by Bodie Thoene
Taking her hand gently in his own, Shimon pointed to a shop across the street with an ugly sign in the window: Juden verboten! “They are here already, Elisa,” he said gently, even sadly. “Hitler sends more Nazis across the border each day. They come in leather pants and thick brown shoes like peasants, but they fool no one. Even Chancellor Schuschnigg is frightened. And have you not seen that the palace of Baron von Rothschild is empty? The baron is a Jew. He now lives in Prague, not Vienna.”
Elisa stared at the floor. “My mother is in Prague,” she whispered. “My family.” She had never told them about her father, and for this moment, she was relieved that Anna and the boys had taken refuge in Prague. Shimon’s words sent a blade of fear through her heart. “My father says that Czechoslovakia is like Switzerland,” Elisa volunteered cautiously. “The constitution is like in America. Why don’t you go there to live? There are orchestras there. The German Theatre and the Czech National Theatre—much more cultured than the wilderness of Palestine!”
Shimon and Leah laughed at her suggestion, and Elisa had pretended she was not serious. But she was serious. The thought of losing Leah’s friendship made her reel. Quietly, in the secrecy of her heart, she prayed that their immigration visas would not be granted. But Leah taught Elisa the words Aliya Bet—illegal immigration. And only yesterday Leah told her that it didn’t really matter if she and Shimon were granted permission. They were going to Jerusalem, and the matter was settled.
Lately, a steady stream of German refugee children had passed through Leah’s apartment. All were bound for Palestine, whether they had been granted the necessary papers of permission or not.
Children who came from Germany with nothing suddenly had passports and visas to France where they would board ships in Marseilles bound for Palestine. Elisa had seen a passport once when a child had shown it to her proudly. Leah scolded the little girl, then looked at Elisa almost apologetically. “Dangerous, but something that must be done. I trust that you will not mention it.”
Elisa nodded. She knew all about forged papers. They were expensive and hard to come by. German-Jewish children came with nothing; they left with identities. Purchased how? By whom? With what money? Elisa did not really want to know. She knew too much already. If it was indeed true that Nazis were infiltrating Austria’s police and government as Shimon insisted, then this sort of activity could be life-threatening. Elisa remembered quite well the unexplained disappearances of people in Germany who were involved in such operations. Couldn’t Leah and Shimon be content with their own safety? Why did they involve themselves so deeply?
The thought made her frown. For the first time in months she thought of Murphy. She too might be rotting away in some German camp right now if it hadn’t been for his willingness to get involved. Of course, the fact that he was an American newsman almost guaranteed that no one would slap him in irons. He had not risked his own safety, as Leah and Shimon were now doing.
***
There was a reason Murphy had been called to London. There was business here. A visit at the International News Service offices, a stop at the BBC. He had a few interviews set up with members of Parliament who were diametrically opposed to one another on matters of what must be done about the Germans, what must be done about the Italians, what must be done about Spain and Austria. Actually, only a handful believed anything must be done at all. The rest, along with the citizens who now walked along the London sidewalks, were numb and uninterested. After all, the issues at hand did not affect the price of curtains or a new tea tray or the comfort of one’s shoes.
London was cold and gray. Frumpy matrons and governesses with perfectly groomed children in tow joined the line of clerks and shopkeepers at the bus stop. Murphy was the only person in the group without an umbrella, and that immediately marked him as a foreigner. Snugly buttoned bank officers stared at him as if to warn him that if it rained—and it most certainly would—he should not expect to share their shelter. Only a fool goes out without an umbrella! After all, take a look at the front pages of the newspapers. Every photo shows Prime Minister Chamberlain with an umbrella in hand! A sensible chap, the PM!
Yes. Sensible. Murphy made his way through the groups of standing men who held tightly to the leather straps inside the big red bus. The eyes of the ladies glanced quickly away as he climbed the curving steps up to the open top deck. This was proof that he was not sensible in the least. After all, anyone could leave an umbrella somewhere in a moment of forgetfulness, but to sit on the top deck of a London omnibus in the dead of winter was madness!
