Vienna Prelude (43 page)

Again they exchanged glances. She shoved her hands into her pockets, hoping that the three men would not see them trembling now. The violin case was screaming for attention, yet none of the men appeared to notice it. Rudy’s violin. The case filled with secret papers. Its very presence in her apartment would somehow tie her into the intrigue. She already knew what
they
were capable of doing. Against her will now, the vision of Rudy’s hand came back to her. She flexed her fingers, then clenched her fist. Of course his body had to be cremated. There was too much to explain otherwise.

She glared back at them. Were these men Nazis too? She had heard there were secret members of the Nazi Party within the Austrian police force. It was impossible to tell by looking. How could she know such a thing? Had these men perhaps been part of his murder?

The shorter of the two civilian-dressed men cleared his throat. “Fraülein Linder,” he began, “we heard from certain sources that you were on occasion a financial resource for Rudy Dorbransky.”

“He always needed money,” she nodded. The violin case almost rocked with the news it carried. Elisa did not look at it. “If you . . . gentlemen are going to stay a while, would you like a cup of tea? It is very cold out, and I need a cup.” She did not wait for their answer. She opened the door, concealing the violin case behind it; then she tossed her coat and gloves onto the bed. Calmly she walked past them into the kitchen to put the kettle on as though they had just dropped in for tea.

The short man followed her to the kitchen. “There is no delicate way to ask this, Fraülein—”

She knew in advance what he would ask. The question amused her. “Then simply ask.”

“Were you and Dorbransky ever . . . were you . . . lovers?”

“No.” She smiled patronizingly. “And no again. We all knew about Rudy’s outside interests. Gambling and women. My interest in Rudy was as a musician. Such talent! Wasted over a woman!” Suddenly she felt tears sting her eyes. “
Wasted!
” She let the tears flow. She covered her face with her hands and sank down into a small wooden chair beside the table. “Now this! Horrible! Horrible! What next? And what do you want with me? If you don’t leave me alone, give me some rest, I may never play again!”

“We have interviewed everyone in the orchestra, Fraülein Linder.” The voice of the uniformed officer was gentle. “We simply overlooked you. The incident is really cut and dried except for a few small details. Dorbransky had a reputation in this city. This is not much of a surprise to us, although I am certain it is a shock to you. We expected Rudy Dorbransky to end up in some such way. If that is any comfort to you,” he finished awkwardly.

“No, it isn’t!” Elisa’s tears were real. “No comfort at all. The orchestra has lost a fine violinist. Possibly one of the finest of our century!” She did not dare mention what she was really weeping about.
His hands! How could they do that to such hands?

“Thank you. Yes.” One of the civilian-dressed officers cleared his throat nervously. “We simply had no choice but to come here since you were not with the others. Simply routine.”

“Then go away and leave me alone!” she demanded through her sobs. “First my brother, and now this!” She stretched out a trembling hand; she did not have to pretend to shake. “How am I supposed to play when I come home and find police in my apartment? I will tell the maestro! He will have a word to say to your superiors!”

The three men had begun backing away from her presence. Now the shortest man threw open the door and tipped his hat in farewell. “Perhaps this was not the best time to come,” he said by way of apology. “Good-bye, Fraülein! I hope your brother recovers.”

Elisa stared at them as they backed out of the room. She hated them for their questions and for their intrusion. Surely they had seen Rudy’s hands! They had viewed his torn body and broken teeth. And yet the Austrian Shupos had come
here
to interview her instead of finding the Nazi butchers who had mangled him and murdered a woman besides! And what about that Jewish boy in critical condition at Rothschild Hospital and his friend who lay at the morgue right now?
Why aren’t the Shupos making arrests of the real criminals in Austria? Why have they come here?

She wanted to shout at them, but she did not. The door clicked shut behind them but she could not even find the strength to get up and slip the bolt into place. She sat, still sobbing, for what seemed like a long time. She had gotten herself into something much deeper and more frightening than she could have dreamed of. Hadn’t she left all that in Berlin? No. Berlin had followed her here. It had followed them all. She felt no sense of relief that the Shupos had left. She was still seeing the grinning skull before her and Rudy’s strong, capable fingers dancing on the strings of the Guarnerius.

