Vienna Prelude (61 page)

Murphy rolled his eyes. “I do!”

Harry ran a hand over his cheek. He was sweating. Weren’t these supposed to be happy times? The best part of his job? He decided that this must be some sort of a shotgun wedding without the angry father of the bride. “Okay. You do.” Harry lost his place. He exhaled loudly. “And do you, Elisa Marie Linder, take John Lee Murphy as your wedded husband?”

“I do.” Her voice sounded half choked. Yes. That was better. There was some emotion there.

“Good.” Harry was pleased. “So, now,
John
, take the ring and take her hand and repeat after me.”

Murphy took Elisa’s hand. It was warm and soft, as he remembered it from that day in the park and later when they had sat across the table from each other. He would not look into her eyes. She would see his heart if he looked into her eyes, and then she would laugh at his misery. “With this ring I thee wed . . . ” He slipped the White Owl cigar band onto her finger.

Harry rocked up on his toes. “I now pronounce you man and wife, according to the laws of the United States of America and in the name of the president of the United States!” It sounded official. “So! Murphy, you may now kiss your bride!” He clapped his hands together.

Murphy looked down at the floor. He supposed he should kiss her. It was part of the ceremony. Men were supposed to kiss their brides. And Elisa wanted to make it look good. He cleared his throat and turned to face her. He tried not to think as he bent down and ever so gently placed his lips against hers. It wasn’t a kiss, really. They just touched lips and stood together.

Then the room disappeared. He reached out and put his arms around her, pulling her close against him. She was so soft. He pulled her tighter—like that day in the park; only this time his arms weren’t full of packages, only of her. She let herself lean against him. Her lips, soft and sweet, trembled against his.

Why is she doing this? Could a woman kiss like this and not mean it?
He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to breathe. He wanted to just die like this, with his arms full of this angel.

“Now that’s more like it!” Harry’s voice interrupted. “Okay, you two!” He was laughing. “Not
here
! You’ve got a lifetime to kiss like that! Remember my lunch hour!”

Elisa pushed Murphy away with gentle hands. Her eyes were misty and full of tears.

He looked at her in spite of himself. He could not tear his eyes away from hers. “Elisa,” he said in a hushed voice.

She smiled sadly and looked away as she stepped back.

“All right, bridegroom!” Harry was cheerful, as though his words had brought some magic to the subdued couple. “That’s the short version. Now a few more papers to sign.”

Reluctantly Murphy turned back to the stack of forms on the counter. Elisa had already signed her name in all the right spaces. Murphy took the pen and tried to focus his eyes. He began to sign as she slipped out of the room.

“Wait! Elisa!” he called.

“You gotta sign or you’re not hitched, Murphy!” Harry held on to his sleeve.

Murphy scrawled his signature a dozen times. His heart was pounding. Harry picked up the forms and scanned them slowly. “Hurry up!” Murphy shouted. He could not see the blue of her dress through the frosted glass of the door.

“One more!” Harry seemed to enjoy the fact that Murphy did not want to let his bride out of his sight. “Sign here.”

Murphy signed blindly, then tossed down the pen and ran out of the clerk’s office into the hallway. He bumped into the clerical workers and dashed out into the foyer and then onto the street.

The clang of the streetcar sounded at the corner, and then pulled away. Murphy stood on the curb and looked everywhere for some splash of the royal blue color she wore. For an instant, he thought he saw it on the streetcar. Then in a taxi. Then a sliver of blue disappeared into the crowded sidewalks and was gone.

“Elisa!” He crushed his hat between his hands and stood staring blankly at the busy street. She had vanished, and he was suddenly alone again. His eyes filled with tears. “Elisa!” he breathed. “I love you.”

41

Farewells

“Where have you been all morning, Murphy?” Bill Skies yelled when Murphy walked into the INS office.

Murphy shrugged as if he weren’t sure. All the fire had left him. He wouldn’t yell back as long as the discussion did not come near to his raw personal feelings. “Nowhere much. What’s up?” He sat down on the edge of Skies’ desk and looked around the chaotic office.

“What’s up? Everything’s up! You know that! You started it!” Skies was almost hysterical.

