by Bodie Thoene
Murphy nodded and followed the white starched shirt to the white starched linen-covered table. Crystal and silver glistened. A string quartet played Christmas melodies in the corner. Sacher’s was the most homelike of all the great Viennese hotels; maybe that is why Murphy had thought of it. But tonight he did not feel at home.
Attentive, proper waiters hurried through the dining room, serving foreign dignitaries and visitors who must certainly not be from Vienna, or they would not have been out on such a night. Black coats. Black ties. Shining black shoes. Music. The musicians were playing “Silent Night”; the hymn was almost an Austrian national anthem. Murphy followed the words of the melody and still found no comfort. “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright . . . ”
He thought about his mother and father in faraway Pennsylvania. Then, almost unable to bear the ache, he stared at the musicians. They were all men. Murphy wondered if any of them knew Elisa. He wondered if he should ask them. All through salmon cake with roe, consommé, and turbot with shrimp sauce, he imagined finding her alone at her apartment, taking her into his arms, and telling her . . .
“Telling her?” he muttered at last.
Tell her what? Your father is dead, I think. Probably cracked up in the Alps. Here was his final letter. By the way, Merry Christmas. You want to go out for a drink?
The absurdity of his flight to Vienna on Christmas Eve suddenly became even more painfully clear. The quartet played the bright chorus of “Good King Wenceslas” as Murphy raised his hand to summon a passing waiter.
“Ready for a Sachertorte now, sir?”
“Right. I’ll take it to my room.”
The waiter looked concerned. “Was everything to your liking?”
“Fine.” Murphy did not admit that he had not tasted much of the meal.
“No coffee?” The waiter seemed astonished that a patron could leave the table without sampling the Viennese coffee.
“In my room.”
“Anything else?” The waiter looked hurt.
“Ja.” Murphy nodded in resignation. “A quart of brandy if you’ve got it.”
“In your room also?”
“Ja,” Murphy replied solemnly. He would not ask the musicians if they knew Elisa. Now he was almost afraid they would say yes.
“It is a shame to be alone on Christmas, sir,” the waiter offered sympathetically.
“Yeah,” he replied in English. “Me and Scrooge, huh? Me and the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
The waiter smiled at him in a puzzled way, then bowed slightly and hurried off to the kitchen.
Murphy wiped his mouth, then tossed the napkin onto the table in a gesture of disgust. He leaned back in his chair and gazed around at the cozy opulence of Sacher’s dining room and thought about the reception at the British Embassy. Apparently someone in England was already playing Scrooge to Austria’s Tiny Tim.
Bah, humbug to Austria. Is that it? Then it’s the Ghost of Christmas Future I should worry about tonight.
He was sure that Austria’s future was most certainly the depressing topic of conversation at the press party in Berlin. Glancing down at the briefcase containing Theo’s farewell, Murphy decided he would make it his personal business that Elisa’s future would be safe. He would warn her. Regardless of what happened, she and her family would have to leave Vienna. Tonight he was surrounded by Jewish musicians, Jewish desk clerks, probably even Jewish waiters. He could not warn them what the future might hold for Austria. Did they know already? Did they suspect?
Tonight the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come marched in a goosestep and raised a hand to salute “Heil Hitler!” Tonight the ghost wore a swastika on his armband instead of the simple red-and-white colors of Austria. And yet, on this silent night, the horrible specter seemed all but invisible in Vienna. Murphy could only wonder if he was the sole person at Sacher’s who could hear the anthem of Hitler’s hordes echoing distantly from beyond the mountains.
***
On this Christmas Eve in Kitzbühel, it was easy to see how the song had been written in the Alps of Austria: “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright . . . ”
Snow clung precariously to fragile tree branches. A whisper would send white clumps tumbling to the ground. But there were no whispers—only silence. A spray of stars lit the sky from one jagged Alpine peak to the other, glistening and holy in their radiance like the host of angels who sang good news to the shepherds outside Bethlehem.
But the shepherds had been afraid, Elisa knew. They had fallen to the ground and trembled in fear. And the lyrics of “Stille Nacht” failed her tonight. She could find no calm within her soul. There was no peace in the beauty, no hope in the brightness of the stars.