***

The tea in Elisa’s cup sat cold and untouched on the table before her. It had been nearly an hour since the Shupos had left her apartment. She still had not opened Rudy’s violin case. She would wait, she decided, to see if they came back.

Minutes ticked slowly by and Elisa realized that she could not remember the faces of the officers who had been in her flat. She cuold visualize shining buttons of the uniform, scuffed black shoes and bulging vests; but try as she might, she could not remember even the vaguest detail of their faces. The thought frightened her even more as the hour passed and they did not return. She must not have ever looked at the faces. Her eyes must have darted to buttons and vests and shoes and the violin, then back along the same route. She had looked above their heads, around them, at the floor and the ceiling and the door, but never at their faces. What if one of them followed her now? How would she know who it was? The two in civilian clothes—one tall, the other shorter. But how would she recognize them? By their shoes? And had they noticed how unsettled her eyes were? Did they suspect?

She sat motionless as these thoughts assailed her. She was so alone. She was even uncertain now if she should contact Leah. What if they were watching her apartment right now? Rudy had been so smooth and confident in his deception, and yet look what had happened to him! Even with his violin case stuffed with secret documents, he had looked every man straight in the eye and splashed his famous smile around among the women. No one had ever suspected him, and yet, look at his finish!

Elisa rose slowly from the table and pulled the door back. The violin case, scuffed and innocuous, was still there. It did not shout a warning or burst apart as she stared down at it. And yet, inside, Rudy had said there were passports and secret files from the Gestapo.
Dachau!
That word again.
Dachau! He is alive! My father is alive!

She picked up the case. It felt no heavier than it had ever felt. Always when Rudy had left it with her, she had guarded it because of the priceless Guarnerius violin it contained. Now she knew it held something far more precious.

Laying it on the table beside her untouched teacup, she drew a deep breath, then popped the locks open. The sound of the snap startled her. Rudy had opened this case last.
While he still had his fingers and his smile. Why? Why, God?
How many times had she seen him swing the case around and strum it playfully like a ukulele as he sang some ridiculous American song he had learned from one of his lady friends. He had played his role so well that no one could have known. She certainly had never suspected him of being anything more than a talented, unscrupulous playboy. But
they
had known!

She tried not to think of the baggage car on its way to Warsaw. She tried not to imagine the handful of ashes that was all that was left of Rudy. She drew herself up and found courage in the word
Dachau!
“Papa!” she said, opening the lid of the case.

The Guarnerius was still draped in its blue silk scarf. Two bows were attached to the top of the case. Beautiful bows . . . Rudy had been so proud of them. “
From Paris. Ebony and gold. Here, Elisa. You want to try a real bow, this is it.
” Then he had pretended to fence with her, jumping onto the conductor’s stand and waving the bow like a pirate with a sword. “
And look.
” He laughed. “
The bow maker put a picture of himself in the frog. He looks a bit like a frog. You think that’s why they call it a frog?
” Everyone had laughed at the show. It was so easy to laugh at Rudy.

There were good memories inside the case. Elisa found herself laughing and crying at the same time as she pulled back the silk scarf revealing the glowing wood of the Guarnerius. No papers tumbled out onto the table. The violin rested quietly in its green velvet nest.
Where are the papers?
She lifted the instrument and looked beneath it. There was nothing there. She checked the small compartments on either side of the case. Still no papers. No hint of Dachau or illegal passports. She pulled open the larger compartment at the top of the case. The registration papers were there. Nothing else.
Nothing!

