Vienna Prelude (63 page)

Elisa stepped forward. She put her arm around Leah and raised her glass. “May they all be jewels, like Leah. Shining bright and beautiful.”

Leah hugged her, and wine spilled along with a few tears as she whispered, “No, you are the jewel, Elisa. You are my tikvah. I will name our first child after you.” The others could not hear the words that passed between the two women. Their eyes locked in a moment that said good-bye. Did they both somehow see the future? Elisa wondered if the feeling that filled her now was true, or simply the result of weeks of worry and the uncertainty that filled Vienna with every new political disclosure. As she searched the warm brown eyes of her dear friend, she felt that this might be among their last times together. She did not want to let Leah go. And Leah clung to her as well.

“Weddings do make people so silly, don’t they?” Elisa said, laughing through her tears.

“Practical Leah!” Shimon called to someone. “She has already sent all our things off to Palestine! No plates! No silver!”

“As long as you have a bed!” returned a male voice.

“It was Bernard Filstein who said that. A horn player! What do you expect from the brass section!” Elisa found a genuine laugh then, and all the fears disappeared for a little while.

She was so happy for Shimon and Leah—happy about their visa, their love, and their hope. They had a future. Elisa must not content herself with simply living one day at a time as she carried the violin case of Rudy Dorbransky and brought the little jewels of Germany to safety.

As the party thinned out, Leah took her by the arm and said hoarsely, “If only you would . . . you could get a visa to Palestine. I am sure of it.” There was such longing in her voice, but again, both of them knew it would not be.

“No. Remember? America for me. I’ll stay here for a while and send you little bundles from here.”

“Don’t stay too long, Elisa.” Leah was serious, frightened as she spoke. “It is only a matter of time. You cannot do what you are doing forever and remain safe.”

“I have only just started,” Elisa said. “And you want to fire me already?”

Leah did not laugh at the joke. “Promise me. Not too long.” She took Elisa’s hands. “Marry that American and go play your violin in New York.”

Elisa hesitated, debating whether to tell Leah about her agreement with Murphy. “Must it be New York?”

“That is the only place I know besides Hollywood, America, where they make those movies. And I would not have you play your violin for the film stars. You are much too good for that.” As she spoke, Leah held her hands tightly. Elisa could see that she was remembering Rudy’s broken fingers. It was there, plainly on her face.
Get out before they get you too! Get away, like Shimon and I!

“I’ll be careful,” Elisa promised. Both knew she was not speaking of finding proper employment in America.

42

Losing Hope

Thomas had heard it all at Berchtesgaden, and now the words of Hitler to the Austrian chancellor haunted him:

The Führer had made it sound as though the vengeance would not come to Austria
if only
. . . but Thomas and a handful of others knew differently. He had seen the blueprint for Plan Otto
.
Hitler and the Nazis in Austria had failed to win the country by terror and coercion. Now was the moment to enact force. There was no
if only.

Thomas stared at the newspaper that announced the resignation of Anthony Eden. On the same page was a speech Hitler had made to the Reichstag about Schuschnigg’s visit to Berchtesgaden:

Hope was finished for Austria. Thomas understood that. Everyone in the embassy understood that there would be no help from France or Britain if Hitler decided to invade. An air of expectancy permeated the place, almost suffocating Thomas. He thought about Elisa and wondered what she was involved with. How had she come by the secret documents about her father? What would happen to her when the inevitable end came to Austria?

The afternoon dragged slowly by. Thomas changed into civilian clothes and made his way to the crowded café where he picked at this dinner and prayed that Elisa would call him. Surely she remembered all he had told her. With the fall of Anthony Eden in England, she must sense that the end was fast approaching for her beloved Vienna.

Amid the smoke and the boisterous conversation of the Frenchmen who had come to argue the day’s events at the café, Thomas could barely hear the jingle of the telephone when it rang. He stared toward the proprietor of the café expectantly, but the call was not for him.

Thomas did not drink wine tonight. He sipped cups of strong coffee until his frayed nerves felt tightly wound enough to break, and listened to the conversation around him.

Eight o’clock:

“What is Austria to us?”

“And what was the Rhineland? The Germans will not dare to bother us, so what do we care?”

Nine o’clock:

“It is a small country, yes! But in the heart of Europe! If the Nazis take control, they cut off Czechoslovakia.”

“Czechoslo . . . who cares? I cannot even say the name of it!”

“That is because you have too much wine in you, Emil!”

It was nearly ten before the phone rang and the well-fed proprietor wiped his hands on his apron, then answered it on the fifth ring. Thomas watched him. He nodded, spoke in a loud voice, then looked around the room in search of someone.

“Thomas!” he called. “Your lady!” He raised his eyebrows suggestively as Thomas sprang up and walked quickly to the phone.

“Hello, darling!” His voice was light with relief.

If anyone around could hear the conversation above the din, they would have heard the words of a man talking to the woman he loved.

“Yes, I know all about it. It is as it seems . . . Yes, darling, please come at once. I can’t bear to have you there, so far away from me. Please listen to me—I have never meant anything more in my life! You must come to me! I was there! I heard it all, and you must believe me.”

His voice registered disappointment. His woman was obviously not ready to come to him. He continued to plead for a few moments longer. “There is no more time. It is over, darling! Over!”

The Frenchmen in the café assumed that some great affaire du cour had just ended for the German who spent his evenings among them. Love affairs always ended, and new ones began. Why then did the handsome German called Thomas look so pale when he hung up the phone? He seemed almost frightened as he took his hat and staggered out onto the blustery winter street.

One of the Frenchmen shrugged. “Too much coffee. One should always have the good sense to drink wine before ending a love affair!”