Elisa glanced at the face of her mother and knew that she felt the same ache. Silent days had passed. Together they had traveled twice to the Tyroler Haus in Innsbruck and inquired if any word had come from Theo in Berlin. The narrow mail slot was empty, and now, tonight, hope of some miraculous reunion had died.
Anna’s hands trembled as she opened the door to the bedroom. She fixed a smile on her face; she would not let the boys see her unhappiness. “Your father is not feeling well,” she had told them. “He is not up to the journey.” The deception was somehow merciful. Elisa knew that her mother was not able to face the grief and worry of Wilhelm and Dieter. At this moment it was all she could do to force herself to lift her chin and descend the narrow steps into the Stube.
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” The words held a thousand memories of other times when indeed there seemed to be an unshakable calmness over the world in this night.
Eager smiles, shining eyes, and blazing hearth surrounded them with distant echoes. Music and laughter. Snow falling softly onto the gentle earth. A whispered secret and knowing glances. Scents of cakes and pastries filling the great Lindheim house on Wilhelmstrasse. The midnight chiming of the tall old clock.
But then she remembered her father’s words the night they were to board the train: “Did I ever tell you that my great-grandfather traded a matched paid of horses for the old clock?... I wish I could carry it away in my pocket. Wish I could carry away your mother’s piano too . . . Glad you play the violin, Elisa dear. It is small enough to carry out of Germany.”
But the house on Wilhelmstrasse—the blazing lights, the clock, the sound of the piano filling every corner of the parlor . . . none of that mattered anymore. There was only one thing missing on this silent night.
“When do you think Papa can come?” Dieter asked, disappointment thick in his voice. “Herr Karl has taught me some carving, and I made a camel for Papa.”
“Not bad,” teased Wilhelm, holding up the lopsided beast. “Like something I saw once at the zoo in Berlin. They call it a giraffe.”
Dieter did not laugh. He took the carving from his brother and tucked it into his pocket without comment.
Franz glared at Wilhelm and thumped Dieter on the back. “You have the makings of an artist, Dieter. Mother still has my first camels. You see?” He pointed toward a rudely carved crèche that was given a place of honor beneath the Christmas tree. “Yours is better than mine.” Franz reached into Dieter’s pocket and lifted out the camel; then he carefully placed it in the center of the little wooden scene.
“What? Four camels for the wise men?” Dieter asked.
“They brought an extra. In case one went lame,” Herr Karl said. “That is why they were wise!”
“They must have been German,” Otto added somewhat gruffly. “Sensible wise men.”
Everyone laughed as they donned their coats and scarves, and Otto grinned—one of the few smiles Elisa had seen from him in all the time they had been in Kitzbühel. It softened his features and made him seem handsome.
Anna walked slightly ahead of the group as they arrived at the little church in the village. Elisa could not help but think how small and alone her mother seemed without Theo. He had towered over her, but at the same time he had seemed a shadow of st
rength and protection for her.
Tonight Franz walked at Elisa’s side. He did not hold her hand, but Elisa could feel the gentle brown eyes that moved from her to Anna and then to the boys with concern. Somehow he knew the strength they needed just to face the recital of the old familiar story without the presence of Theo. Was there anything more important to the people of these mountains? Maybe there was nothing so important anywhere on the earth.
In his carving, Franz had captured the love that Joseph had for Mary. Elisa had been reminded of it when Frau Marta had unwrapped the new Christmas crèche. The eyes of Joseph, seeing only Mary. Loving her. Wanting to protect her. Yes. Franz knows about love.
Now Franz looked at Elisa the same way. He held her with his eyes, caressing her face with a glance the way Elisa once dreamed Thomas might do. But Franz was not Thomas. Just as there could be no one else for Anna but Theo, tonight Elisa felt the despair of being loved, yet being unable to return that love. Even with Franz beside her, Elisa was alone. Even the kisses of this strong and gentle man had not erased the memory of other lips on hers.
