Vienna Prelude (33 page)

Elisa fumed inwardly. Leah had deserted her to this American. No doubt he would ask her unpleasant things like, “Have you heard from your father?”

“Have you heard from your father?” Murphy asked as soon as the trolley clanged away.

“No.”
Next he will ask me about Mother.

They walked a few silent paces. “How is your mother?”

“How would you expect her to be in such a case?” Elisa let the irritation creep into her voice.

Murphy frowned. “Yes. You’re right. Silly question.”

“And don’t ask me why I am still in Vienna!” she snapped. Maybe she would strangle Leah tomorrow and first chair cello would be empty before spring, after all.

“After tonight I might think you would give it some thought.” Murphy was still frowning.

“Is that why you have come here after a year?” She whirled around and stood facing him just outside the ring of light from a streetlamp.

He stared at her again. Lovely face, slender throat—he seemed to touch her with his eyes; then his gaze caught hers and held her. She did not like the way he looked at her—as though he had some claim on her, as though he knew her . . .
intimately.
She backed up a step, trying to escape the rush of warmth his eyes brought to her. “I have felt”—he did not take his eyes from hers—“responsible. Like I need to . . . look after you in some way.”

Is he really saying this after a year?
“We barely met. I hardly know you, Herr Murphy.”

His eyes held a smile, as if they were sharing a joke.

She did not appreciate his expression. “And you do not know me at all!” Her voice was loud—defensive, even angry now. “And why do you smile at me that way?” she demanded.

“I know you better than most,” he teased. “I’ve helped you pack your underwear—twice!”

Elisa’s head drew back as if he had struck her.
Is that why he seems so—so familiar with me?
She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. “I am sure the clerks at any lingerie shop in Vienna will be happy to show you whatever you wish! You cannot expect the same from me, Herr Murphy!”

He put a hand to his cheek and winced. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t intend any insult.”

She stared at him coldly.

“Good night,” he finally added in English.

She replied in very distinct English as well, “No, Mister John Murphy. The word is
good-bye!
” At that she spun around and strode away from him. She almost hoped he would follow her, but he did not.

23

The Coming Fire

On this cold Sunday in December, the French tricolor waved proudly from atop the Eiffel Tower. The bells of the great cathedrals of Paris rang out as though to announce the coming of Christmas. More Frenchmen seemed called to stroll along the waters of the placid Seine than summoned to attend the services, however. Young and old, Parisians lifted their faces to the sunlight like the trees that reached out with barren branches in hope of finding warmth.

Dressed in a brown double-breasted suit, Thomas von Kleistmann walked slowly along the beautiful Champs-Elysées. Somehow the gray-green of his military uniform would have seemed out of place in this peaceful setting. As the military attache of the German Embassy, he knew that his transfer from Berlin last year had been intended to remove him from the hot political climate in the capital of Hitler’s Reich. His banishment hardly seemed like a punishment.

Behind him a young woman was singing quietly: “
Paris sera toujours Paris . . .
Paris will always be Paris.” For Thomas, the words were a comforting reminder that all the world had not dressed in the gray uniforms so common now in Berlin. The colors of bright print dresses, loose cable-knit sweaters, and berets blended like blooming flowers in the crowded cafés. Occasionally a gendarme’s blue uniform could be spotted among the Paris pedestrians, but these officials lacked the arrogance of their German counterparts.

No
, thought Thomas,
this assignment is anything but an unpleasant exile
. At every opportunity, he laid his uniform aside and mingled with the ordinary people of the city. When he spoke, of course, his accent carried a trace of German inflection, but the city had swelled with thousands of Germans who had come to Paris to escape. Many were Jewish, but many others were political dissidents who had crossed the border when the first roundups of anti-Nazis had begun in 1933. All of them had some other ultimate destination in mind—America or perhaps Palestine, or even South America. In the meantime, the French had been patient with the hordes in the city. After all, there was plenty of room along the banks of the Seine.

