Vienna Prelude (26 page)

The stage door was unlocked, and Murphy entered the building without knocking. He called loudly, startled at the way his voice expanded in the vacant hall. Row on row of plush velvet seats waited, silent and empty. Murphy looked out, imagining what Elisa must see with each performance. He felt suddenly very close to her. This was her place, familiar ground to her.

The sound of footsteps approached behind him, and Murphy turned.

A bent and weathered little man, dressed warmly in a heavy coat and cap, hurried toward him.
“Ja?”
he asked, somewhat aloof and stern. This was obviously
his
place too, and he did not welcome the tall foreigner who had entered uninvited.

“
Guten Morgen.”
Murphy tipped his hat. “I am looking for someone.”

“There is no one here but me!” the old man snapped. “So unless you are looking for me, you should go away, thank you.”

Murphy did not let the man’s reply stop him. “Her name is Elisa Linder. She gave me this address.”

“She does not live here. Why should she give you this address?” He was scowling. Suspicious.

“It was a mailing address, but I—”

“
Ja.
The young musicians give this as the address for mail because they move so often. So why don’t you write her a letter, then? Good-bye.” He turned his back on Murphy and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute!” Murphy stepped in front of him, at the same time dropping a bill onto the floor. He stooped to pick it up and waved it like a flag beneath the old man’s nose. “Did you drop this?” It was a ten-shilling note.

The old man stopped in his tracks and stared at the money. He took the bill after a moment. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.” He shrugged.

“What
do
you know?”

“What I told you. She comes here to pick up her mail. As do many young musicians. She has gone since the holidays, I think. I have not seen her.”

“When will she—”

“I do not know that.”

“Does she come quite regularly? A special time of day?”

“Around four o’clock every day or two.”

“You do not have an address?”

The old man hesitated, hoping for another bribe. Murphy complied, slipping a five-shilling note into his hand. “Not an address for her. No. But she has a friend, Leah Goldblatt. A cellist. A very excellent cellist at that. Perhaps the most excellent—”

“Her address?”

“You must not tell Leah Goldblatt that you gave me money. I could lose my job, and then where would I be? Out on the street with the rest of the beggars. Perhaps I should not chance it—” He frowned.

Murphy pressed yet another bill into his palm. “That’s the last,” Murphy lied. “Where is this Leah Goldblatt?”

The old man turned and shuffled off toward a dark office. He flicked on the light and flipped through the telephone book, sliding his finger down the page. “Ah!” he said at last. “The telephone she shares with four others. But here is her own address. There is nothing for Elisa Linder in the book. Probably because she is quite beautiful, and young men would be likely to call on her even if she did not want them to.” He smiled broadly, revealing an uneven row of teeth stained by years of drinking the dark Viennese coffee.

Murphy groaned. He had paid twenty shillings for an address out of a phone book! He scribbled down the number and address and left. He could hear the uproarious laughter of the old man as he hurried out the stage door.
Yep, Murphy, you are one fantastic investigative reporter.
He patted the slip of paper in his pocket and tucked his chin against the blast of cold air that blew snowflakes along the sidewalk. A new storm had gathered, and the street musicians who had been playing so happily an hour before were now packing up their instruments and scurrying for cover.

***

Murphy followed two stout women in fur caps and galoshes into Demel’s Konditorei, a pastry shop laden with tortes and cream puffs of every size and description. Not surprisingly, the counter was three deep with customers who flocked in for last-minute treats for friends or relatives. A few solitary souls sat in the rococo dining room, where marble floors and gilded stucco were surpassed in elegance only by the desserts on display. Demel’s was almost the only pastry shop open for the holiday, and the long lines jostling for the last dozen bonbons or chocolate
confiseries
spoke of the Viennese passion for sweets. The aroma of chocolate, freshly baked pastries, and cakes was almost more than a mortal could bear.

No doubt Murphy would have been affected like everyone else if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was still lugging a hangover with him. He stood in the center of the crowd and searched for a telephone. A gilded phone booth was tucked discreetly in the far corner by the entrance to the kitchen. As Murphy carefully dialed Leah Goldblatt’s number, he noticed that the telephone was caught in the cross fire of noise between the kitchen and the counter.

