Vienna Prelude (29 page)

Elisa looked quickly away. Rudy’s words were striking too close to home. “He would not approve.”

“He might. Wealthy men like your father understand the risks of gambling. I should like to meet your father someday. I am always interested in meeting men of substance. Does he play cards? Maybe he would like me enough to insist that you marry me. Then you could use the violin whenever you wanted, and I would be rich. Two dreams come true.” Rudy had not noticed that Elisa was close to tears. He babbled happily along, tuning his instrument and swinging the bow around like a sword.

“Hello, Rudy.” Leah swept past. “Got your violin back, I see.” She was still angry at Elisa for sending her off with the luggage.

“A bit heavier than it was before,” he whispered playfully. “Elisa has obviously smuggled Herr Hitler’s stolen jewels out in it.” He plucked the notes of “
Deutschland
Über
Alles
” and clicked his heels.

Elisa turned from both of them and carried her violin out onto the stage. Flipping through the music on her stand, she felt uncertain she could get through the morning rehearsal. She studied the score of Mendelssohn’s
Elijah.
The opening words of the oratio cried out the question of her own heart: “Help, Lord, Help, Lord; are you trying to destroy us?” Somehow the thought that the composer had been Jewish was comforting to her. Yes, in Vienna, music by Jewish composers could still be played. Men like Rudy Dorbransky were still free to joke about the Gestapo. She was safe here. Her mother and brothers were safe, and perhaps, by some miracle, her father had made it across the border of the Reich. That hope and prayer would sing in her music this morning and carry her past the silence and the fears.

***

It was weeks before the icy waters of the Moldau River yielded up the body of Stephan Günther. It was remarkably well-preserved, considering the time elapsed since Sporer’s gun had sent him tumbling from Charles Bridge. Officials in Prague guessed that he had been only recently murdered, and this information found its way into a brief article in the Prague
Zeitung.
No mention was made of his connection with the underground Nazi Party in Czechoslovakia. His work as a clerk in the passport office before his mysterious disappearance was somehow not associated with his untimely demise. His identification papers were still legible. He had no money on his person.

“
Robbery,
it says.” Sporer smiled at the conclusion of the Prague police.

Karl Hermann Frank, second-in-command of the Sudeten Nazi Party, slammed his fist against the table. “We could have used this. Propaganda Minister Goebbels is not pleased! The Führer will not be pleased. If you had handled this correctly . . . ”

“The man was a traitor, smuggling passports out of Prague to Jews in Germany. There was little else to do but kill him,” Sporer retorted.

“But he was
German
, you fool!” Frank had been reprimanded by party members close enough to Hitler and Himmler to know that the news of a German murdered in Czech territory could be used effectively. Even the death of one member of the NDSP was reason enough for Hitler to rouse the nation with cries of “persecution!” and demands for liberation of the three million Sudeten Germans who lived within the borders of Czechoslovakia.

“You have wasted a perfectly good opportunity.” Frank tossed the newspaper onto the floor. “There is no mention that he was a Nazi Party member; no assumption that he was murdered by Jews.” Frank spun around to face the unsmiling Sporer. “And you killed him before we found out who was paying him . . . where the passports were picked up.”

“He did not know anything!” Sporer defended.

“If you had not been so eager to shoot him, we would know that for certain! There has been a flood of Czech passports across the border, Sporer! There is a chain here that can be broken if we can snap only one link! You did not snap the link! You simply silenced it!”

Sporer stared moodily at the floor. Perhaps Hermann Frank was right, but he was not the only one who silenced witnesses. “Yes! Like the Gestapo in Weimar, eh? How long had the border customs inspector lasted when they got their hands on him? Found with eight passports! Eight! An entire family of eight Jews . . . ”

“They have all been detained . . . ”

“Interned, you mean. And what do they know? They simply paid him money for the passports.
He
knew where they had come from, and Himmler tortured him to death without learning anything at all! Don’t talk to me about silencing witnesses!”

