Vienna Prelude (3 page)

“Rudy,” she said almost maternally, “go look in the mirror. Comb your hair and straighten your tie. Did you shave today?”

He ignored her comments. “Elisa—” He mopped his brow and attempted a charming smile. “I ran into a bit of difficulty today, dearest—”

She held her bow poised for an instant. “Another ordinary day for you, eh, Rudy?”

“There was a gentlemen’s card game at the hotel, and—”

Elisa knew what was coming. A dozen times Rudy had hocked his magnificent instrument to pay gambling debts. He did not need to explain what had happened. It was obvious on his face. “Where is your Guarnerius?” she asked coolly. He had the finest instrument in the orchestra—a gift from a middle-aged woman admirer. Elisa had never gotten over the feeling of anger when he used the violin as collateral for a debt. Twice she had loaned him money when no one else would, for the sake of the Guarnerius violin. But by now Rudy’s charm had worn away entirely.

“I’ll pay you back!” All pretense dropped away as he pointed to where his instrument gleamed softly in its case.

“You said that last time.”

He held up his hand in solemn oath. “I promise.”

“I don’t have a shilling, Rudy,” she told him flatly. “You are wasting your time.”

“They are going to break my hands!” he pleaded, holding up his long strong fingers before her face.

“A gentlemen’s card game, eh?” She tossed her golden mane, disregarding his misery. “Well, Rudy, if they break your hands, you won’t be able to hold the cards, will you?” She smiled, resumed practicing, then blinked innocently at his indignant expression.

Defeated, Rudy shrugged unhappily and walked to the next of his hardhearted companions. Each, in turn, looked alternately embarrassed, angry, or indifferent to his pleas. They shook their heads and made their way past him onto the stage of the great gilded concert hall. Only Shimon, adept at judging the human condition, patted Rudy on the back and engulfed the hand of the violinist in his own huge hand. Unfortunately, pity was all the gentle percussionist had to offer. Everyone knew that Shimon used coffee grounds three times to save money. But perhaps, if all else failed, Shimon’s massive size would keep anyone from breaking Rudy’s hands.

Elisa, third chair among the first violins, could clearly see Leah’s position on the opposite side of the conductor’s stand. As they took their places, Leah looked up at her and grinned impishly at the thought of the maestro coming on stage without his pants. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, Elisa was suddenly seized with an urge to giggle. She determined she could not look toward Leah during the rest of the evening for fear of the thought that might pass between them. Nothing would be worse than a principal cellist and a violinist bursting out laughing in the middle of a performance. Elisa cleared her throat and tried to fix the appropriate expression of intensity on her face as the concertmaster rose and raised his bow for the orchestra to find its note by his.

A hush fell over the audience, and the houselights dimmed on the audience, a flower garden of silks and jewels waiting expectantly for the maestro to enter. Elisa adjusted the music stand slightly and exhaled as a thunderous burst of applause announced the entrance of the conductor behind her. He bowed and waved slightly to the audience as he passed her chair. Shaking hands with the concertmaster, he stopped a few feet from her. Elisa still did not look toward Leah. She would not. But yes, the maestro had made it on stage in Prague with his pants on.

***

Stephan Günther passed the ornate building of the German concert hall just as the first notes of Mozart’s
Prague Symphony
rose. The sound filled the gilded cavern and then escaped in muffled melody out onto the damp and deserted streets of the city. For a moment, Günther paused at the bottom of the white stone stairway that led into the hall. He searched the sidewalk in the vain hope that someone had dropped a ticket. It was a foolish thought; tickets to the event had been sold out for weeks. There was no hope at all that a common clerk could acquire entry to such a place. He glanced up to where the doorman, in his bright uniform and spit-polished shoes, was eyeing him with some suspicion. Even the doorman was better dressed than Günther. It did not matter. One day Günther would be dressed as an officer. He would walk up these steps, and women would watch him. Men would nod in respect. Günther closed his eyes as the music swelled, tenderly caressing the hundred spires of Prague, then drifting gently down the Moldau like autumn leaves swirling on the water.

He barely noticed the clack of the doorman’s heels against the steps
.
“
Bitte
,” said the doorman, his gold braid shining, “you will have to move along. No Czechs are allowed here, you see.”

