by Bodie Thoene
“For not thinking I’m . . . silly.”
“Never. You just whet my appetite. I may become a music lover, after all.”
She inclined her head slightly, amused at the thought. “No doubt. Something very important for a musician to have. One plays; the other . . . loves.”
Again he felt the room spinning around him. What was she saying? Was there more in her words? Like the music—level upon level of meaning beyond the notes themselves. Don’t play with my heart, he wanted to beg her. But he simply accepted her touch; then he kissed the palm of her hand. God alone should have her heart, she says. Does that exclude the love of all else? Is there room for her to love me?
“Sitting here like this with you,” Murphy said haltingly, “makes me almost afraid. What happened between last night and this moment? Why have you decided to share so much of yourself with me?”
She smiled a careful, thoughtful smile. “Last night, for the first time in a long time, I was reminded of something my father did.” She did not tell Murphy what it was. “Something reminded me of my father”—she looked away and frowned—“and . . . it has been a very long time since I have even tried to reveal my thoughts to another person. A very long time.” This brief, unsatisfactory explanation ended her moment of sharing.
This one hour together had left Murphy even more hopelessly in love with her—desperate for her safety, eager to be her protector, and hungry to know her. Had it meant anything beyond the breaking of a long spiritual silence? He wanted her to feel what he felt, but he was afraid to push, and more frightened that she would walk away from him forever than he had been while facing Nazi bombs over Madrid.
She glanced at her watch as the music ended and the young Spaniard put his guitar away. “I have to go to the Musikverein before the doors are locked. My mail will be there. Maybe a letter from my mother.”
“Will you come back to the hotel when you are finished?” He tried to sound light and matter-of-fact. “I have a surprise for you.”
“How much time do you need?”
“An hour?”
She nodded and slipped into her coat. “An hour then,” she agreed, kissing him lightly.
The memory of her lips beneath his burned fresh in his memory. He did not want to let go, even for an hour. He grabbed her hand before she turned to leave. “Only an hour. Promise.”
She did not speak but raised her face to his and let him kiss her once again—an electrifying, all-consuming kiss that drove every thought from his mind. Then she pushed him away and skipped lightly up the steps of the cellar while he stood grasping the railing and staring after the bright flash of her red skirt.
“God, what is happening to me?” he said aloud as she disappeared. Then he ran up the steps and searched the teeming crowds of Christmas shoppers for one last glimpse of her. But she had already melted into the throngs.
26
Decision
How long has it been, Elisa asked herself, since I felt this way? Months of memory ticked off into a year and a half. Thomas and I that evening we picnicked by the Spree River. He took me in his arms and stroked my hair— She stopped herself midthought, not wanting to mix her image of Thomas with this fresh, new feeling for John Murphy. Had she ever before admitted that she could possibly love any man but Thomas?
Now, as she strolled along the sidewalk, she turned the images of the day like pages in a photo album. Yes, she could love him; given time, sweet days and hours like today could melt into love. She touched her fingers to her lips. His kiss was still with her—just as Thomas’s kisses had haunted her for so long in the night, Murphy’s lips seemed only a thought away. It was cold out. She could see her own breath rising like the breath of the shoppers who trudged past her. But she was not cold.
Everything about Murphy seemed diametrically opposed to the things she had loved about Thomas. Thomas carried himself straight and correctly, like the aristocrat he was. Murphy was tall and slim, easygoing and relaxed. Athletic and confident, Murphy moved with a loose stride, while Thomas had always seemed to march. Murphy carried his heart and convictions quite openly. She had heard his anger as he described the senseless killing of the war in Spain. His affection had been evident in his eyes last night and again this afternoon.
With Thomas she had never been quite certain of his love until the sun slipped away; then he became filled with a passion and fire that had stolen her breath in its fierceness. He had left her silently, bewildered that he could desire her so strongly and yet never say the words “I love you.” Always she had assumed that men did not say such words or show themselves vulnerable to a woman. How she had longed to hear Thomas say all those things!
She sighed and quickly climbed the steps of the Musikverein. Of course none of that mattered now, except by way of comparison. Murphy was so very different—tender. Perhaps she could learn to love him as she had once loved Thomas. Murphy was no soldier, nor was he a saint, but words were his gift, his craft. He would not be afraid to tell her.
***
The mail slot bearing her name contained two letters. The one on top was postmarked from Prague and was from her mother. That had been the only mail Elisa expected. She flipped the other envelope over and stared hard at the postmark. Paris. With a gasp, she recognized the handwriting. Feeling faint, she groped for a chair. Sitting down carefully on a piano bench, she stared at the white envelope. There was no return address. Only her name, in the distinct Germanic script of Thomas von Kleistmann.
“Why now? Why today?” she said aloud as the caretaker walked past.
“Are you ill, Fraülein?” he asked.
She was trembling, but she managed a smile and shook her head in reply.
He was unconvinced. “Do you need me to call someone?”
Leah? No. Not Leah. After our talk last night, she would call me a fool for not tearing this envelope in half before I even read it. Murphy? How can I explain this? Perhaps it is word of my father. Perhaps it is the words I waited for Thomas to say. She was afraid of what waited for her inside the crisp envelope.