He could barely hear the phone ring on the other end of the line, and when at last a man answered, Murphy thought he could hear the distinct roar of a party in the background. He shouted, and was sure the man was shouting back, but the two could barely hear each other.

“I’m a friend of Elisa Linder!” Murphy said loudly.

“Elisa? I don’t know if she’s here. Hey! Quiet back there! A friend of Elisa is on the line!” The background din seemed to get louder. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“I’m looking for Elisa!”

“She’s as likely to be here as anyone else! Come on over!”

“Is she in town?”

“Everybody’s in town! Can’t you hear?”

“But Elisa—”

“Come on over. But leave your instrument home . . . no room! Standing room only!” The telephone clattered down onto the receiver, leaving Murphy shouting at a dial tone.

Unwilling to wait in line, Murphy stopped a rosy-cheeked grandmother, her arms laden with boxes. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said politely. “Would you sell me some of that?”

“An hour I have waited in line, young man!” She seemed indignant.

“One box of anything. I’ll pay you double what you paid.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose with interest and the bargaining began in earnest. In the end, Murphy paid what the entire load of food had cost, and emerged from Demel’s with only one small package of roasted ham. The aged Frau seemed content and chuckled happily as Murphy skated off down the slick sidewalk with his prize.

Murphy had crashed a few parties in his day, but never one so unusual as the party at Leah Goldblatt’s little flat. From the street outside the tall, ancient apartment building, Murphy could hear the clarinet of a Benny Goodman recording. He checked the address once again, hoping that this was indeed the home of the cello player. Satisfied, he followed two black-coated Hasidic Jews up the narrow flight of stairs to where people spilled out the door of an apartment, clustering in groups of four and five on the stair landing and sitting on the steps, leaning on banisters and against the walls. The music was Benny Goodman all right, but the strange mixture of guests and gate crashers at this party made Murphy wish that he had bought a chocolate torte from the woman at the pastry shop. A wide white banner stretched over the front door and proclaimed:
Welcome, Zionists, Friends of Eretz-Israel. Shalom!

Murphy had passed three synagogues in the neighborhood on his way to Leah’s flat, but now it seemed that everyone had congregated here. He held tightly to his package of ham. No. It would not be wise to put a ham on a table crowded with gefilte fish and herring and a dozen different homemade strudels.

He had unknowingly entered the Jewish district of Vienna, and a gathering on behalf of Zionism, at that. Perhaps such a meeting was safe in this part of the city, but Murphy could not help but wonder about the wisdom of being so open in these times. After all, it was only two years since Dollfuss had fallen to the Nazis. And wasn’t Hitler screaming about the dirty socialist Jews just across the border? In Vienna Hitler had first made his link with the anti-Semites while he struggled to survive as an artist in a city overflowing with artists. And Vienna had also given birth to men like Theodore Hertzl, the father of Zionism. Such were the paradoxes of this city.

Murphy squeezed past a small group of girls who blocked the doorway. He scanned the faces, searching for Elisa. Conversation drifted up from every corner of the room. The topic of each little company was not the weather or the season but Palestine! Who had gone or hoped to go. Who had chosen the United States instead, and why.

“The riots are terrible in Jerusalem now, she said.”

“The Mufti stirs them up.”

“There is talk that the British will restrict immigration even more.”

“Like everywhere.”

“Samuel has gone to a kibbutz in the Negev.”

“Negev? Where is that?”

“The desert. Like Moses in Sinai.”

“This is all well and good, but I’m going to New York.”

“America! The place is drowning in the Depression. Nobody gets visas to New York America anymore!”

“I have an uncle. He lives there and will write a letter for me. He will vouch for me.”

“Yes. Yes. To get into America it is only possible with connections.”

Murphy could not see Elisa anywhere among the bobbing heads in the little flat. A tall handsome man with fists full of crackers and a full mouth passed by. He seemed more interested in food than in politics. Murphy grabbed him by the arm.

“I’m looking for Elisa Linder.”

