by Bodie Thoene
Timmons was interested now. “How’d they do that?”
“They burned the place down themselves and arrested a Jew. The guy was innocent. But he got convicted all the same.”
Timmons squinted into the light fixture as though something profound were written there. “Reminds me of the time I wanted to get my big brother in trouble. Gave myself a bloody nose and screamed that he did it.”
Murphy nodded. The comparison was apt. “Well, I don’t believe Rudy Dorbransky did it.”
“Too bad you didn’t stick around to find out, Murphy. You missed a great scoop.”
“I don’t care.” He leaned back and put his feet up. He was lying. He did care. The news made him sick. Just like German bombs had made him sick in Madrid. But he wasn’t going to show Timmons. He didn’t even want to admit it to himself. “I’m on vacation, anyway. Besides, until I get assigned and paid, I’m not interested. Right?”
The door to the editorial office slammed behind him. “You gotta have an assignment, huh, Murphy?” The voice of Eddie Griffith boomed louder than the rattle of the wire. “Well, we just got a call from Winston Churchill!” He swore, a long line of unrelated words that somehow conveyed his excitement.
Murphy turned to glare at the cigar-chewing INS editor who looked as if he might have spent the first half of his fifty years in the boxing ring. “So what?”
“So you’re not on vacation, Murphy. Churchill is with some high-and-mighty in the British government, and they want to talk to you.” He swore again. “Only you, John Murphy!” He imitated a curtsy, pulling out the sides of his baggy trousers. “So get off your duff, Your Lordship. I got a call in for your ticket to Cannes tomorrow.”
***
Thomas already had his ticket to Vienna tucked away in his pocket when he entered the vast hall of the Notre Dame Cathedral. The vaulted ceiling seemed to reach toward heaven. Light streamed through the colors of the leaded windows, only to be diffused and lost as it reached upward. The huge auditorium seemed strangely empty this January morning, although voices echoed from one of the many alcoves where saints gazed down on flickering votive candles.
Thomas had no trouble finding Ernst vom Rath. He knelt, as if in prayer, before the statue of Our Lady. Thomas knelt beside him and was uncertain for a moment if Ernst had noticed him. And then the pale, fine-boned embassy secretary spoke in an almost holy whisper.
“Canaris sends word that the moment has come.” Ernst did not look at Thomas, but raised his eyes briefly to Mary. “I am to remind you that you have promised to answer when called.”
A wave of excitement passed through Thomas. Every word that Admiral Canaris had spoken to him a year ago in Berlin came back with a clarity that made him tremble.
“This may be your death warrant,” Canaris had said.
“You have not yet said what is required of me.”
“I am not yet certain what is required of you. But I know you must swear by your duty—”
“Duty to what? To whom?”
“Your conscience. Only that.”
For a year Thomas had hoped and prayed that Admiral Canaris’ promise to call him to duty would become a reality. Now, as he knelt beside Ernst vom Rath in this quiet place, he wanted to shout with the joy of what he heard.
“The generals—Bomburg, Von Fritch, and the others.” Ernst’s voice was barely audible. “They say the madman must be stopped.”
So someone in the German High Command has drawn the line! How can Hitler be stopped? What must I do? A thousand questions flooded Thomas’s mind, but he did not dare speak for fear of breaking the spell of Ernst’s words.
“Hitler, Himmler, the SS have sent orders to the Nazis of Austria,” Ernst continued as he fingered the beads of his rosary. “They have a plan. They have chosen a Jew who will kill German Ambassador von Papen.”
“Kill their own ambassador?”
“He is unpopular with the SS. They want him out of the way in Vienna. And Hitler wants an excuse to blame the Jews for disorder in Austria. Then he will march.”
“Mein Gott!” Thomas raised his eyes toward a crucifix just beyond the alcove. So von Papen was to be the sacrifice!
“There is but one hope.” Ernst looked at Thomas for the first time. “We must reach the British with word of this or Austria will be gone. Hitler will be firmly entrenched in his power.”
Yes! To stop Hitler—this appealed to Thomas’s conscience. “What must I do?”