Grateful to be alone, Murphy stretched out on the wooden bench and squinted as the numbing wind stung his eyes. He had a day to kill—eight hours to loll around. It had been a long time since he had been so privileged, a long time since he had ridden in something other than an ambulance packed with dying men, or on the deck of a German-made tank through nameless towns that all looked the same in their heaps of rubble. Today Murphy had determined that he would see it all: The Strand, Pall Mall, Abbey Road, Baker Street. And all for only fivepence, courtesy of the London General Omnibus Company.
Wide streets and stark brick houses seemed to be reaching for whatever glimpses of sun the London December would offer. It seemed little different than Baltimore or some snug district in New York where blameless citizens talked about the weather or the boss or . . . maybe politics? Not likely nowadays.
In Spain the cities and towns had all blended into one endless bloody shell of dying embers and dying people. Humans, not unlikely these, who had once bustled down the lanes with some singular purpose, such as something to buy: “But I won’t pay a shilling more than one and ten!” Or, someone to meet “He’s always late!” Yes, Madrid had been like London once. Murphy had seen it before the bombs, before Franco’s Fascists and the Nazi planes.
The bus careened solidly around a corner. A scruffy-looking newspaper boy waved a placard at the passing pedestrians to entice them to buy his paper:
Madrid Shelled Again!
3 Drives Started by Franco’s Troops!
Murphy watched as a well-fed woman in a fur collar walked her well-fed dog past the newsboy. He had an urge to scramble down the steps and ask her what she knew about Madrid, and if she knew anything at all about the Spanish Civil War. He watched dozens of cautious, umbrella-toting citizens march past the screaming headline.
“Madrid? In Spain, isn’t it?” they would likely answer if he asked. “Very, very far away from here, you know. And the Spanish rebels—quite to be expected what with that hot-tempered Latin blood! Never touch us here, though. Madrid is quite far from London.”
Images of burning buildings and the red lines of tracer bullets against the night sky filled Murphy’s mind, and he was in Madrid again—in Toledo, Teruel, and Brunete! Screams of women and the cries of orphaned children came to him in waves of sickening reality.
The careful people of London could not see it now in their anxiety over what Christmas gifts to buy, but Madrid was here! It was on Baker Street and Covent Gardens, on Oxford Street in the myriad of shops. It was here, amid correct behavior, and in Regent’s Park, where a python swallowed a live chicken whole before crowds of gawking spectators who gathered at the Serpent House to watch.
“Now, that was interesting!” Enough of this doomsday stuff about Hitler and Spain and Italy! Enough nonsense about the Nazis infiltrating Austria! Like Madrid, Vienna is very far away, and quite foreign. Never mind that Churchill believes Hitler is the Serpent. Does it matter if the Nazis and Italians aid Franco, or if little Austria is swallowed whole? Why should that concern London?
“Just don’t go out without your umbrella, Chamberlain!” Murphy shouted out loud. No one heard him, of course. He was the only passenger on the top deck, and the wind carried away his voice until it was lost in the blaring din of Christmas traffic.
***
Winston Churchill, during his long months of enforced political retirement, had laid many of the bricks of Chartwell himself
. Now spidery trails of ivy clung to the face of the main house. It was rather chilly inside, and many of the rooms were closed. Murphy had heard that the venerable statesman had been reduced to supporting himself through the freelance writing of political essays. Perhaps business was slow for him these days. He was dressed comfortably in a smoking jacket and loose trousers. Everything about him reminded Murphy of a bulldog—the jowls and furrowed brow, the pale complexion of his balding head, his manner of moving, the thoughtful growl of his voice. He did not seem either angry or defeated, though Murphy had heard of deep, black moods of depression that haunted Churchill in recent days.
The room was clouded with cigar smoke, and Churchill glowered at Murphy through the haze as a butler poked the blazing fire in the fireplace, then slipped quietly out.
“You are a correspondent. In Sshpain,” Churchill commented in his typical colloquialistic speech.
“Almost a year.”
