy said seriously. “But mature. Maybe fifty.”

The waiter became serious. “
Ja.
I see. Then very rich, I suppose.”

“Loaded.” Murphy used the American term, and the waiter puzzled over it for a moment before he filled Murphy’s coffee cup.

“You will find her, Herr Murphy. There cannot be too many rich, round women playing the violin in an orchestra, I think. As long as you know her name.”

Murphy did not admit that he was not even certain that Elisa had given him the correct identification. Today he would walk back to the Musikverein and ask around—if there was anyone there to ask.
Who knows?
he thought.
Maybe a janitor or stagehand will know her. Somebody will recognize her. There can’t be that many beautiful blond violinists around, can there?

He had thought this was going to be easy, and maybe he was making it more complicated than it really was. There had to be some reason why she gave this address, after all. Hadn’t Theo given the same address? There was one Musikverein in Vienna, and one Elisa. He would find her. If her mail went there, he would hang around until she picked it up. For a week or so he would disappear, and nobody in New York would mind—he hoped. After all, Timmons and Johnson and that new guy Murrow were still in Berlin. He frowned down at the strudel. Maybe to be on the safe side, he would cable New York and indicate that he was hot on a story in Vienna. It might, in fact, be the truth.

Murphy tipped the waiter a bit more than was customary, wrapped the strudel in his napkin, and slipped it into a folded newspaper. He might need it if he had to wait at the Musikverein long. He wired New York and gave the Sacher Hotel as his residence before he trudged through the park toward the place of Elisa’s address. The snow on the front steps remained undisturbed, and two sets of footprints led to the stage door of the Musikverein Concert Hall. Murphy followed them, feeling a little like Sherlock Holmes tracking his quarry.