Elisa stared down into the empty case. Green velvet. Blue scarf. A violin case was certainly not like a magician’s hat, and yet, somehow she kept expecting the promised treasure to materialize. She checked the inside again, opening and closing each little compartment, then running her fingers across the velvet lining to see if she felt anything at all beneath it. There was nothing there but the soft plush velvet beneath her fingers. She placed the instrument back in its nest and tried to peek in through the F-holes. There was nothing inside the violin. She sat down heavily and rested her chin against her hand. For the first time, the thought entered her mind that this had been Rudy Dorbransky’s last horrible joke. Perhaps there had never been any papers at all. No passports. No secret file. But how had Rudy known her real name and that of her father? Could Leah have told him? Would Leah break such a confidence?

Her head throbbed with the disappointment and then tension of the last few days. The violin case held only its precious cargo. She glanced over the registration papers of the Guarnerius. The measurements and the exact description of the scroll and patterns in the wood were listed. Then, at the bottom was a tiny scrawled note in Rudy’s handwriting. “
In payment of debt, this instrument is transferred to ownership of Elisa Linder on this date. Dec. 19, 1937. Signed Rudolf Dorbransky.
”

Elisa read the words again and again. “
In payment of debt
. . . ” The date was three days before. The date of Rudy’s death. Had he known what was about to transpire?

Exhausted, Elisa closed the case, picked up the instrument, and stumbled off toward her bedroom. It was all too much. The disappointment of the contents and the tension had made her numb and sick.

Perhaps that is why the skull of Haydn had grinned so hideously at her. Perhaps he knew, like Rudy, that this was all a horrible joke.

A dull ache throbbed in the back of Elisa’s head. Rudy had once joked with her that he would leave the Guarnerius to her in his will. Now it was hers, through circumstances so haunting that she wanted only to rid herself of the priceless instrument.

How she longed for the reassuring presence of Murphy! He would know just what to do. He could tell her. But he was gone now, probably forever. After all, how many times could a man be turned away and called back again in the same week?

She put the violin out of sight in the closet, then sat forlornly on the edge of the bed. She picked up the small box that Murphy had left for her. It was the only reminder that it was Christmas. She lifted one angel from the jumble and held it up to the light from the window, turning it around. There seemed to be something familiar about the features of the carving. She picked up another one and held it beside the first; then, with a gasp, she tore through the top drawer of her bureau until she found the figure of Mary and Joseph that Franz had given to her the year before.

She had almost forgotten the love with which he had carved the figures. Side by side, there was no mistaking the similarity of the angels and the face of Mary. How touched she had been by the light in Joseph’s eyes as he looked at Mary! And Franz had looked at Elisa with the same tender light. He had held her with the same hope. She had left him so easily, so cruelly. Elisa could still remember his anger at the station. No doubt Murphy now felt the same anger. It seemed strange to her that Murphy’s last message to her had been a box of angels carved by another man who had once loved her.

First Franz. Now Murphy. Good men, both of them, and they hated her now. She did not blame them, really, and she was sure that there would be no calling back what she had so carelessly tossed away.

There was no use wishing that Murphy would come and tell her what she must do. He wouldn’t come. He couldn’t help her. He didn’t care anymore.

She frowned and lay back on the bed. There was no one to help her now. Rudy was dead. Leah was in the Judengasse. Murphy gone. Thomas . . .

Her thoughts whirled in a fog of exhaustion and despair. She closed her eyes then, and with the name of Murphy on her lips, drifted off into a restless sleep.

30

Bloodbath

It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon before Elisa awoke with a start and sat up to look around the room in confusion. A thousand thoughts tumbled in on her at once. Murphy. Thomas. Leah . . . something about Leah! And Rudy! She struggled to free herself from the tangle she had made of her sheets and blankets; then she ran to the closet door and jerked it open to be sure that she hadn’t dreamed the whole dreadful thing. No. It was not a dream. The Guarnerius was still locked inside the case. No papers. No hope for her father after all.

Still she could not shake the thought that she might have missed something. She retrieved the instrument and checked the case and the violin again, then slammed the lid in frustration. Even in his pain and suffering, Rudy had told her to take the violin to Leah. Was he capable of misleading her at such a moment, or had his mind simply slipped into the delirium of his battle with death?