by Bodie Thoene
He sighed loudly and inhaled the fresh air. It was a strange feeling to come back without Elisa by his side. He half expected to see her and little Charles, even though he had just left her in England. He shook himself back to reality as he noticed the fortifications all around the buildings. Gun emplacements. Searchlights. Anti-aircraft cannons on the far end of the field.
While the British and French had been talking about the defense of Czechoslovakia, President Beneš had been doing something about it. The images of such fortifications were at the same time terrifying and comforting. What Hitler coveted would not be easily stolen, Murphy thought as he flagged down a green taxi and gave the grim driver the address of the Linder house.
No one answered Murphy’s knock, so he pushed the door open and stepped in. He hardly recognized the little house of Mala Strana. There were people everywhere. The music room where he and Elisa had shared so many happy hours with Theo and Anna was now strewn with mattresses; a young mother sat nursing a baby while three other children played beside her. The magnificent piano was shoved off in the corner and covered with a quilt.
Two men excused themselves and walked quickly past Murphy in the hallway. He stopped long enough to peer into the room that had been his and Elisa’s. An old woman sat in the chair beside the window. An old man sat on the edge of the bed and read the latest reports in the Czech newspaper. A younger couple played cards at the foot of the bed and two toddlers scrambled back and forth in play.
The old woman looked up. “You are looking for someone?” she asked.
Murphy nodded, suddenly frightened that something had happened to Theo and Anna. “Yes. The Linder family.”
“Linder? Linder? A German name. We are mostly Czechs here in this house.”
“Anna and Theo Linder own this house!” Murphy exclaimed.
“Ah yes! Anna. You mean you are looking for Frau Anna!” The old woman laughed. No one else in the room even looked up. It was as if Murphy was not there. “Everyone is always looking for Anna!”
“I am her son-in-law. I have very little time here before I have to catch a plane.”
“Well, if that is the case, God bless you, Anna is down in the cellar with Bette, counting sacks of flour and bags of lentils.”
The cellar. Murphy scarcely remembered that the little house had a cellar. He hurried back down the corridor and through the kitchen where six peasant women tended steaming cauldrons of soup.
“Wait! Wait! Who are you? You can’t go into the cellar! Is he from the government? Hey you, come back here!”
The cellar. Murphy had guessed right. He threw open the door and clattered down the stone steps into the cold, musty-smelling cubicle. Anna stood beneath a bare lightbulb, a clipboard in her hand. Her hair was tied back in a scarf like the women who called after him in the kitchen. Her face was intense with thought.
“At least another ton of lentils,” she was saying to the plump, broad-faced woman who examined the sack in the corner.
Murphy waited politely on the bottom step. Anna checked her figures once again. She must have sensed his presence because she looked up, then back down, and then her eyes widened and she dropped the clipboard as she whirled around. “John! Oh, John, you are here! God is good!”
They were both laughing now. “Anna, Anna!” Murphy embraced her with relief. “I was beginning to think you had already fled the country!”
“Is Elisa with you?” Her eyes were bright with emotion.
“In London.”
“Thank God. I would not want her here now. You can see—”
They walked arm in arm up the steps and then she led him through the crowd of strangers, stopping to introduce him to each one in turn. At last she led him up the steep stairs to the attic where she had moved some personal things to make a place for herself.
***
The British passports lay on the sagging bed. Anna absently traced the embossed emblem with her finger. “We had almost given up, you see,” Anna said wearily. “Weeks ago we were notified of the rejection of our visas by the American consulate.”
“Weeks?” How could this be? Murphy had placed himself as sponsor, and he had not been notified.
“And then I got Elisa’s letter saying that it would be all well. She had contacts in London who were arranging for the passports—and here they are. God is good to us!” But there was a hesitance in her words. “It’s just that there are so many others now . . . More every day. Most of the men who are able have dug in on the front. But you can see what has happened here in Prague. We are expecting the worst. Preparing for the worst and trying to live day by day.”