French waiters hardly bothered anymore to ask Thomas’ nationality when he ordered coffee or a glass of strong red wine at a café. They might have turned him out had he worn his uniform, however. The political creed of Paris was “Live and let live”—except in the case of their sinister German neighbors. They could see the results of Nazi policies in the faces of the refugees, and a German uniform was more likely to evoke a sullen comment than the customary greeting of “
Bon jour
!”

The city was, of course, swarming with agents of the Gestapo as well, each in search of some particularly important criminal. Thomas himself had seen the lists—the endless Nazi lists, photographs, and files passed his desk daily. He had little doubt that his own name was in a file on someone else’s desk, but somehow it did not seem to matter anymore. If worse came to worst, he could simply melt into the masses and disappear among the thousands who had come here.

He made his way toward George V subway station, his fingers nervously touching a letter inside his pocket. Although he had written Elisa twelve letters addressed to the Musikverein since he had arrived in Paris, he had not mailed any of them.

But the German censors had no access to mail posted in France and received in Austria. When he had written her from Berlin, he had assumed she had not gotten his letters. Now he was certain that this was one letter he must mail, and for the sake of her life, he prayed that she would read it and hear his warning.

Instinctively he looked over his shoulder as he dropped the envelope into the letter box at the station. Even if he was being watched, even if the Gestapo in Paris wanted to know the contents of his letter, they would have to go through the French postal service to do so. Considering French attitudes toward the Nazis, it did not seem probable.

With a sense of satisfaction, Thomas boarded the subway train that would take him near the German Embassy. He stood as others crowded on board. A young couple stood just in front of him. The man clutched the leather strap with one hand and slipped his arm around the slim waist of his dark-eyed lady. Throughout the ride, they faced one another. She smiled up into his eyes, hardly noticing the discomfort of the cramped car. Thomas watched them, his longing for Elisa more intense than any he had felt since he had watched her leave Berlin so long ago. She had looked at him with the same soft glow he saw in the girl’s eyes now. How foolish he had been to turn away from all that!

But then, that had been Berlin, where a man’s heart belonged to the state. This, on the other hand, was Paris. Men were still free here—free to love whomever they chose. The girl on the train caressed her young man with a look. He pulled her tighter, unaware that anyone was watching. She smiled, and Thomas looked away as the memories of Elisa’s touch and smile became too painful.

At the next stop he inched past the couple and stepped off the train. He stood for a minute until the knot in his stomach eased.
To be here in this place without Elisa!
The thought of her made him angry all over again that he hadn’t insisted on seeing her that night in Theo Lindheim’s office! What difference would it have made? After all, he had ended up leaving Berlin anyway. The Gestapo had accused him of being with her, even though he had not.

He exhaled slowly as he walked from the station and raised his eyes to the glaring red of the swastika flag that waved over the embassy building. In Berlin the sight of that flag had frightened him away from the one woman he had ever loved. Here in Paris, it seemed small and insignificant. Its crooked cross only mocked him. “If she will answer me,” he whispered in French, as though her native language was now unworthy of his emotion, “God, if only she will answer my letter . . . ” He did not finish the thought aloud. His stirrings were too deep for words.

Thomas had seen the secret memorandum that had passed over the desk of Ernst vom Rath. As third secretary of the German Embassy, Ernst was capable in his post, but he was not a Nazi. Very quietly one night over drinks, he had confessed his doubts about Hitler’s regime to Thomas. And Thomas had in turn told him that he loved a girl . . . a girl in Austria who was half Jewish. Somehow the mutual confessions had given the two men a solid base of friendship. Thomas knew that the Gestapo was watching Ernst vom Rath, and he had warned him.

In return for the favor, Ernst showed Thomas the memo . . . the one concerning increased Nazi activities in Vienna and Prague.

“If your girl is still in Austria,” Ernst had warned Thomas, “you should warn her. Tell her to get out. The Anschluss is coming. The Führer demands it, and it will be so—unless he should suddenly not be the Führer any longer.” There had been a trace of hope in Ernst’s last words.