“Yes. Please. I need a taxi.”
***
It was the smallest of all Christmas trees, but Murphy had carried it happily upstairs without waiting for the elevator. In his room he had unwrapped the angels and the rolls of red and gold ribbon and a dozen brass candleholders and long white tapered candles.
Now the candles illuminated the room in a soft light. The branches of the little tree were covered with bows, red and gold, of all different sizes. And the angels—Elisa’s angels—played their violins from the branches. “Bach, no doubt,” Murphy said as he placed the carving of the Holy Family beneath his little tree.
Now, as the minutes crawled by, he paced back and forth in the room, stopping to peer out the window at every passerby. It was growing dark, but the city seemed to glow, and he was sure he could single her out among the shoppers below. He was certain he could spot her anywhere.
He was so full, so hopeful and expectant as he considered the words that had passed between them this afternoon. Always in the back of his mind was the warning that he must not move too fast. She was like a beautiful white-tailed doe in the forests back home. He must approach quietly, slowly, so she would not bolt and run.
As for himself, he knew it was too late for a warning. His heart was shot through. He was smitten, finished. The ladies of the cabarets would hold no temptation for him now. He had an angel on the string. An angel with a violin.
He sat down and stared at the tree. He got up and moved an angel from one branch, carefully securing it to another. He moved the angels around numerous times, admiring the effect of the candlelight on the gold ribbon.
He sat down again, then got up and stood at the window. “Not more than an hour,” she had promised. Where was she, then? Maybe she had been hurt, slipped on the ice and gotten hit by a bus, or . . .
Murphy ran his hand across his face. She would come. She had promised. And this would be the best Christmas he
had ever had. He prayed that she was not hurt. Maybe bad news from home? The thought made him exhale loudly. If she did not come soon, he determined, he would go look for her! But if he went looking for her, she might come, and he would miss her. Better stay put.
After an hour and a half, his nervousness melted with the candles into pools of disappointment. He switched on the light and blew out the dozen flames. She has some reason why she couldn’t come. I’ll bring her here after the performance. He comforted himself with the thought, then went in to shower and shave and dress for the evening at the symphony. He would listen to her play; listen to the melody as though he had never heard a note of music before. Tonight Elisa had promised to play for him. And when she was done, he would bring her back and show her his small surprise. Then maybe he would talk to her again about the farm in Pennsylvania, and she would listen to him.
***
The two letters lay opened before her on the table. She had drawn the shades hurriedly, sending the pot of geraniums crashing to the floor. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she skimmed each letter again, one at a time.
Dear Elisa,
Wilhelm is in the hospital . . . emergency surgery for appendicitis. He will fully recover, but we cannot come to Vienna for the holidays . . . my darling, we know that you are committed to a full schedule of work this season and we’ll simply all have to muddle through this Christmas, I’m afraid . . .
Normally, such a disappointment would have shattered Elisa. But now she could barely comprehend the words. She held the letter from Thomas up to the lamplight. The page shook so in her hand that she laid it down again to read it.
My only Elisa,
There can be no doubt in my mind after these many terrible, lonely months. I love you . . .
The letter went on, page after wrenching page. The silence was broken. He wanted her to come to Paris. Join him there, and there they would marry and disappear somewhere to live together forever. Did Elisa dare believe him? Hadn’t she loved him to the exclusion of all else in her life? Hadn’t she begged God to bring him back into her arms? And now, the night after she had given him up, tried to shut him out of her heart and turn her hope toward another, he was back, passionate and yearning in his desire to see her. He would marry her to the exclusion of his country and his duty to the Fatherland! It was all there. In Germany, Thomas would have been arrested and sent to Dachau as a traitor! He loved her! But he had told her he could not love a non-Aryan and retain his hope of serving Germany! He had cut her heart in pieces; he had deserted her and her father when they were both in the most need!
“I hate you, Thomas!” she shouted to the empty room. Then she bowed her head and wept—wrenching, aching sobs that left her weak and exhausted. “And I love you,” she said with a terrible finality.
At the bottom of the letter, Thomas had left a cautious way for her to reply. Not an address, but the telephone number of a little Paris café.
Every evening between seven and midnight, my darling, I will wait at the café for your call. Ask only for Thomas. The owner is a friend of mine, and he will know it is you. You must not mention your name or mine. I cannot be certain even here that the Gestapo is not having telephone lines tapped. Use a public phone, dearest. Please do not delay. You alone hold my heart.
Forever,
Thomas
Elisa looked at her watch, calculating the time difference between Vienna and Paris. She would call Thomas at the stroke of seven that evening. For the first time since she had been chosen as a member of the Vienna Philharmonic, she would miss a performance. She looked at her trembling hands. It would not be a lie to say she was too ill to play tonight. A phone call to Leah would relay the message. There was a roster of capable substitutes who would take her place for one night. The music was not difficult.
Suddenly the awareness of dear Murphy crowded into all her plans. She thought of him for the first time since she had seen the Paris postmark on the envelope. His eyes, the warmth, the gentleness of his kiss all came back to her. One hour, he had said. She was already two hours late!