“I didn’t start it. I just wrote about it. Schuschnigg and Hitler had a powwow at the Cuckoo’s Nest. I covered it.”

“Well, Schuschnigg is letting all the Nazis out of jail. Including the guys who assassinated Dollfuss. Including this Sporer fellow, who is wanted in Czechoslovakia. They’re just opening the gates and letting them out!” He looked flushed. His pop eyes bulged in his face. “Just opening the floodgates and”—he waved his arms like a bird—“Hitler is supposed to release the Austrians—some kind of prisoner exchange. Typical Nazi style. Innocent Australian civilians for Nazi murderers.”

“I’m not responsible, honest.” Murphy was subdued. An invisible Elisa held his hand. Her breath was still on his cheek. He had already decided that he would personally pick up her passport and deliver it to her. And then he had changed his mind and then changed it back again. Now he just wasn’t sure.

“How can you be so calm?” Bill Skies shook his head and swore under his breath. “We’ve got a new
Nazi
security minister in the Austrian government, by order of Hitler!”

Murphy knew that Skies had lived in Vienna for nineteen years. He could hardly remember New York anymore. This was his home. “Is that the good news or the bad news you’ve been wanting to tell me all morning? I knew all this. So what’s up?”

Skies frowned, then picked up a memo. “London office has called for you three times this morning, that’s what. There’s trouble brewing there as well, Murphy. Foreign Minister Eden and Prime Minister Chamberlain are at each other’s throats. Politely, of course. But Eden is still taking a hard line, demanding the withdrawal of the five divisions of Italian so-called volunteers from Spain. Chamberlain wants to be buddy-buddy with Mussolini no matter what.” He handed Murphy the note. “You’ve been in Spain. You know Eden and Churchill.”

“Yeah.” Murphy scanned the message. It was urgent. He would have to leave for London immediately. And Elisa would have to pick up her own American passport. “It’s a showdown then,” he murmured.

“Yes. A showdown. Anthony Eden against Chamberlain. If Eden resigns, Murph, the situation here will—”

Murphy nodded. Eden was the only man in the British cabinet who stood against appeasement. The Italians and the Germans hated him because they feared him. “Did you book my flight?” Murphy glanced at his watch.

“You’ve got an hour.” Skies mopped his brow. “Timmons threw some stuff into a bag for you.” He jerked his thumb toward a small valise in the corner. One of Murphy’s good shirts was hanging out.

“Thanks, Timmons.” He stared at the note again, and all that had happened receded in the face of this news. He was grateful that he was being taken away from Vienna and Elisa right now. It would give him a chance to simmer down before he did anything foolish.

***

Who could say what motivated the keepers of Dachau to provide such a feast? And yet, there were the trucks, heaping with loaves of fresh bread. Not moldy crusts a week old, but real, golden brown loaves heaped in glossy mounds in the beds of two cargo trucks. Were the conquerors afraid that their slaves were dying off too fast from disease and starvation? There was an endless supply of slaves to be had. Why would they care about that? Bread, on the other hand, was a precious commodity. And yet this morning they brought bread to Dachau.

The trucks were parked a mere twenty yards from the forbidden zone. By the thousands the prisoners swarmed around them, pushing and shouting, hands upraised in a salute to
bread
! There was not enough for even a fourth of the men, and the competition for the loaves as they were tossed from the trucks became fierce and brutal. Men were shoved down and trampled as the complacent guards watched the entertainment from their gun turrets.

The professor held tightly to Theo’s shirt as they waded into the throng.

“There isn’t enough!” Theo shouted above the din. “You’ll have to wait back here!” He took the old man by the shoulders and positioned him behind the barrack’s wall.

“Loaves and fishes!” called the professor cheerfully. “Fishes and loaves!”

Theo plunged in again, his eyes riveted on the brown-shirted soldier who tossed the loaves into the teeming mass of starving men. There was no mercy in this act by the Nazis; it was sport for them, and Theo knew that men would die fighting for one taste of freshly baked bread, bread without the particles of sand and straw, bread like they had eaten before they came to Dachau! The air was full of the scent of it, driving the inmates to a frenzy. Again and again Theo was struck and elbowed as he struggled against the tide.