Günther opened his eyes angrily. “I am a German,” he answered curtly. “As German as any within the hall.”

“Still, you do not have a ticket.”

Günther did not answer. He turned and began to walk away. The second movement of the piece had begun, and now it pursued him, mocking his ragged shoes and overcoat. The doorman chuckled and Günther spun around. “Yes. I am German.” He spat fiercely, then raised his hand in a casual salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said under his breath, and the smile on the doorman’s face vanished.

Günther put his hand to his head, astonished at his own behavior. Did he not plan to betray tonight the very cause that he had just saluted? Of course it was only a small betrayal—just enough to buy him a new pair of shoes and a good overcoat. Still, within a few hours he would become the Judas that his comrades in Czechoslovakia raved against in their secret Nazi meetings. He plunged his hand deep into the pocket of his coat and fingered the small paper-wrapped packet.
Perhaps I will use the money to purchase a ticket to the next concert as well
, he thought, imagining the doorman’s reaction to his arrival. A brief smile flickered over his tortured young face.

He rounded the corner and made his way toward the Old Town, where his companions waited in the dark bowels of a beer house. Tonight they would sing and raise their steins in salute to the Fatherland, and Günther would join them. After all, his was only a small betrayal, he mused again. The cause would not suffer over a few passports, more or less.

2

Birth in the Darkness

The jingle of sleigh bells echoed from the steep, snow-covered slopes of the Tyrolean Alps. It was already dark, but the little mare pulling Franz Wattenbarger’s sleigh knew her way home. Franz held the lines loosely as the horse leaned into her burden without faltering. Far below, the lights of the village of Kitzbühel glistened like a cluster of jewels against the mountain. Franz peered over his shoulder. He could almost feel the warmth of glowing fires and smell the hot dumplings simmering in his neighbors’ kitchens.

In the distance Franz heard the shrill, lonely whistle of a train. That cry had lured many of his friends from the mountains, but for Franz, such a sound seemed feeble compared to the shriek of the eagles that soared above the craggy peaks of his home. After living twenty-four years in the shadow of these mountains, Franz had decided that, unlike his brother Otto, he would never leave. The seasons sang to him—ageless hymns with whisperings he could feel but not fully understand.

Tonight the scent of woodsmoke mingled with the clean aroma of the fir trees that bordered the pastures of their farm. Ahead he could see the shimmering glow of the lantern in the barn where Otto and Papa waited with a young heifer about to give birth. The night seemed wrapped in an eternal magic, and the mountains sang of life and home and things that remained forever unchanged.

In his pocket Franz carried a letter from Vienna sent on behalf of a family looking for an out-of-the-way place to spend their holiday in the Alps. This sort of inquiry was sent through the priest of the village and then relayed to some farm family willing to share their chalet with guests from the city. For three years in a row Feriengäste
had come to stay at the Wattenbarger home. The rent they paid had been a gift from heaven to see their farm through hard times. When Franz patted his pocket, the crackle of paper reassured him. He and Otto would have to move to the small hut at the far end of the farm, but there would be money enough to see them through again this year.

Otto resented the presence of strangers in the house, but then he seemed to resent much about their life nowadays, Franz thought. Only a year ago Otto’s wife had died, and he had left to find work in an automobile factory in Stuttgart. He had returned to the farm barely six months later. Thin, haggard, and bitter, he said little about his time in Germany. Their little sister, Gretchen, had teased him that perhaps his heart had been broken by some pretty Stuttgart woman, and he had glared at her as though he might strike her. Then he had stalked off to bed without a word.

Twice Franz had tried to speak with him. But Otto had told him in no uncertain terms that he should mind his own business. Tonight, when the heifer had gone into labor, Papa had sent Franz off to Kitzbühel for the supplies. Franz guessed that Papa wanted to have a word with Otto. Mama simply looked grieved. She had spoken sternly to Otto, then gently. She had tried to joke with him and had even wept once when he stormed out of the house. A loaf of warm, home-baked Roggenbrot heaped with butter did nothing to draw the heart of Otto back to them. The cry of the train whistle had snared his heart, and he was always looking away, always looking toward the horizon as though he could see some terrible storm brewing beyond the peak of the Kitzbüheler Alpen.