“Umm. Yesh.” He seemed to chew his words. “I began in Africa. The Boer War.” He dismissed the point of common ground as quickly as he had brought it up. “You see how far that has taken me.” A slight smile and a raised eyebrow spoke of the irony in his statement. Now he was indeed regarded as a public doom-crier. “And how did you find Madrid?”
“Hungry. Bleeding.”
“The worst quarrels arise when both sides are equally in the right and in the wrong.” He studied Murphy for a response, then continued, “Both sides are desperate. One side backed by Communists; the other, Fascists. The cruelties and ruthless executions, the appalling hatreds unleashed make it only too probable that victory will be followed by the merciless exterminations of the vanquished.”
“That policy is already being carried out.”
“Of course. Both sides have, no doubt, read Mein Kampf. Hitler has said quite plainly that there will be no prisoners of war. He has also written that the total purpose for humanity and society is to prepare for war. Which he has done and continues to do, while we sit here on our hands.” The bulldog eyes flashed as he spoke, and he raised his voice as he might have addressed the Commons. “Yesh, thank God for Anthony Eden. At least there is one sensible man in His Majesty’s government. It was his ultimatum that stopped the piracy of foreign ships in the Mediterranean, his good sense that established French and British antisubmarine patrols at Nyon. There is no doubt that the spectacle of eighty Anglo-French destroyers patrolling the Mediterranean made a profound impression on Europe.”
“And yet the latest ultimatum to the Germans and the Italians to withdraw from Spain has failed.” Murphy scribbled notes furiously.
Churchill cleared his throat and glared at Murphy. “The prime minister—” He paused and looked off, as though he could see his words in print. “Mr. Chamberlain is determined to play suitor to the two dictators: Hitler, Mussolini. In July of this year he invited the Italian ambassador to Downing Street. Mr. Eden was not invited to the meeting.” The brow furrowed in disapproval. “Mr. Chamberlain spoke of his desire for Anglo-Italian relations. Count Grandi suggested he write a personal appeal to Mussolini. The letter produced no apparent results, and the relationship with Italy got steadily worse because of Spain.”
Now Murphy came to the heart of the question. “What does this mean to Austria? After all, in the Rome protocols, Italy is sworn to protect Austria’s sovereignty, along with Britain and France, should Hitler make good his threat to annex Austria.”
Churchill almost smiled—a smile edged with bitterness. “I have heard that here, in government circles, there are those in power who have determined that Austria is a small sacrifice to pay for peace. In the last year Mussolini has cast his lot with Hitler; that is quite evident. Only the Austrians—and a few others—seem to care about Austrian independence.” He leaned forward in his chair and leveled a steely gaze at Murphy. “Henderson, the British ambassador to Berlin, has seen a map of the Greater Reich in Herr Göring’s home.” He narrowed his eyes and sat back heavily. “Yes. Henderson is a friend of Herr Göring, and he has seen the map. There is no boundary on it between Germany and Austria.”
Murphy stopped writing the ominous words. He felt sick. He thought of Vienna. Of Elisa Linder. “If Italy refuses to help, certainly Britain and France would not allow such a violation.” He thought of the python and the live chicken in Regent’s Park.
“As foreign minister, Anthony Eden still gives our policies some backbone,” Churchill conceded. “But he and Chamberlain are on opposite sides on a number of issues. Mr. Chamberlain is quite prepared, it seems, to kiss the hand that slaps us. Single-handedly, he wishes to bring us peace. At what price? And is it not the peace of the dead? I do not know the answer. Anthony Eden is hated by the Italians and the Germans both for his courage and for his determination that there is a line that must not be crossed.” He drew deeply on the stub of his cigar. “Mr. Eden is much like me in his attitudes. With the exception, of course, that he is still in harness.” He cleared his throat and growled, “And you can see where my convictions have gotten me. Political exile. Still I proclaim that we must arm ourselves even as the Germans are doing. No, no. There are those who say the Nazis are already invincible.” He shook his head slowly. “Have you heard that your own American Colonel Charles Lindbergh has been to visit the German Luftwaffe?”