***

Theo was uncertain how long he drifted in the white mists. He was aware of a murmur of voices, the clang of metal, warm liquid soothing his skin and voices calling the name “Stern . . . Herr Stern” again and again.

Through his soaring fever, he was dimly aware of white sheets, white walls, sunlight streaming through a window. Someone lifted his head and placed a cup to his lips. He drank warm broth and the voices praised him from the mist. “
Sehr gut,
Herr Stern . . .
gut.
” He awoke again to the sound of footsteps echoing briskly against a tiled floor. Gently hands stroked him, bathed him, dressed him. He wondered if he had died, but his aching body dissuaded him. No. He was not free yet.

“Herr Stern . . . where is your family?” German voices coaxed him.

He did not answer. He would not. This kindness—the food, the care—was simply a trick to make him tell where Elisa was and Anna and the boys. He would have none of it, and long after he was able to form words and speak, he remained silent.

“His mind is gone.”

“Herr Stern? Can you hear my voice?”

“Herr Stern, if you will tell us where your family is, we can get word.”

Theo lay very still. He would not open his eyes until they were gone. He would not betray his family. He would not.

“Who is he?”

“Not Professor Julius Stern. No. They say the professor died. This one should have died as well.”

“Will we send him back?”

There was no answer. The footsteps left his bedside, and Theo opened his eyes. Thoughts came with difficulty. He tried to piece the days and nights together, but time had vanished. He could grasp none of the events since the professor was shot. It was obvious that Theo had been taken to a hospital. The smell of disinfectant was strong. His own body was clean, even if it was unrecognizable. He still wore the wristband with the name J. Stern inscribed on it. Why had they mentioned the professor? he wondered.Why had they brought him here and pulled him from the brink of death? Was it truly to trick him into telling the whereabouts of his family?

Theo was certain that, indeed, they would send him back. Back to Dachau or some other dark place. But now he would rest silently. He would drink their broth. It was good, and he could feel strength returning to him. He would take what they offered without offering them the information they wanted in return.

“Herr Stern? Do you have a wife?”

He would not say the name of Anna, who was by now safe in the little house in Prague.

“Where is your family, Herr Stern? We must know if we are to tell them you are ill . . . Herr Stern? Can you hear?”

He would not mention sweet Elisa, who still played her violin in Vienna.

“Perhaps the fever has made him deaf.”

He would not tell them of the men and women he had worked with for the sake of the children. So many children in Germany . . .

“Have you any colleagues? Anyone at all we might get a message to?”

This was only a temporary reprieve from death. He had seen his own fate as he watched the men of Barrack 8 die. He knew that he must also die at the whim of his captors, but for now, he would not give them even a small satisfaction.

“Herr Stern? Herr Stern? Are you feeling better? Herr Stern? Can you hear me?”

“The fever destroyed his mind, I tell you. This one might as well have been left to die.”

***

As though drawn by some invisible hand, Elisa stood overlooking Dachau once again. Behind her, the taxi driver sat behind the wheel with the engine still running. He was impatient with her curiosity about such a place as this. She was paying him handsomely for the side trip, but still he did not like it.

She stood on the hill and stared. Her skin was very pale and she did not move until at last he called to her out the window. “Fraülein!”

She glanced briefly at him.

“Are you planning on coming here on your next holiday?” He joked, but the machine guns and high walls were no joke. Being here in broad daylight was no joke either. “Hurry up!” he yelled, “or I am leaving.”

Elisa tossed her head and turned away from the sight of the grim place. She carried no hope in her heart now, but somehow it was like standing at a graveside. No, not at a graveside. There was peace in that, and there was no peace here!

“Fraülein!” the driver called again.

Elisa nodded and climbed back into the taxi. “It is so big,” she said as though she had not seen it before.

“And they always have room for more,” the driver returned. “Why do you want to come to such a place?” He wheeled around.

“I knew someone here,” she answered.

“A guard or a prisoner?”

“Not a prisoner,” she answered. Her father was free now. He had still been a free man inside the walls, of that she was certain.

“There are as many prisoners now as free men,” the driver mumbled, and Elisa sensed he did not like the way things were moving in Germany.

She did not reply, and they rode back to the city in silence. Inside the hotel her passport was checked again at the desk, and a tall corpulent man with a square face and broad shoulders questioned her purpose for being in Munich.

“I am a musician,” she answered truthfully. “I am here perhaps to purchase another instrument. I understand that there are many available for sale here at reasonable prices.” In fact, she had carried the violin to Munich to drop off nine concealed passports at the shop of an instrument repair man a few blocks from the Marienplatz. This was the most simple of all the operations so far. There were no unhappy children or brokenhearted parents to deal with. It was a simple matter of leaving the case and returning half an hour later. She had recognized the name of the repair shop the minute Leah mentioned it to her. Once before, Elisa had needed an adjustment on her bridge when she had played in Munich, and she had taken the Steiner into the shop of this very man.

“Yes,” the man behind the tall desk answered. “Since we are getting rid of the Jews, you can find a thousand bargains. From diamonds to musical instruments, I suppose.” He frowned and looked at the passport. “You are a Czech national? Married to an American.
Ja.
So that is why you speak such good German.” He smiled and handed her back the document. “
Danke,
Frau Murphy. I hope you enjoy your stay and find what you are looking for.”

The encounter had been uncomplicated. She was relieved as she settled into her room overlooking the old part of Munich. She hugged the violin case and looked down the Marienplatz. She felt somehow as if she were rescuing her father. He was dead, she knew, but to help others made her feel as though she were helping him.

How many thousands were there right now in Munich, she wondered, who looked for some miracle to save them from this madness? And how many more were there like the instrument mender, who worked discreetly in their little workshops to help the trickle of human life flow to freedom?