“The British foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, is in Cannes on holiday. Winston Churchill will join him there. You must go to them. Warn them that the German High Command is ready to act if only they can have the promise of the British to back them. They will take control of the Chancellery, and arrest Hitler! But they must know that Britain and France will stand firm. No appeasement to Hitler! When they capitulate, it only serves to strengthen his image! The British Foreign Secretary Eden is a man in favor of strength. God has brought him here to France at this moment! You must reach him, and tell him to warn the Austrians about the plot against von Papen.” He handed a folded slip of paper to Thomas, who put the note into his pocket.
“When will this happen?”
“Soon. There is not a moment to waste. Tell them the German High Command is ready to act. On the paper is the address of the Nazi headquarters in Vienna. They will find the dispatches from Germany there. They will find proof!”
Thomas felt drunk from the adrenaline that surged through him. Perhaps Germany’s headlong dash into war could be stopped, after all. Admiral Canaris had not forgotten his duty to conscience either. “Who in the High Command . . . ?”
Ernst smiled slightly and gazed upward, pressing his hands together in a prayer of thanks. “You would be surprised, I think, to know how many—and how influential—are the German leaders who support our cause.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But it is better for everyone,” Ernst continued, “if the names are not known. You cannot tell what you do not know.”
Thomas nodded. He knew that vom Rath’s words were true. The SS had eyes and ears everywhere.
“Plans have been made to bring Hitler to trial,” Ernst concluded. “You must tell them all of this. We must have their promise that Britain will stand by their pledge to Austria in spite of what Italy might do. Tell them, Thomas. They must stand by their pledge!”
Beads of sweat formed on Thomas’s forehead as Ernst vom Rath crossed himself and rose from his knees. “I will leave tonight,” Thomas said, mentally calculating how he could cash in his ticket to Vienna in exchange for a ticket to Cannes. Perhaps, if all went as planned, Thomas could go to Vienna and explain how he had been a part of the final overthrow of Nazi tyranny. Then she will know!
“Stay here,” Ernst whispered. “Fifteen minutes. We must not ride back together.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly from the great cathedral.
Thomas stayed longer than fifteen minutes. He stayed on his knees, his heart raised in hope of guidance and success. Surely God would hear. Surely he would answer such a prayer!
***
Murphy stepped out of the elevator of the plush resort in Cannes, France, at the same moment a tall, proud-looking man about his own age emerged from the room occupied by Winston Churchill.
“God direct you, gentlemen,” he said in a voice tinged with a German accent and full of deep emotion. He bowed slightly, an aristocratic bow, then shut the door behind himself as Murphy pretended to look for another room number on the doors that lined the hallway.
The German, darkly handsome with clear blue eyes, looked at him, and Murphy saw both fear and suspicion cross the rugged face. The question Gestapo? flashed in the blue eyes, and then anger caused his lips to press together tightly.
Something is up, thought Murphy, and he was pleased that he had chosen this day and this moment for his interview with Anthony Eden and Winston Churchill. The German put his hat on and waited impatiently for the elevator. Definitely German. Military bearing. Puts his hat on indoors, even i
f he is dressed as a civilian. Yes, German. Aristocratic. Military.
As the German stepped onto the elevator and the doors clanked shut, Murphy walked back toward Churchill’s suite. He did not knock until the groaning motor of the lift carried the German away.
Churchill answered the door himself with a suddenness that almost startled Murphy. He was dressed in a suit with a bow tie, and his face seemed flushed with excitement. Behind him, Anthony Eden, tall and handsome, stood gazing out to sea, his hands clenched behind his back.
“Oh.” Churchill’s voice sounded disappointed. “Of course. Yes, Murphy. I nearly forgot our appointment.” His words seemed unusually clipped, and he did not ask Murphy in. “Mind if we make it another time? Something has come up. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Sure. I’ll be here.” Now it was Murphy’s turn to be disappointed.
Anthony Eden did not turn around, but he called over his shoulder, “No, Winston. Let’s proceed with the interview, shall we? Perhaps we have more to say now, eh?”