Theo remained in Germany by force. Thomas remained by choice. Elisa could not think which was the greater pain. Her private anguish was compounded by the fact that the man she loved was now part of the terrible force that kept her father from his family. She hated Thomas for that, and yet still loved him for what they had once been together. Had he ever looked at her the way Joseph looked at Mary? The way Franz looked at her now as they knelt together on the red velvet cushions?
She murmured the words of the liturgy. Still she felt Franz’s eyes holding her face in the flickering candlelight; he was so hopeful, so compassionate for their plight on this unhappy night.
Why can’t I love someone like him, God? she agonized. Must Thomas always stand between me and a really kind and simple man? Does it have to be so complicated to love? Look at him, kneeling there. He is praying for Papa. Praying for me. Has my heart died in me? Am I made of wood, more unfeeling than the carved figures in the crèche?
Elisa tucked her chin and prayed harder—prayed for Theo to come to them, prayed that someday she might love a man as her mother loved her father.
But hope remained still and lifeless within her. No face came to her except for the face of the man who served their enemies. Thomas! Thomas! Thomas! If only he could somehow help her father escape! If only Theo and Thomas would come into the crowded little church and kneel beside them now! Her prayers ascended in hopes, wishes, and dreams that had no bearing on reality. She knew that when the service ended, Anna would rise alone and walk out alone to face the terrible silence of this most holy night. No word from the man she loved. No hope of help from the one man Elisa dreamed would make their world right again. There were no miracles expected this Christmas in Kitzbühel. Theo was not coming. Thomas would not help.
***
All of Vienna was asleep now, dreaming of the holy birth of a Jewish child two thousand years before. The midnight mass at St. Stephan’s had long since ended. Fresh snow covered the footprints that scattered in a thousand directions from the steps of the great cathedral.
Sporer watched two lovers from the shadows of these steps as the two walked quickly toward the Judenplatz. The tall handsome man held his arm protectively around the woman’s shoulders.
Sporer’s hand moved instinctively to the hard steel of the revolver tucked into his belt. It would be so simple to kill the couple now, and yet his orders were to wait until enough evidence had been gathered to make the deaths of these two worthwhile to the plans of the Reich.
As if sensing the presence of something in the shadows, the tall man paused beneath the streetlight and looked back toward the entrance of St. Stephan’s.
“What is it darling?” the woman’s soft voice carried easily across the square.
“Nothing,” her companion said as he continued to gaze toward the shadows. “Really—nothing.” He frowned, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.
The gesture seemed to Sporer a desecration. The woman was beautiful. Red hair and fair skin seemed to glow beneath the streetlamp. Sporer would enjoy smashing the skull of this traitor when the time came. He would look forward to the moment when Berlin sent him word that they had lived long enough. They had already lived too long in his opinion.
“It’s Christmas, love.” The woman laid her head against the man’s chest. “And we can be happy, can’t we?”
“I am worried for your safety, Irmgard.” The strong voice trembled. “If you are linked to this . . . they will make him talk before they kill him. They will—“
“No.” She put a finger to his lips. “Think about the children, darling! Think about the little packages! Of all fellows, you will make an unlikely St. Nicholas!” She laughed and then tugged his arm down the narrow lane into the shadows of the Judenplatz.
Sporer did not bother to follow. He had seen enough tonight, and it was Christmas, after all.
18
Christmas in Austria
Murphy had fallen asleep in his clothes. Now as he lay across the bed, his feet dangling over the side, he was unpleasantly aware of the dull ache in his knees and the leaden weight of his shoes on his feet.
Outside in the dim light of an icy Christmas morning, the bells of the city’s cathedrals chimed happily as though the sky was clear and bright. They rang in endless celebration, their clanging chorus vibrating icicles and rattling Murphy’s windows. He groaned softly and rolled over, drawing his knees up stiffly as he kicked his shoes off. The bottle of brandy stood as a half-empty reminder of the reason for Murphy’s headache. He was miserable. Every pore in his body felt the noise of Vienna’s bright bells. He squeezed his eyes shut and gently laid a pillow over his face to shut out the sound. Even the ticking of the alarm clock was too loud. The cathedral bells were almost unbearable. He groped to loosen his stubborn necktie.