Thomas read over the orders: Austria’s Nazi underground would step up acts of terrorism while at the same time creating an incident to give Hitler’s armies an excuse to march to Austria to “restore order.” A chill ran through him. He did not know how much time there was left for the little nation. If he could, he knew that he must do all he could to bring Elisa to Paris . . . and into his life again. He had no plans beyond that, but he was certain that she
must
leave Vienna, and then they would find someplace in the world where they could be safe together.

***

“Well?” Leah asked pointedly as she unwound her long scarf and hung up her coat at rehearsal the next morning.

“Well what?” Elisa did not attempt to hide her irritation.

“What do you
mean
, well what? You know perfectly well
what
.”

Elisa stared blankly at her friend. “Well, nothing. Besides, I’m not talking to you.”

“For how long?” Leah did not seem unduly alarmed.

“Maybe forever.” Elisa opened her violin case as Rudy swept into the theatre like a conquering hero.

“That will be the day.” Leah lugged her cello case over to a long wooden bench beside Shimon, who still did not look well. “Tell her to talk to me, Shimon,” Leah instructed.

“Why?” He did not smile. “You talk enough for both of you. For me too. For all of us.”

“Bravo, Shimon!” Elisa applauded him. “You should have heard her talk last night!”

Shimon looked very tired. “I
did
hear her,” he sniffed. “She told me all about the American journalist. How he has bought tickets until January—”

“Sixth,” Leah finished.

“Right.” Shimon nodded. “And how he took you out for coffee at the Sacher Hotel.” He smiled at Elisa’s deep blush.

“Now you see why I won’t tell her anything!” Elisa snapped.

Shimon nodded and blew his nose. “Yes. Of course. But you will still talk to me, won’t you?”

“If you won’t tell her.”

“Agreed.” The big man stuck out his hand to shake in agreement. “So . . . ” He paused. “
Well?
”

Elisa plopped down on the other side of him and whispered in his ear as Leah looked on sullenly. “I slapped his face.”

“That sounds promising!” Shimon said loudly. “Before or after coffee?”

“We didn’t have coffee.” Elisa spoke in an almost inaudible voice.

“Very promising indeed!” Shimon replied. “I
like
this fellow!”

“Well, you will have plenty of chance to meet him,” Leah said dryly, even though she could not hear Elisa’s end of the conversation. “He is not only coming to performances, he is here now.”

Shimon raised his eyebrows. “
Such
a music lover!”

“Where is he?” Elisa demanded.

“Outside. On the landing. I just saw him peering in when Karin came in.”

Elisa glanced toward the stage door. It was freezing outside, and the wind howled through the alley. “Well, don’t let him in!”

“What did you slap him for?” Shimon did not bother to whisper, and Leah smiled as though she had won a victory.

“She slapped him? Very promising!” Leah leaned around Shimon and winked at Elisa. “Shimon and I dated for months before I had occasion to slap him.”

Shimon winced at the memory. “Oy! Can she hit!”

“Now everyone will know, Shimon.” Elisa drew herself up. “You said you wouldn’t tell.”

He spread his big hands innocently. “Did I tell? I thought I only asked a simple question: Why did you slap the American?”

Rudy stopped and grinned handsomely down at Elisa. “You slapped an American? Why would you do that? The only way you can get a visa to America is if you know a nice American.”

“He is not nice,” Elisa retorted.

“I like him,” Leah volunteered. “He’s out there freezing on the steps, and she won’t let us let him in.”

“Why did you hit the poor fellow?” Rudy seemed overly interested.

“That is nobody’s business.” Elisa picked up her violin and began to play a scale.

“She won’t tell us.” Shimon and Leah spoke at the same moment.

Rudy shrugged and sauntered past them, directly to the stage door. He opened it slightly and a blast of frigid air swept backstage. “Are you the American that Elisa slapped? Come in. You will certainly freeze to death out there.”

A new deeper redness climbed to Elisa’s cheeks. “I will never forgive you all,” she mumbled as Rudy continued the loud conversation with John Murphy.

“You’re the fellow that lunatic was shooting at last night,” Murphy said clearly. “Just the man I wanted to see. I’m a journalist, and I thought I might have an interview.”