Churchill moved his bulk to one side, holding the door open for Murphy. “Yes, well, we already know you can write, Murphy. You’ve done a fairly decent job of reporting where Great Britain’s appeasement policies have led.” He drew in his breath sharply as though he was trying to calm himself. “John Murphy, I would like to introduce you to Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden.” He smiled as Eden turned around. “Unfortunately, for the purpose of your story, I can only call him a high British government official. And in your story he must be referred to as your source. You do understand?”
Murphy nodded and extended his hand to Eden. The handshake was firm, the expression intense, almost brooding. “I am sorry I was unable to meet with you in London,” Eden said, indicating that Murphy should sit down. “My position makes it nearly impossible to meet with newsmen and discuss policies with any openness at all. Here, perhaps, we can talk more frankly.” He paused and looked at Churchill and the two exchanged an unspoken understanding. “We can perhaps better explain the need for Britain and France to stand firm against Hitler’s aggression. In London, of course, where Neville Henderson hopes that international issues may be settled by a nice chat over tea and crumpets, I could not tell you what I believe will save us from yet another devastating war. If you do not use my name, Mr. Murphy, the world will be better off.”
Murphy nodded and took out his notebook. “I gave my word to Mr. Churchill. I am good to my promise.”
“Yes. Yes, I believe you are.” Eden and Churchill took chairs opposite Murphy. “The bully on the block will not be stopped by tea and crumpets, Mr. Murphy. He has an appetite that would never be satisfied if he devoured the whole world. With that in mind, let me say that the Foreign Office is painfully aware that great explosions occur by the lighting of one spark when there are piles of explosives stacked everywhere. And there are, indeed, heaps and mountains of explosives in Europe. The trick is to take the fire out of the hand of Hitler without igniting the bomb ourselves.”
Throughout the interview, Murphy could not shake the feeling that the young German he had met in the hallway had something to do with stealing Hitler’s fire. But he did not ask. He simply took notes, allowing Eden to say what was safe and circumspect. Perhaps there would be a more appropriate moment to ask about the German. Murphy hoped the man would be close at hand when the final story broke.
29
The Concertmaster’s Legacy
The issue of Rudy Dorbransky’s guilt or innocence had been settled in the cafés of Vienna long before the police finished asking questions.
Vienna society could certainly forgive a man for murdering his mistress in a moment of passion. After all, hadn’t a certain Hapsburg crown prince done the same thing to his mistress and then killed himself at Maerling Palace outside of Vienna? Austria had forgiven Prince Rudolf, although that page of Hapsburg history was still discussed over glasses of Grinzing wine. But Vienna would not, and could not, forgive the handsome concertmaster. No. Rudy Dorbransky was guilty past forgiveness—not of an affair with a married woman but of mixing affairs of the heart with dangerous affairs of state. After all, Dorbransky was not a prince; he was a Jew. Jews had no business falling in love with Aryan women—most of Vienna agreed with Herr Hitler on that point.
And so the city simmered on an open flame. Rudy Dorbransky had gotten what he deserved, and now the Jews of Vienna would get a warning. They must remember Biedermeier! They must remember where they belonged in society! All of this was discussed and agreed upon as correct even in the most genteel of the Viennese cafés over strong cups of Turkish coffee.
It took the members of the secret Nazi Party to turn the issue into action, however. As polite society raised their eyebrows and whispered the latest gossip about the sordid affair, Captain Leopold’s men drained their steins of beer and grabbed their clubs and rubber truncheons on the way out the door.
A five-minute walk from St. Stephan’s great cathedral lay the Judengasse district, a part of Vienna since the sixteenth century. There Leah and Shimon lived near the synagogues; here the civilian gangs of Captain Leopold chose to make their point.
The newspaper accounts were very matter-of-fact in their stories:
Two young Jewish men, scholars at the Yeshiva school in the Judengasse, were attacked after they left the synagogue last night. Shouting slogans against the Jews, a group of Nazi sympathizers beat Shaul Neiman and Philip Thrupstein, then broke windows and scrawled warnings on the walls of the synagogue and several apartment buildings in the area. Shaul Neiman was dead at the scene by the time the ambulance arrived, and Philip Thrupstein is in critical condition at Rothschild Hospital. Thrupstein and other witnesses at the scene reported that the gang numbered between seventy-five and a hundred men. The State Police are still investigating. It is advised that citizens not having urgent business in the Judengasse district should avoid traveling there at this time.