There was only one consolation he could find in such a hangover—no doubt he would have been experiencing the same misery if he had stayed in Berlin and consumed this much booze with his comrades. Only in Berlin he was certain that the Christmas bells would be somehow more reserved and careful in their ringing. Hitler’s birthday received more celebration in recent years than did Christ’s.
The thoughts of Berlin did not ease his discomfort. He clumsily unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, leaving his necktie in place around his bare neck. His eyes burned in their sockets; his temples throbbed, and in all of it the foolishness of his Christmas journey mocked him. Who did he think he was, Sir Galahad, rescuing some damsel in distress? He should have waited a couple more days—at least until Christmas was over. There was nothing happening at the Musikverein. The cabdriver had told him that, yet still he had insisted that she would be there. What did he think? That Elisa Lindheim—Linder, whatever—lived at the Musikverein? That she was sitting there waiting for John Murphy to walk in?
He groaned again. His mouth was worse than dry. His tongue felt as if it were wound in gauze after oral surgery, and he opened one eye to scout for the bathroom in the event that he might throw up. Merry Christmas, Murphy. And welcome to Vienna.
Eyeing the booze on the night table, he cursed quietly. He hadn’t been drunk in almost two years. Not since the night Susan had left him standing in the snow for two hours outside Radio City Music Hall in New York. That had been a night to forget. So why was he thinking about it now? He had picked up a tall blond Rockette after the show and had proceeded to show her a night on the town. Of course she hadn’t really been a Rockette, and after a few drinks she had stolen his wallet and disappeared out the back door of Minsky’s forever. So much for his luck with women. Now here he was deserting his post in Berlin to become the bearer of terrible news for a girl he had met only briefly.
She’s forever going to associate you with bad news, Murphy, he reminded himself. Just do your reporting and disappear. Don’t expect anything from this girl. She’s a lady. And you’re a reporter. A reporter with a hangover.
>
Still he had not been able to shake the haunting sadness in her eyes, or the soft sheen of her hair as it tumbled down over her slender shoulders that night on the train. The thought of her made him ache all the more. He sat up too suddenly and shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water over his face. Bleary eyes stared back from the mirror, and he could feel each individual tile beneath the sole of his feet. He brushed his teeth and smiled grimly with the foamy toothpaste still in his mouth.
“No doubt about it, Murphy,” he mumbled aloud. “You got it bad for this girl. Mad-dog Murphy. Foaming at the mouth.” He spit and splashed cold water over his face again, then worked to remove the knotted necktie that dangled in the sink. With a sigh, he gave up and flipped it over his shoulder.
Outside, the chorus of Christmas bells continued to chime. Murphy leaned heavily on the doorjamb and squinted toward the window. If Elisa was in Vienna, she could hear the bells now as he could. Somehow that awareness made him feel tender all over again. Protective. Worried for the Ghost of Christmas Future. Elisa! The familiar ache returned, more painful than his throbbing head. He would wait here in Vienna until the Musikverein opened, and he would find her. He would stay as long as she needed him, do whatever he could do to help. Then maybe she would look at him with those ocean-deep eyes of hers and see John Murphy looking back at her.
He shook his head slowly at the foolishness of his thought. “One night on the train, and look at you!” he muttered. “Look at you!” After one night on a train, he was certain he could not be in love, but it felt bad enough, whatever it was.
He tugged on the tie in one final, futile effort to loosen it; then he padded back to the bed and lay down carefully. One thing was evident to Murphy; he was no knight in shining armor, but the lady was in distress whether she knew it or not. So Murphy would sleep this off and then do his best, whatever that meant. It was pure fact that his motives were mostly rotten—at least he suspected that they were not totally pure. Maybe he would still be in Vienna if the bewildered girl on the train had been homely and dull. But one thing was certain: He wouldn’t be feeling this way about the whole mess. He wouldn’t be lying here, on Christmas morning, with a hangover and aching like a schoolboy with his first crush.