“Theo and the boys?” Murphy asked, feeling that it was crucial that plane tickets be purchased immediately. “You can join Elisa in London?”
Anna shook her head slowly. She absently flipped open the cover of first one document and then the next. “They are at an airfield near Eger. They won’t come, John. Not until the last fortification of Czechoslovakia is smashed. Theo is committed. He believes that the Nazis must be held here, or—”
“Right.” Murphy needed no further explanation. “Theo and Churchill would get along nicely together.”
“But at least we will have these—just in case.”
“Anna, you can go. You must. Come with me to Evian, and then we will go back to London together. Elisa needs you.”
She smiled a sad, wise smile, and Murphy thought what a beautiful woman she was. How much like her Elisa would be someday! “Elisa does not need me. She is safe. She has you, John. My husband needs me to be here when he comes home. And my sons, Wilhelm and Dieter. And then there are all these others. There is so much yet to do. And I must stay here to do it.” She took his hand. “But tell Elisa we are just fine. Tell her I have the passports kept very safe and close at hand in case we must fly away.” She laughed at herself, at her foolishness for turning down such an offer. “Evian. The French resort of Geneva. Theo and I went there on our fifteenth anniversary. Ah, me, how very far away such elegance seems now from the real world of Prague!”
Murphy could hear the clamor of voices and smell the aromas of the soup kettles. Yes, Evian seemed very far away from reality indeed. “I have to go. You’re sure?”
“Quite sure. My place is here.” Her eyes clouded now at the thought of Elisa. “Tell her I love her, will you?” She stood and tucked the passports beneath her mattress. “And tell her we’ll be together again soon. She must not worry.”
Anna escorted Murphy down three stories from the garret, out among the busy women who worked to prepare for the evening meal. Murphy hugged Anna on the front step and then as he neared the corner, he turned for one last look. Anna stood with her hands on her hips, joking and giving orders in alternate breaths as long tables on the sidewalk were laden with food.
***
Sandbags and trenches were everywhere in Prague. Sacks of sand surrounded the statue of St. Nepomuk on the Charles Bridge. Candles burned before the sandbags. Windows were taped and boarded up in the shops of Old Town. The windows of hotels and businesses were covered with black cloth.
Murphy caught a trolley car crowded with Czechs who scanned the newspapers and angrily discussed Hitler’s ultimatum. These people were strong and indignant, Murphy thought. They would fight for their freedom if they were called to do so!
Stepping from the trolley in front of Hradcany Castle, Murphy shook his head in wonder at the changes Hitler’s threats had brought. Where once the lights of thousands of candles had beckoned him and Elisa to the castle, now sandbags and armed guards were everywhere. Every window had been carefully blacked out. Even the window of President Beneš’s office.
Soldiers challenged him as he walked toward the entrance. “I am John Murphy. American journalist. I wired President Beneš of my arrival in Prague. He is expecting me.”
Someone recognized the name. The American who had saved the life of the president. First one officer was called and then another, and finally the face of the colonel who
had been wounded appeared.
The colonel did not smile, although he seemed glad to see Murphy. The man looked visibly aged and not nearly so splendid as he had in his dress uniform the night at the ball.
“Come in, come in.” He opened the bronze door for Murphy as if he were inviting him for coffee. But inside the marbled hallway, grim and worried men hurried from one office to another. “President Beneš mentioned you would come today,” he said. “Of course, the schedule is full. We are, you may see, on a full-war footing. Ready for what may come.” He was walking quickly toward the back staircase that led to the private offices of Beneš.
On the first landing Murphy stopped him. “I will not intrude,” Murphy said, putting a hand on the officer’s arm. He was throwing away the scoop of a lifetime, but there was a sense of importance here that did not allow the thought of an interview to be taken seriously. “This is not a social call.” Murphy pulled out a white envelope from his coat pocket. “I came first of all to wish President Beneš—all of you—” Murphy stopped, feeling trite and foolish. “I am praying for you,” he finished. “And I came to ask a favor.” He handed the envelope to the officer. “It is explained very briefly. You will see that he gets it?”