The point was well taken. Frank sat down slowly and drummed his fingers on the table. “All the passports bear the official stamp of the government in Prague. The Reich cannot refuse to recognize them or the Gestapo would be arresting citizens of Czechoslovakia by the hundreds. Then the news would be to the advantage of Prague instead of Berlin.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Along with the passports on the customs inspector, there were also some documents . . . information about a ship illegally bound for Palestine. Of course that information was relayed to the British and the ship was intercepted before it left Trieste.” He looked curiously at Sporer. “It was chartered by an anonymous sponsor in Vienna.”

Sporer was scarcely listening. “Another propaganda blunder in favor of the Jews.
Poor Jews.
” He sneered. “
We only want to go to Palestine
. . . yes. On a leaky Turkish freighter with a hull made more of rust than iron.”

“You miss the point, Sporer.” Frank was smiling. “Two hundred and ten passengers on that little boat. All obviously non-Aryan Germans carrying Czech passports.”

“Proof that we do not have a trickle, or even a leak, but that the dam has burst.”

“The Führer does not care how many Jews leave Germany. But these are the wealthy Jews! The ones who take German capital with them. They do not pay their taxes to the Reich.” He shrugged with the simplicity of the thought. The Gestapo had thus far failed to stop the flood. Perhaps it would be advantageous to their personal careers if they could indeed break the one link in the chain. “Our comrades in Austria are in need of assistance. This little ship was chartered by someone in Vienna. Czech passports are appearing in the hand of every Jew who manages to slip out of the Reich without paying taxes. Perhaps we can put a stop to this ring, Sporer. Then think how we might be rewarded by the Reich for service to our Fatherland,
ja
?” He seemed suddenly very pleased with himself. He could spare Sporer for as long as it took. Where the Gestapo failed, they would not—and for now, at least they could still work with some independence. “It would be good, Sporer, if you would travel to help our brothers in Austria.” He slapped him solidly on the back. “This chain is not so very strong. One link is all we need. Only one. Snap it!”

***

Nazi propaganda pamphlets, a copy of
Mein Kampf
, and a typed memorandum signed by Captain Leopold, the head of Austria’s illegal Nazi Party, were all laid out in a neat line on the table in the Herrgottseck of the Wattenbarger farmhouse. All the family was there.

Franz looked at his mother. Marta’s lips were tight, her eyes downcast as Karl paced back and forth before a sullen and defiant Otto.

“What right do you have to go through my things?” Otto demanded. He flashed an angry look at Marta, who did not answer.

Karl stopped before him and raised a hand as though he would strike his son. His hand trembled with anger and the disappointment of discovering the truth about Otto. “You will not speak with such disrespect to your mother!” he said in a voice so quiet, yet so full of rage that they all held their breath with the expectation of something terrible.

Otto did not acknowledge his own disrespect, any more than he would acknowledge that what he had done, and was doing, was wrong. “Those papers are mine. Soon such words will be for all Austrians!” His jaw was set in a firm, hard line. “Chancellor Schuschnigg is not the savior of Austria. An independent Austria is nothing! They carved us up after the war. Made us a fragment. Cut us off from Hungary and destroyed the empire of the Hapsburgs. They have made us nothing!”

“And you . . . you and your Nazi friends think we will be something if we are joined to Germany?” Scorn rang in Karl’s voice. “Your grandfather fought the Prussians of Germany to keep Austria free! And now you wish to join these—” Karl picked up the well-read copy of
Mein Kampf
and in one motion threw open the door to the stove. He scanned a page and the color on his cheeks deepened. “Yes. Herr Hitler would give the German people more living space by taking that which belongs to others. And what will happen to the people who live in these lands after Hitler sends his troops in?” He did not need an answer. Hitler had written the answer in his book.

“We are Germans,” Otto said in a voice that asserted his sense of racial superiority. “What does it matter what happens to the vanquished?”

“We are Austrians,” Karl said through clenched teeth. He began to tear pages from
Mein Kampf
and toss them onto the flames of the stove. “And we are
Christians
!” His eyes seemed to blaze as the flames devoured the evil words of the madman across the border.

“First we must be Germans!” Otto shouted back. “You cannot destroy his words! He is the heart of Germany! Of the Greater Reich!”