Other than this one paragraph, there was no other mention of the incident. After
all, hadn’t the Jew Dorbransky gotten what he deserved? And shouldn’t other Jews be made aware that they would also get what they deserved unless they remembered their place?
Overnight, posters appeared on the streetlamps along the Ring: Avenge the blood of Irmgard Schüler! Jews out of Vienna now! Such signs, decorated with swastikas, were torn down by the Shupos, the Austrian police, by noon. But Vienna had gotten the message. So had the Jews of Vienna.
Elisa tucked her head against the bitter wind and hurried across Karlsplatz toward the Musikverein. Wisely she had waited a day before going to the building, as Rudy had instructed her. She had waited alone in her apartment, expecting a knock and an interrogation from the Shupos. Somehow she had been overlooked; no police had come to her door.
Today, as Rudy’s body was cremated for shipment back to Poland, the curious citizens of the city crammed into St. Stephan’s Cathedral for a final tribute to Irmgard Schüler. The bells tolled out the years of her short and tragic life. Elisa counted the haunting, ominous clang as she quickened her pace—now, almost jogging toward the portals of the Musikverein. The bell tolled for the last time as she reached the steps. Twenty-seven! Irmgard was only twenty-seven! Elisa shuddered, but not from the cold. The words of Rudy echoed in her mind. They had killed the beautiful young woman, not Rudy. And then they had made certain that Rudy would be blamed, and all the Jews of Judengasse with him. They had done it all, just as they in Germany now held her father!
The back door of the building, the student’s entrance, was open. Elisa slipped inside and listened to the echo of a piano from the practice rooms downstairs. The usual hooting, thrumming clamor of practicing students was silenced; they had probably all gone to the spectacle of the funeral. They would go out afterward for lunch and beer and make the occasion a sort of holiday, no doubt.
Panicked, Elisa stood rooted. She looked down at her own violin case. It was empty. It will not do, she had reasoned, if I am being watched, to enter the Musikverein wit
hout a violin case and leave with one in hand. If she was being watched, certainly they would notice such a thing and stop her to discover that she carried the violin of the murderer Dorbransky. The thought made her heart drum a warning in her ears. She wavered, considering going home and forgetting it all. Rudy’s words—frightening words—could not free her father. She could call Thomas and tell him that she had heard that “someone” had seen her father in Dachau.
Dachau! How could one terrible word from the lips of a dying man change her life so entirely? Before that word, when there had been no hope, she had drifted in an aimless, unfocused yearning that someday there might be word from her father. The thought had become an unread dream that she had linked somehow with Thomas von Kleistmann. Maybe he will rescue him. If Papa is alive, maybe Thomas . . . This unreal dream had ebbed and flowed with the passing of every holiday and anniversary of the last year.
Now, just when she had let go of hope and yearning, there came a word of such hopelessness, murmured in such despair, that Elisa wondered why it had awakened hope in her again. Dachau! Papa is there. Alive! Yes, that is hope!
From the first days of Hitler’s reign, that name had become a symbol of all that embodied hell. It was hell, torment encased in charged barbed wire and block houses and machine guns. And it was here on earth. In the terror of his last moments on earth, perhaps Faust had glimpsed Dachau! Perhaps in his vision of the Inferno, Dante had glimpsed the demons in the guard towers and those who walked with whips among the prisoners. And yet this inescapable inferno of Nazi brutality and terror had suddenly given Elisa hope! Theo Lindheim was alive; he was there, in Dachau! In the deepest abyss in Germany, her father breathed and hoped and prayed for his family. Elisa could tell his thoughts, even now, as she walked down the narrow hallway. The practice rooms she passed were deserted and silent. The sound of her heels followed her toward the glass case where the skull of the composer Haydn grinned out at students and musicians. Elisa could see the skull in the dim light at the far end of the corridor. Hollow cavities stared at her as she approached the case. Long yellowed teeth were clenched tightly as Haydn stood guard over the secret of Rudy Dorbransky. Dachau! There was life and hope in this apparition of death.
