Vienna Prelude (8 page)

She turned left and wound through the bright bolts of Christmas fabric. Lindheim’s fabric department had always been famous in Berlin. Satin and velvet lined the aisles as women wandered through the maze of bright yardage. At the back of the department, a small sign announced
Alterations
, and behind a blue brocade curtain, the soft ticking sound of an old sewing machine could be heard.

Elisa pulled back the curtain and stepped into the tiny, cluttered world of Grynspan the tailor. Patterns and material covered nearly every available inch of space. Suits dotted with chalk marks hung from a large rack beside the sewing machine. Three Luftwaffe uniforms were finished and hung just inside the door. German Air Force officers, it seemed, had not forgotten the exploits of Theo Lindheim.

The tailor sat hunched over the sewing machine, guiding the fabric and pumping frantically on the foot pedal. Assorted pins hung from his tight lips. He looked as he had since Elisa was a little girl. There was only one change in his appearance; he had stopped wearing his yarmulke, which had marked him as a Jew and easy prey to the Brownshirts.

His sixteen-year-old son Herschel sat in the back corner of the workshop and labored over the buttons on a man’s pin-striped suit. Neither of them looked up from their work, and Elisa waited silently in the doorway and listened to the news on the radio that sat on the shelf just above young Herschel.

Elisa blinked hard and exclaimed, “Well now, there is one fellow on earth willing to face a little criticism for love!”

Herr Grynspan and Herschel both raised their eyes, startled to see her standing in the midst of their workroom. “Fraülein Lindheim!” the tailor sputtered around a mouthful of pins. “How long have you—”

Elisa raised her hand for silence as the broadcast droned on in the tone of a funeral dirge:

“Well, what do you know!” Elisa called loudly.

“We should all be so lucky, yes?” said the tailor, pivoting on his little stool to face her. “What we Jews wouldn’t give to live the lives of ordinary mortals, eh?”

“Papa!” Herschel exclaimed, looking frightened by the old man’s comment. “You must not say such things!”

The old man jerked a thumb at the boy. “You see, if I were an ordinary mortal, I could open my mouth and not be afraid someone was listening.” He patted his round bald pate. “I gave up my crown too, Herschel. The Brownshirts don’t like little hats on Jewish heads.”

“Papa!” protested the boy again. He flushed red when he saw that Elisa was smiling conspiratorially at him.

“Perhaps the uniforms have been wired for sound.” Elisa winked

The darkly handsome Herschel flushed deeper. “I would not be surprised,” he commented bitterly. “Papa, you must be careful.”

The old tailor waved a hand in disregard. “I am the best tailor in Berlin. The German Luftwaffe officers would sooner go naked as not have me to sew their pretty uniforms as long as no one tells Göring!” He spoke bravely, but the words were far from convincing.

“And I would rather go naked on the ski slopes than not have you sew my clothes, Herr Grynspan,” Elisa said impetuously. She was immediately embarrassed by her own words. “I mean . . . ”

Herschel raised his eyebrows slightly, then stared down at the buttons on the suit. His ears seemed to be on fire.

“There, you see, Herschel,” said the old tailor, confidently accepting the compliment. “There you have it from the mouth of the owner’s daughter. So what are you worried about?”

“First, staying alive. Then going to the university!” Herschel said too loudly.

“In the meantime, Herr Lindheim is paying you a wage. The Nazis would have something else in mind if it weren’t for him. Not the university, I think.”

Herschel ignored his father’s comment and gazed directly at Elisa. He had always had a terrible crush on her, even when they were small children. When he was ten and she a mature seventeen, he had confessed his adoration for her, and she had told him it was hopeless. Since then he had always acted aloof. “And how is Vienna? Do they treat even Jewish girls well there?”

“Only if they dress well and talk nicely to their elders,” she replied evenly.

“And of course it is important that they have lots of money,” he added sarcastically.

“Herschel!” His father half rose.