The officer clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “Gladly.” Then he smiled. “We are men besieged, Mr. Murphy—hardly in a position to grant favors now.” He laughed bitterly. “But I will give our president your letter, certainly.”
“I can find my way out. Long life!” Murphy spoke the words of Czech farewell, and as he said them, he hoped they were true.
35
Closed Doors
Leah, my heart,
When I read your letter I could not speak for the joy of learning you and Louis are safe and only a short swim away from me across the Channel. How good is our Lord, and how merciful He is to spare your lives! There has not been a day since we parted that terrible moment in Vienna that I have not thought of you a thousand times. And now you are in Paris staying with Sonia and Magda, who I know will care for you and make certain you are well fed and happy. Soon I hope to join you there. I have some performances yet to finish, but pray for me that I will finish soon; then I will take you to tea at the Eiffel Tower, and you can tell me everything—and I will tell you everything, too. Words and letters are terrible little things—trifles, so stiff and unmoving. Not at all like my bow. And so, I want you to try very hard to catch the 7:00 pm performance on the BBC radio on the 17th. I will play Mozart’s (who else?) Violinkonzert Nr. 4 D-Dur, and my heart will be singing the Rondeau especially for you. Loving sister, you will hear my joy. Until then, think of me, and I will be very near to you.
All my love,
Elisa
***
Elisa lay back on the bed of her darkly furnished Left Bank Paris hotel room. She could see her image in the dim mirror of the dresser. Short hair. Serious eyes. I look years older, she mused. Weary, and even frightened.
It was hard to believe that less than eighteen hours ago she had been with Murphy, but then everything seemed to be moving so fast. They had been away from a radio for only three days and when they surfaced, the news was startling. Hitler had demanded the evacuation of all Czechs from the Sudetenland. They were to take nothing with them—not furniture or livestock or weapons!
Of course, Elisa knew that multiple thousands had already fled to Prague from the territories even before Hitler’s ultimatum. But this Diktat from the Führer made the situation seem all the more ominous.
Elisa rolled over and switched on the radio, turning the knob until the voice of the BBC crackled into the room. She did not want to hear news. Tedrick had filled her in with information that she was certain was so explosive that not even the BBC would know of it. Her assignment was to meet with Thomas, find out if Hitler’s ultimatum against the Czech citizens in the Sudetenland was the certain indication that an invasion was on.
Tonight Elisa only wanted some comfort. Tonight the BBC was scheduled to broadcast a violin concerto by a certain young violinist named Elisa Linder-Murphy! Elisa smiled as her name was announced. All the way from London to Paris, and she could hear herself. It seemed almost humorous now. She looked toward the corner of the room at the brand new case housing her Guarnerius, and she wondered how Shelby was making out hefting around the old case and the ten-dollar violin it contained.
There was the rousing sound of applause—canned, certainly. There had been no audience when Elisa had recorded the concerto. Then the music began, sweet and poignant. Within the notes all her longings were carried.
She wondered if Leah were listening right now, a few miles from her in Paris. How she wanted to see her again! And Thomas—was he able to listen to a BBC broadcast in the German Embassy? Or was that forbidden? Perhaps she would ask him tomorrow when they met at the bistro. How would they feel listening to a Jewess play Mozart’s happy bright music?
She did not feel happy or bright tonight. She wanted only to be finished with all this before something inside her broke forever. And she wanted to be with Murphy on a farm in Pennsylvania where someday their sons could camp in the woods and dream of faraway places.
***
Thomas resented the appearance of this rather greasy-looking little Gestapo agent at the embassy. Playing on the rivalry between Himmler and Admiral Canaris, this newcomer seemed to have found a thousand ways to needle Thomas.
Thomas guessed that Georg Wand had come to Paris to gauge the effect of the Czech crisis on the French. Not until this moment did he finally understand the reason for the man’s encampment at the embassy.