Behind him, a new wave of prisoners was turned loose from their barracks. They swarmed toward the trucks and joined the weight of their hunger to the surge of the crowd.

Somehow the professor was caught and spun around blindly in the human riptide. “Jacob!” he called helplessly to Theo. “Jacob!”

But Theo did not hear him. Inch by inch he had worked his way to the tailgate where a thousand loaves remained to feed ten thousand screaming men. He reached upward as an elbow crashed down on his head, knocking him to his knees. Other feet and knees fell on him, cutting him, tearing his clothes and his flesh, crushing the air out of him. More men piled on top of him, pinning him to the ground, and he knew that he would die here, inches away from the tailgate of the truck and the bread that would allow him to live another week.

The weight of bodies became unbearable as men climbed on top of men to reach the feast. The world became dark, and sounds grew more distant as his lungs yearned for oxygen that was not there. He tried to cry out, but he had no voice. Then, suddenly, the weight shifted slightly and he moved his head and right arm. He drew a breath and crawled forward slightly, just enough. His legs were still pinned, but his head and torso were free beneath the tailgate of the truck. He gasped for air and lay heaving as his senses came back to him. He looked out between the tires of the truck. His eyes focused on the thin wire of the forbidden zone. The shadows of the guard towers and their machine guns fell across the strip just beyond the thin wire.

And an old man with hands groping the darkness walked forward, shuffling toward the shadows and the wire. “Jacob!” called the professor as he felt the blank air for some landmark to his fingertips. “Jacob!”

“Halt!
Judenhund!
Halt!”

“Jacob!” Old feet seemed drawn to the wire, pulled into the net.

Theo shouted in horror as the scene unfolded before him. “Professor Stern! Julius! Julius!” But the professor did not hear Theo’s voice above the crowds behind him. Theo struggled to free his legs. He clawed the earth as he tried to pull himself forward. “Stop! God! God! God!” Theo sobbed as the shadows from the turrets raised rifles to their shoulders. “Julius! Go no farther!”

“Jacob?” The professor seemed to hear the voice of his companion. “Jacob?” Legs shuffled forward. A yard from the wire.

“
Blöder Hund!
Halt!” The clack of rifle bolts and magazine clips was louder than the voice of the professor.

Theo raised himself up on his elbows and stretched his arms out as if to catch the old man when he tripped on the thin cord and tumbled forward. “Julius!” The rattle of gunfire answered as bullets tore into the professor, holding him aloft for a moment before he crashed to the ground.

The mob of prisoners did not seem to notice the noise of the guns. They shouted above Theo’s sobs as he watched the blood of the old man flow into the earth.

Feet still tangled in the wire, the professor lay blinking up into the sunlight as Theo called his name again and again. Theo beat his fist against the unyielding ground, watching as Julius reached one hand upward as though he would touch a face bent close over him. One more rifle bullet slammed into the body; the hand remained upright for an instant before it fell across the bloody chest and the professor lay still where he had fallen.

***

By the time Murphy reached London, the showdown was over. Eden had resigned. Chamberlain had won his battle for appeasement. He had circumvented his foreign secretary and begun negotiations with the Italians himself. Eden was effectively made to know that his opinion did not matter any longer. There was nothing left for him to do.

This afternoon, Murphy sat in the old room at Churchill’s Chartwell Manor and simply listened as Churchill, growling like an old bulldog, explained the events of the last few weeks to him.

“And so Roosevelt’s offer was turned down without even so much as a consultation with Anthony. Cadogan was waiting for us at the station when we returned from France. He told Anthony the bad news. I believe he might have resigned then, but Chamberlain smiled and told him that he could not resign over something that was supposed to be top secret.” Churchill clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the late-afternoon sky. “It is a decision that leaves one breathless even now. How could he turn down such a significant offer from Roosevelt?”

Murphy was not taking notes. He sipped his tea and stared out the window past Churchill. “And now what?”

“The differences between Britain and Italy seem minor compared to the refusal of Roosevelt’s overture. Have you seen the statement that accompanied Eden’s resignation?” He shuffled through a stack of correspondence on the desk. “Here it is.” He handed the message to Murphy.