“Then the heart of Germany is black and vile,” Marta replied quietly, in a trembling voice. “It has no place at the Herrgottseck of this home.” Her eyes were filled with tears, but she was even more resolute in her declaration than Karl had been. It was plain what she was saying. Otto could not stay there. His beliefs were a betrayal of everything she had raised her sons to be. Gretchen burst into tears at the words of her mother. Young Friedrich stared at her and then back to his brother as they faced each other. This was no simple discussion of politics or the Anschluss of Austria with Germany. No, it was much, much, more.

“Before Hitler came to power, there were many of us,” Marta said calmly, “who believed it might be better if Austria became a part of Germany. Yes. Maybe better for our farms and families to be part of a greater state.” She paused and watched as Karl tossed the last of
Mein Kampf
into the flames. It hissed, and the corners blackened and shriveled. “But now”—she shook her head—“they mock God. They mock our Lord Jesus, the Christ, and they mock the nation to which He was born.”

“The Jews!” Otto scoffed. “They killed Christ!”

“No!” Karl whirled to face his son. “
You
killed Christ! And I killed Him! And the words of your madman crucify Him daily!” His voice boomed. “When law and justice are distorted and the innocent are condemned, the crucifixion begins anew! Listen, Otto! Listen, my son!” Karl threw open the door and the cold winds of March blew into the Stube. “Listen to the voice of your Jesus as you help destroy His children!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called the words of Jesus on the cross: “Father . . . ”

The mountains echoed back, “
Father . . . Father . . . Father . . .
”

“Forgive them . . . ”

“
Forgive . . . Forgive . . . Forgive them . . .
”

“They don’t know . . . ”

“
Don’t know . . . don’t know . . . know . . . know . . .
”

“What they do!”

“
What they do . . . they do . . . they do . . .
”

When the last of a thousand voices died away, only the sound of the wind was left. Karl kicked the door shut. He stared at Otto as if he had never seen him before. The young man before him was not the beloved son, but a total stranger who had come to dwell in a familiar body. “You
do
know what you are doing! You will lay the innocent out on the cross. You will take up the hammer and press the spike into His loving hand, and you will
strike
! And
strike
! And
strike again
!”

“The Jews are the Christ killers!” Otto defended. “And they would exploit every good German worker!” His eyes became transfixed as he repeated the words he had come to believe. “We will not be free until—”

“Take the hammer, Otto!” Karl shouted. “Crucify Him! Crucify the innocent children and the women who bore them. Murder their husbands and take their homes and shops for the Greater Reich! You
know
what you are doing!
You know!
Sell your nation and your soul and
crucify them
as your evil master orders. But you will find you crucify me as well, and your mother, and your brothers, and your sister!”

Gretchen wept loudly at her father’s words. “Oh,
Otto
!” she moaned. “Please
don’t
! Mama, tell him to stay! Tell him to still be our Otto!”

Helmut and Friedrich lowered their heads then, and Franz saw tears also in the eyes of his younger brothers. But there was no softening on the face of Otto. His eyes narrowed in determination. He had chosen his way as the way of Nazi Germany, and the time for discussion was past.

Marta fought against emotion, but she could not speak. The family sat in heavy silence for what seemed like a long time.

At last, Karl stepped forward and reached his large calloused hand to touch Otto. Otto moved slightly, avoiding his father’s touch. “You are my son,” Karl said with a sadness that betrayed the depth of his pain.

Otto smiled in disdain. “I have no father but the Fatherland,” he said cruelly.

Karl flinched as though he had been struck. He stepped back as Gretchen wailed and ran to embrace her mother. Marta held her and stroked her head, not ever taking her eyes from Otto. “If that is so, Otto,” she cried, “then you have no mother!”

Only then did Otto show some twinge of regret. He winced and said to Marta, “Someday you will see that I am right, Mother. Then I will come home.”

She shook her head in solemn disagreement. “No, Otto. Do not come home until you see that you are wrong. Then we will be waiting for you. Your loving family . . . waiting . . . ” She broke down and buried her face in Gretchen’s shoulder. “Don’t cry,” she tried to comfort the young girl. “Don’t cry, Gretchen.” But her own tears flowed freely.