“Never mind, Herr Grynspan.” Elisa was amused. “Just sew his lips together while he is sleeping tonight.”

Herschel smiled broadly at her words. “It will do no good, Elisa. I can still write you angry letters, even with my lips sewed tight.”

“Then, why don’t you?” She met his smile. “I would love to hear from an ordinary mortal.”

The old tailor sighed and shuffled to the stack of packages. “Since you are this high, you children have been arguing. I never know about what. I stopped worrying about whether I would lose my job over it years ago. Now I am only hoping that your father, God bless him, and I both survive this scourge, this plague of locusts, eh?”

“Maybe I will sew
your
lips together, Papa,” Herschel muttered beneath his breath.

“First, you have to learn how to thread a needle,” the old tailor retorted. He leveled his gaze at Elisa. “Your father sent you to Vienna. If things get worse, Herschel is going to stay with an uncle in Paris. Maybe he can go to the university there, eh?”

She glanced at Herschel, who labored over the buttons as though all his hopes and dreams were not contained in his father’s words. “Don’t wait to send him.” Elisa’s voice grew gentle. “Yes, the Sorbonne for Herschel. He will be a great scientist someday—I am sure of it.”

“Or maybe I will marry a rich young Jewish girl?” Herschel smiled briefly at her. “Then I will not have to think about school or Nazis.”

She gathered her packages. “As long as she is also an American, Herschel.” She slipped out into the bright lights of the fabric department once again. She could hear Herschel laughing as his father scolded him for his impertinence.

“Marry a rich girl indeed!”

“You would not like Elisa Lindheim as a daughter-in-law? Then we would not have to worry about the Gestapo.”

“They are no safer than we are. Not much, anyway.”

Elisa’s smile faded. The old tailor was probably right. She held her packages tightly and studied the familiar store as though she were seeing it for the last time. Suddenly she wanted very much to see her father, tall and sternly handsome with his gray hair and deep blue eyes. She hurried toward his office, longing to feel the security she had felt as a child playing beside his huge mahogany desk. All that had been so invulnerable and dear now seemed no more solid than reflections on the water. One stone tossed into the pool could cause it all to ripple and vanish forever.

6

Abdication

Thomas von Kleistmann placed his cap on the seat of the empty chair beside him. It had become the arrogant custom of the men in uniform to leave their hats on indoors, but tonight Thomas felt small and embarrassed by such new customs.

Theo Lindheim pressed his fingertips together and leaned across the broad desktop. His eyes were intense, probing.
Just like Elisa’s eyes,
Thomas thought.

“And why do you come here to tell me this?” Theo demanded. “Certainly you risk your . . . career. Not only do you know of such events, but now you have shared this information with a Jew.” His words were not harsh. In the light of what was happening now in Germany, Lindheim’s question was valid.

“Herr Lindheim, you were a great hero for the Fatherland—”

“I am certain this is an embarrassment to the government, eh? A Jewish war hero.”

Thomas nodded and looked down at his hands. “To some men in the government, yes. But there are others, Herr Lindheim. Men who have not forgotten.” He lowered his voice. “They have not forgotten what Germany was—”

“Then they had better keep their memories to themselves, Thomas. Such things might interfere with what the Führer plans for the future.” Lindheim gestured toward the crisp white envelope Thomas had placed on the desk. “The future does not include Jews, eh, Thomas? Not even heroes of the Argonne?”

Thomas did not meet Theo Lindheim’s gaze. He pursed his lips in unhappy response. “There are lists, Herr Lindheim. Endless lists—”

“Germany has become a nation of lists, has it not?”

“It is nothing your friends can stop. Himmler and his SS, his Gestapo . . . ” Thomas searched for words to describe what Lindheim already knew. “They are beyond the control of—” He stopped. He wanted to say that the Gestapo was beyond the control of law and decent humanity, but
humanity
was a word that was also being used less and less these days.