Murphy nodded. A sense of anger and embarrassment simmered in him at the mention of the great hero who had crossed the Atlantic solo in 1927. He had returned home in victory. Now he had recrossed the Atlantic as a guest of the Reich. His tour included an exhibition of Luftwaffe fighter-plane capability that had filled him with admiring words for his Nazi hosts. After proclaiming that the Germans had an air force that was unbeatable by any nation of the world, he had come to London to dine with the American ambassador to Britain, Joseph P. Kennedy. “Better to appease the Germans” had been the verdict of these two representatives of America. “We can’t possibly hold them back by any force of arms. Better negotiate with them and give them what they want.”
American pacifist sentiments rippled through the League of Nations. Statesmen mumbled among themselves and reacted with a defeatism that served Hitler’s purpose perfectly. He had presented his philosophy plainly in Mein Kampf:
The skillful and unremitting use of propaganda can persuade people to believe that Heaven is Hell. . . . For the broad mass of the people in the primitive simplicity of its heart more readily falls victim to a big lie than a small one.
“Yesh. I’m afraid Colonel Lindbergh has been an unknowing tool for Herr Hitler’s propaganda. Unbeatable? Unstoppable? Terrible words. Evil words when one is eye to eye with the Serpent.” There it was again . . . Churchill’s view that all of Europe faced the Serpent. The statesman had a look of disbelief on his face. “And our prime minister has chosen to believe a man like Hitler. A man who has written such words!”
“Has the prime minister read Mein Kampf?” Murphy asked.
“Recently, Mr. Eden quoted the passage to him.” Churchill appeared thoughtful, as if wanted to make certain he quoted the words right. “Hitler declared simply, ‘In political life there are no principles of foreign policy. Foreign policy is only a means to an end. In matters of foreign policy, I shall not permit myself to be bound.’”
“And what did the prime minister say when Eden told him?”
“He told him to go home and take an aspirin. Yesh. The PM’s advice to the foreign minister. But Hitler is more dangerous than a head cold . . . more virulent, more contagious. And fatal.” Churchill rose slowly and crossed to a cluttered desk. Shuffling through a stack of papers, he skimmed their contents, finally choosing one. “Unless we are strong and sensible—” He did not finish his sentence. Instead he handed the paper to Murphy. It was a transcript of Hitler’s writings:
Every Jew is proof of the enfeeblement of our national life and of the worthlessness of what we call the Christian religion. One would need a heart as hard as crocodile hide not to feel sorry for the poor exploited Germans and—which is id
entical—not to hate the Jews and despise those who defend these Jews or are too cowardly to trample this vermin to death. With bacilli one does not negotiate. . . . they are to be exterminated as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
Murphy looked up from the page of madness—it continued for many paragraphs. “Yes. I saw the practice of this in Germany.” He thought of Elisa and Theo. Had Theo survived? Had he been found? Was he now in some prison in Hitler’s Reich?
Churchill nodded and continued staring out at the winter-brown trees of Chartwell. Again and again he had spoken in Parliament, and finally he had been sent home to “take an aspirin.” “It is all written down,” Churchill claimed. “His every plan. For Germany. For the world. I am no prophet. No Jeremiah. He has written the future himself.”
The great man sounded helpless, alone in his terrible knowledge of the future. Was he now seeing the bombs and tracer bullets above the London skies as Murphy had seen them in Spain?
Churchill’s majestic voice dropped to a whisper. “Death stands at attention—obedient, expectant, ready to serve, ready to shear away the peoples en masse; ready, if called upon, to pulverize without hope of repair, what is left of civilization. He awaits only the word of command.”
22
Biedermeier
On Elisa’s music stand was the score of Respigi’s Pini di Roma. The program of tonight’s concert had been changed only two days before when someone from Chancellor Schuschnigg’s office had passed the word along that some “great man” from Italy would be visiting Vienna. They had not mentioned who the guest would be, but everyone buzzed among themselves that it would have to be someone very high up indeed to request such a change. Mussolini himself? Count Grandi? Perhaps the king?