It was after dinner and as was the custom, the staff members adjourned to the lounge where most of the Führer’s tirades were listened to and discussed. But tonight, Wand did something remarkable according to the standards of the German Embassy. He turned on the large upright radio and played with the dials and the volume until at last the distinct music of a violin and orchestra filled the room.
He smiled. His tooth glinted gold, “Ah yes!” he cried with delight, rubbing his hands together. “Mozart! Violinkonzert, D-Dur!”
“Is that not the BBC?” asked Herr Trodt, third assistant secretary.
“Indeed it is,” Wand answered. “But the violinist is one of our own. At least she was . . . an Austrian, I think. Or perhaps Czech. Or maybe she was German-born! It is all confusing. Her name is . . . it escapes me.” He looked directly at Thomas. “Elisa, is it?”
Thomas stared at the toe of his spit-polished boot as he lounged back in an easy chair. He did not answer the gaze of Georg Wand, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled. What did this creature know? Probably nothing—nothing more than what had been in the Gestapo files. Silence, Thomas!
“Elisa!” Georg continued. “Ja. I think that is the first name. Married to an American journalist, John Murphy. Very much anti-Nazi, I’m afraid. Very dangerous to us.” He slapped his hand on his skinny thigh and sat down. “But all the same, the music is quite remarkable, don’t you think?”
***
The skies above Lake Geneva were as deep blue and transparent as the lake itself today. Murphy looked out the window of the Pan American passenger plane, past the spinning props to where steamers plied the waters like tiny toy boats.
To the north, rolling hills were crisscrossed with the geometric patterns of vineyards and orchards sloping to the shoreline. South and east, the mountains of Valais and Savoy reared up, only to be dwarfed by the peak of Mont Blanc shimmering in the distance.
Tucked between the mountains and the lake was the resort of Evian, a village that existed for the sake of wealthy Frenchmen who came to drink its famous waters and bathe away the aches and pains of age. The hotels were opulent and expensive, and this week they would be crowded. He was confident that there would be more reporters and observers than participants in the refugee conference. Those who were not included had much more at stake than those who took up their suites in the Hotel Royale and studied the alarming reports of homel
ess thousands clamoring for a safe heaven.
Were they discussing the Darien? Murphy wondered. Or were those few hundred onboard the freighter too few in the scope of the millions to consider right now? Less than eight hundred people. The refugees of the Darien represented no more than a ten-thousandth part of the millions now clearly within Hitler’s gunsights. Merely a drop in the proverbial bucket, Murphy mused, and that realization made him shudder. How many could be saved? Each hour that passed was already too late for some. Each day, how many more were being pushed closer to the brink of . . . of what?
Murphy shook his head, unable to believe that the threats in Hitler’s speeches could be taken literally. Annihilate? Exterminate? Eliminate? These were words used for bugs, not people! And yet, it was happening. Even now. Even as this council of wise and humane representatives of the nations gathered to enjoy the spas and thermal springs of Evian, people were dying. People were waiting, hoping, praying that there would be an answer for them and their families.
The plane banked to the southwest, giving Murphy a clear view of Geneva, glistening on the shoreline where the swift blue waters of the Rhone River exited the lake.
Murphy had loved Geneva when, as a young reporter for Craine and the INS, he had been sent to cover the fall sessions of the League of Nations. He had been a naive kid then. He had believed somehow that the assignment was his big break. While other reporters abandoned the sessions for visits to the Casino Municipal, or strolls in the steep lanes of the Left Bank’s Old City, Murphy had stuck it out.
By the end of the session he had learned one important fact: The Palais des Nations was nothing more than a whitewashed tomb filled with the bones of dead men! What had been created as a covenant between nations to keep the peace of the world had become a platform for banal platitudes that accomplished nothing at all. When Hitler as new chancellor of Germany had pulled out of the League, Murphy broke the story. This event was the only thing that woke anyone up during the session. The journalists who had dropped their wages at the roulette wheel during that momentous day shrugged and said, “We don’t want to be here either.”