As the sound of his sleigh bells reached the farmhouse, Franz saw the door open and his mother gazing out into the darkness. Plump and pleasant at forty-five, she still had color in her cheeks, and only a trace of gray streaked her hair at the temples. Marta Wattenbarger managed her home and children with a discipline and care that showed in the gleaming floors of the farmhouse and the bright embroidery on the boys’ jäger jackets and Gretchen’s dirndls.

Franz leaned forward a bit and squinted at the sight of her. Tonight her easy smile, usually so evident on her face, was gone. She wrung her hands and frowned toward the sound of the bells, at last calling out in German, “Franz! Is that you? Hurry, Franz! Papa and Otto are in terrible need of your help!”

Franz slapped the lines down hard on the back of his mare, jogging her into a lope up the road. The mare stopped at the door and Marta grasped the bridle.

“What is it?” Franz asked.

“The heifer!” she replied. “The calf is turned. Neither Papa nor Otto can get a grip. Papa’s hands are too big, and Otto’s arm too short.”

As if on cue, Papa stepped out of the barn. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He seemed angry. “We’ve probably lost the calf, and we’ll lose the heifer too!”

Franz was already peeling off his jacket as he sprinted toward the stable. Gone was the feeling of peace that had ridden up the slopes with him. Inside the stable two dozen milk cows were tethered to their stalls. Liquid brown eyes gazed at Franz expectantly. Otto, covered from head to foot with manure and bits of straw, groveled on the floor behind a large heifer in obvious distress. At the sound of Franz’s voice she rolled her eyes and bellowed mournfully. Her sides were heaving, and she was covered with sweat.

Franz tossed his jacket and shirt onto the hay. “You wouldn’t think she would have trouble.”

“She’s big enough. But the first calf, you know.” Karl, his papa, brushed sweat from his brow. “Otto and I just aren’t built for this sort of fishing.”

Otto’s arm was extended up to the shoulder as he grimaced and attempted to reach the calf’s hoof with the loop of a rope. “Well, I can’t do it!” Otto spat. His dark red beard was caked with filth. He withdrew his arm and rolled to one side, then rose stiffly as Franz washed his arm and soaped it slick.

The heifer looked at Franz, then laid her head on the straw with a groan as another useless contraction struck.

“Poor dear.” Marta knelt to stroke the heifer’s cheek. Franz had been unaware that his mother watched the drama. “Poor Hilda.” The heifer lifted her head slightly, then let it fall again as Franz dropped down and worked his hand and arm into the birth canal.

His arm was longer than Otto’s, but it was also bigger and more muscled. He stretched out on the cold floor and gently probed inward in search of a tiny hoof.

“Well?” snapped Otto. “It was there. Just beyond my reach. You should—”

The heifer moaned again and a fresh contraction began, the muscles constricting Franz’s arm.

“There now,” soothed Marta. “It will be over soon.” Then she whispered a prayer just barely audible.

“Yes.” Otto sounded bitter as he washed the sticky mess from his arm. “We’ve lost the calf, and we’re going to lose the heifer too.”

“You don’t know that yet,” said Marta defensively.

Franz knew the special affection his mother held for this heifer.

“Besides, she doesn’t need to hear it,” Marta insisted.

Otto slipped on his shirt, then stood scowling over Franz as he strained to reach the calf. “I told you, Papa, we should have killed the heifer and at least taken the calf. Mother would have raised it. Now we’re going to lose them both.”

“Shut up,” Franz warned, his fingertips brushing a hoof. “I can—I can feel it.”

“So could I. But you won’t reach it.” Otto looked toward Karl. “This heifer should be put down. See how she suffers.” Turning as if to go, he asked, “Do you need me for anything else?” It was obvious that everything was over as far as he was concerned.

“Yes,” Karl said coolly, seemingly ashamed of his eldest son’s attitude. “We’ll need your strength when we pull the calf.”

Otto shrugged and sat down, brushing his trousers off and attempting to remove the manure from this beard.

Franz laid his cheek against the heifer’s hip and scrambled for a firmer foothold on the cobbled floor of the stall. Only a fraction nearer and he could close his fingers around the hoof. The heifer groaned as yet another contraction racked her body. Franz grimaced with the force that tightened around his arm. “A fraction,” he breathed. “Come on. Just a bit . . . ”