“Canaris is an old friend,” Lindheim said sadly. “Does he know that you have come?”

Thomas simply blinked at him in response; then pointed at the envelope. “He was aware that Elisa and I—” He faltered and began again. “When this came across his desk, he passed it along to me. For filing.”

Lindheim tapped his pen on the SS insignia on the envelope as though he were crushing a spider. “This is from Himmler’s office. How has it come to Canaris?”

“Himmler’s Gestapo watches Canaris, and Canaris watches Himmler.”

“And Herr Hitler watches them both.” Lindheim opened the envelope and took out the neatly typed memo. He frowned as he skimmed the contents:

“So”—Lindheim’s voice contained an edge of controlled anger—“now they will hound Carl Jacobi because I am a member of his church?”

“This is one small matter they have against Pastor Jacobi. Believe me, you are not the issue. Not the only issue.”

“They have put me on a list then?”

“They are searching for a case against Jacobi.” Thomas shrugged helplessly. “They are building cases against every churchman who does not conform to the party line.”

Lindheim tossed the memo onto the blotter with disgust. “I see. Yes. The case against me is already established by my Jewish birth certificate. And my children? Half Aryan? Born and raised in the church?” He smiled bitterly. “Yes. I almost forgot. That issue was settled by your superiors. It is not a question of religion but of racial purity. And half a Jew is still a Jew.”

“You can see, Herr Lindheim, it is not even a question of the church. Not even the churchmen are safe anymore.” Thomas ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “There are lists, you see.”

***

Theo Lindheim studied the grief-stricken face of the young man before him.

Theo never ceased to be amazed at the ironic contrast between Thomas and his Elisa. Thomas, whose pure Aryan blood was unquestioned by the SS, nevertheless had dark hair and swarthy skin—in these times, enough evidence to make the authorities suspect a Jewish background. Theo’s own daughter, who was half Jewish, easily passed for Aryan, with her blond hair, fair skin, and blue eyes.

Tall and handsome, at twenty-six years of age, Thomas von Kleistmann looked much as his father, Wilhelm von Kleistmann, had looked when Lindheim had served in his squadron in 1918. He had been the eldest son of an old Prussian family, commanding his men with the correctness and discipline of a true soldier. Wilhelm had died in a plane crash, and Lindheim had first seen little Thomas in the faded image of a photograph taken from his father’s blood-soaked jacket.

“Thomas,” Theo said gently, “you do not remember your father. . . . ”

Thomas looked up sharply, as if not wanting to hear the words of Theo Lindheim. “I have brought you this—correctly, I think.”

“Why do you serve them?” Theo’s probing eyes tore at the young man’s soul.

Thomas ignored the question and pressed on. “You should have your passports in order, just in case. Perhaps it would be wise to warn Pastor Jacobi.”

“Pastor Jacobi has already warned me, Thomas. Last week when they came to the church. He told me they had approached him about our excommunication from the Lutheran church. The Führer spoke publicly on Martin Luther’s hatred of the Jews that afternoon.”

“Then I needn’t have come.”

“Yes. It was important for you to come. Important for your own soul, and for my friends, as well.” Theo shook his head. “Why? Why, Thomas? Why do you serve them?”

“I am a German.”

“So am I.”

Thomas looked away. “I am a German like my father was.”

“You mean Aryan? As Pastor Jacobi is. And he is on the lists.”

“I do not wish to also be on their lists, then,” Thomas blurted.

Theo sat back in the leather chair. “If you are not on their lists, then the list becomes your list as well as theirs, I think.” He added quietly, “Your father would not have been one of them.”

“And if everyone who disagrees leaves? Who will be left?”

A sharp knock sounded on the door of the office. Thomas placed his cap on his head and stood as Elisa’s voice called, “Papa?”

“One moment Elisa,” Theo called. Then he lowered his voice and directed Thomas to the back door. “You came in that way.” He extended his hand. “It is not likely that we will meet again soon, Thomas.”