Had she not promised to play for him tonight? He would be waiting there for her in his rented tuxedo, his pocket full of tickets.
“Why did you write to me, Thomas?” She slammed her fist on the table. “I could have been happy!” She wept again—for herself and for Murphy. She would not play for him tonight. Not tonight. Not ever.
***
The voice of the orchestra manager on the other end of the line sounded entirely unsympathetic, even angry. “We will be short in the first violins tonight. Rudy Dorbransky had an appointment with the maestro this afternoon, which he did not keep! Probably drunk! And now you call in!”
“It is unavoidable,” Elisa insisted, staring down at her shaking hands. “Call a relief musician.”
“At this late hour?” He clucked his tongue and turned to someone passing by on his end of the phone. “Elisa Linder is calling in sick, and Rudy has still not shown up.”
Elisa could not hear the mumbled reply, but not one at the concert hall was happy. She felt sick to her stomach. Never had she missed a performance. Never. How could they treat her so callously? “I will be back tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” The voice became suddenly sympathetic. “The maestro reminds me that you have played even when you have been ill before. He says you should take care, and . . . ”
Tears of relief welled up in her eyes. At least someone realized she would not call in unless it was a dire emergency. “Tell the maestro thank you. I will be back tomorrow.”
She wished them luck with the evening’s performance and hung up. Now, what was she to do about Murphy? Should she call him? No. She could not bear to hear his voice. And if she contacted him at the hotel, he might come to the apartment. She rested her aching head in her hands and stared down at the broken geranium on the kitchen floor. Hadn’t life been almost perfect today? Almost!
With a sigh, she put a kettle to boil and took her stationery from the inlaid mahogany writing case her father had given her for Christmas four years before. They had all been so happy then, even in Berlin. Worried, yes. But happy. Thomas had stood at her shoulder and watched through the window with her as the brass band marched past their house to serenade President Hindenburg in front of the presidential mansion. He had been a good man, old Hindenburg—tower of the Weimar Republic. And he remembered Theo kindly each year with a card. In gratitude for your service to the Fatherland . . .
A lifetime ago. It must have been someone else standing at the window of the house in Berlin. “Was that really me?” she murmured as she began to write.
Dearest Murphy . . . She determined that she would tell him everything. She could not lie to him, even though she could not face him either.
Today, if someone told me that I would not live to see another day, I would say, ‘Was Gott tut, das ist wohligetan! Then God has rightly created this day as perfect for me!’ And I could not be sad because I have spent one perfect day with a wonderful man.
She paused, lifting her pen. She felt so inadequate with words. Words were Murphy’s craft, not hers. She could lift her violin and play good-bye a hundred different ways. But how could she write it?
She tried again. In her soul she could hear the sad, clear music of Peer Gynt, the Prelude of Act Two. Was there music playing somewhere in the building? No, it was her soul remembering the song of Ingrid’s lament. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her hand steady as she wrote.
As perfect as our time has been together, I must not see you again. I have loved a man for many years. I told you about him on the train from Berlin that terrible night. I thought I would never see him again, but now he has written and asked me to marry him. Please do not come to find me. I will leave Vienna with him, I suppose; you hoped I would leave Vienna. We have had one perfect, perfect day, and I find myself suddenly wishing that I had met you when I was a child, that my first kiss had been from you, my first embrace. But that cannot be altered.
I have belonged to him since the summer of my eighteenth year. It is right then that I be with him.
The whistle of the kettle shrieked, and Elisa wearily brewed herself a cup of tea. The lament of the prelude still echoed in her mind. Why this song? she asked herself. The song of a woman abducted from the one she loves? But Elisa could not love Murphy. She hardly knew him. What was it, then, that pulled the bow with such dissonance across her heart?
She read the letter again, satisfied that she had explained clearly and gently. He was such a compassionate man. He would not force himself past such a plea. I must not see you again! She signed it, then folded it and slipped it into an envelope. The hot tea burned her lips, as if to scorch away the memory of Murphy’s kiss. “He will be easy to forget,” she said aloud to herself. “One day. Only one day, only a smile and a kiss. I will not think of him again.”
Resolutely she took her handbag and the letter downstairs to the small flat of the concierge. He was an old man, Jewish, and wore a crocheted kippa on his head. He peered at her through thick spectacles. Behind him, on a tiny two-burner stove ,something simmered in a pot.
He smiled broadly and bowed. “You have come for dinner, Eleeeza?” Then he slapped his forehead with his hand. “Why aren’t you at the hall? You are sick?”
Her hands were no longer trembling. “Not as well as I would like. I . . . need to ask a favor.” She eyed the kettle on the burner. “But it is your mealtime.”
“Nonsense! What is it?”
“There is a young man—”
He looked pleased. “A young man! Gut! Sehr gut, Eleeeza!”
“I was supposed to meet him tonight after the performance, Herr Haupt, but I cannot go.”
“You are not playing tonight! Oy! You should sit down, maybe? You are soooo ill!”
“No. It’s not that . . . I”—she extended the note—“could you take this for me to the concert hall?”