“Who isn’t? She’s got my violin.” He swallowed and smiled. “My name is Rudy Dorbransky. You are American, aren’t you?”

A hush fell over a small circle of men and women around them.
To get into America you must have connections!
Murphy felt the eyes penetrating his back.

“No, Russian,” he said, and the hum started up again. No one wanted to go to Russia. “So, you know Elisa?”

“Yes.” Rudy seemed disappointed. “So, how do you know her?”

“We are old friends.”

“Well, you won’t find her here. Haven’t you noticed?” He seemed bored. “Every year Leah puts on this party for the Zionists in Palestine. To raise a few shillings. A Jewish version of a Christmas party, yes? We finish playing
La Traviata
at the
Staatsoper
, and then everyone comes here. Every year. It is a tradition if you’re Jewish. Which Elisa is not, and neither are you.” He cocked his head and smiled curiously at the box of ham that was slightly open. “Pink and rosy stuff there.” He seemed to enjoy Murphy’s embarrassment. “Not exactly kosher.”

“Is Leah anywhere around, then?” Murphy pretended to look around the room as though he would recognize Leah.

“Of course.” Rudy raised his eyebrows in amusement. “You are standing right beside her.” He jerked his thumb toward the petite, animated young woman who stood in the center of a group of teenaged girls and told them in glowing terms of life in a kibbutz.

Murphy turned away from Rudy with a nod of thanks and waited for Leah to take a breath.

“Young, strong hands, that is what they are calling for. It is no difference—boys or girls. They are treated alike. Work with the same enjoyment—”

Murphy cleared his throat and plunged in. “Fraülein Goldblatt? I have heard a lot about you. From Elisa Linder.”

“Oh?” She was not happy with the interruption. “And you are?”

“John Murphy.”

“The Russian?”

“American,” he whispered, but again the conversations fell silent and attentive. “A friend of Elisa.”

“So what are you doing here, Herr Murphy?” The question was not unfriendly, but to the point.

“I was hoping she would be here.”

“She is not. Everyone here is Jewish. Except for you. And possibly a Nazi agent or two prowling about to find out what we are up to. Fortunately it is not against the law for us to meet as Zionists in Austria. Not yet, at any rate, so they may prowl all they like.” She blinked pleasant, warm brown eyes up at him. “Are you a Nazi, Herr Murphy? Or a Zionist?” She smiled.

“Neither.” He smiled back. “Just a friend of Elisa.”

“Well, you can see.” She gestured around the room and Murphy noticed the contrasts of the men and women gathered there. Men in stiff white shirt fronts and white ties and black dinner jackets rubbed shoulders with Hassids who argued religious questions rather than political issues. Elisa would have seemed very much out of place indeed, even though she was Jewish—at least, half Jewish. Of course, that was one bit of information that only Murphy seemed to know.

He lowered his voice. “I need to speak to you privately.” He leveled his eyes to lock with hers, and the smug expression on her face faded away.

“Come on.” She led him away from the clamor, through the back door, and onto a small iron balcony. “Elisa has not spoken of you,” she said, somehow in tune with the seriousness of his errand. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to get in touch with her.” He bit his lip, uncertain of how much he should say. Elisa had her reasons for maintaining anonymity. He must not betray the confidence she had placed in him on the train to Salzburg. “It is urgent. A family matter.”

“Family? You know her family?”

Murphy nodded. “Her father and I are . . . friends. These are difficult times. You know that. It is most urgent that I speak with her.”

Leah searched his face. She was well enough acquainted with secrets to know that Murphy carried something important with him. “She is not in the city. Not expected back until day after tomorrow. We start rehearsals for the New Year’s concert then, and—where are you staying?”

“Sacher Hotel. She gave me her address at the Musikverein. I went there and . . . got your name. You are in the book. I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s all right. Half the people here have only come to eat.” She shrugged. “You brought your own, I see.”

Murphy liked this woman. There was a depth to her eyes not unlike that which he had seen in Elisa’s. It was not surprising that they were friends. “For later. I plan on staying in Vienna until I see her. Will you tell her I’m here? At Sacher Hotel.”