by Bodie Thoene
“The Musikverein in Vienna . . . the name is Linder.”
Murphy ran his fingers through his hair, wishing that he could forget the name and the address. “Vienna . . . Musikverein . . . Linder.“ The information made his stomach ache. If it had been written down, he would have torn it up and thrown it away. Unfortunately the name and address burned indelibly into his memory, along with the image of Elisa’s golden hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stooped beside her suitcase. Murphy inhaled, somehow imagining that he could catch the scent of her perfume. Instead stale cigar smoke made him cough.
“Stinks in here,” he muttered, opening the window slightly. The roar of traffic and rain brought him back to the reality of Wilhelmstrasse. He peered out into the grayness of the day and shook his head slowly. “Nobody wants to be here, Murphy,” he said to himself. “Nobody is in Berlin by choice.”
At that, he lifted his eyes toward the British Embassy. A lone figure of a man walked quickly by the gloomy building. The man walked with a limp, his face hidden beneath an umbrella, but it seemed to Murphy that there was something familiar about him. Behind the man, two plainclothes Gestapo agents followed at a discreet distance. It was easy to spot the agents. They did not have umbrellas, yet they tried to look relaxed and nonchalant in the middle of the worst downpour of the season.
Murphy watched the man a moment more; then his eyes widened and he almost choked. “It’s Lindheim!” he cried. “Theo Lindheim!” A slight movement of the umbrella had revealed Lindheim’s grim and determined face. He dodged traffic clumsily as he limped across Wilhelmstrasse toward the Adlon Hotel. His two pursuers stayed close behind, oblivious to the torrential rain. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed like antiaircraft fire above their heads.
To Murphy’s amazement, Theo walked directly beneath his window and then made a dash for the canvas awning and the front entrance of the hotel. The Gestapo men quickened their pace and also entered the building. Murphy noticed two more plainclothesmen watching from across the street, and another pair waiting beside the British Embassy.
For an instant, Murphy thought what a coincidence it was that he would see Theo Lindheim just as he was thinking about Elisa. But he promptly dismissed that notion as nonsense; after all, he had not thought about much of anything else but Elisa for days.
Murphy was just about to head for the lobby when a sharp knock startled him. Before he opened the door, somehow he knew that Theo Lindheim stood on the other side.
In one move Murphy pulled Theo into the room and shut the door behind him. He slid the bolt shut with a click, then turned to Theo, who looked more startled than Murphy.
“How did you know—,” Theo began.
“I saw you out the window. Did they follow you up here?”
“I took the elevator to the fifth floor and then walked down two flights. One of your reporter friends showed me to your room. I think the men who followed me are looking on the floors above.” Theo stopped and wiped the raindrops from his face. “It does not matter,” he said with resignation. “Soon enough they will find me again.” He looked wearily around the room as though he longed for a place to sit down.
“I thought you were at Gestapo headquarters.” Murphy tugged him toward a chair, then closed the heavy draperies. The room was dark, but Murphy did not turn on the light.
“Why should they keep me there?” Theo smiled bitterly. “They want Anna and the children to come back. They will not close the vise any tighter until there are more hostages within their clutches.”
Murphy nodded, and Elisa’s clear eyes became vivid in his mind again. “Your daughter reached Austria safely.” He tried to console the desperate man before him.
“Yes. So I assumed. A wire came for me this morning. From Innsbruck. I haven’t read it. I suppose the SS and the Gestapo read it first since I am under suspicion.” He pulled a white envelope from his pocket. “They must not come here. It is a trap. I am the bait.”
Murphy stared at the envelope. It was unmarked in any way. “What is it?”
“A letter. A farewell to my family, Herr Murphy.” Theo’s voice was steady and without self-pity. “I cannot address it. The Gestapo will then know they are not in Innsbruck. I cannot mail it; it would never reach them.” He leveled his gaze on Murphy. “If perhaps you will be across the border of Germany, perhaps in Austria—”
Murphy did not reply for a long time. He stared at Lindheim’s trembling hand. The determined face was almost as white as the envelope. “A farewell?” Murphy asked. But it was not a question. The meaning of Theo’s words were clear.
“They must not return to Germany,” Theo said again.
Murphy leaned away from the outstretched message. “I can’t take that to your family,” he said, ashamed all over again that he had not done more to help.
Theo withdrew his hand and looked away. After a slight hesitation, he stood up. “Yes. I should not have involved you. Good-bye, Herr Murphy.” He turned to go, but Murphy caught him by the arm.
“Wait a minute!” he cried. “What I mean is . . . there has to be something else. I mean, if you are thinking about—Herr Lindheim, I don’t want to be part of your—”
“My death?” Theo sounded amused. “Herr Murphy, you are an American. Perhaps you do not know how very insignificant my death will be to the Third Reich. I simply wish to save the lives of my family. A reasonable desire. And all I ask of you is that you mail this when it is convenient. The act will already have been accomplished, and I assure you that you will have no part in my death . . . only my good-bye.”
“Can’t you find another way out?”
“They have canceled my Ausweis.”
“No. I mean, can’t you get across the border another way?” Murphy was desperate, grasping at straws. Theo Lindheim seemed suddenly more than the object of Elisa’s concern. Here was a noble and honest man locked in a hopeless situation. He had chosen his own death as the safest way out for his family, and the reality of the situation suddenly overwhelmed Murphy with the need to do something.
Again Theo smiled at the suggestion. “I have thought of it myself. But perhaps you noticed the Gestapo regiment following me.” He laid a hand on Murphy’s arm. “We are strangers, you and I. This is not your concern or responsibility. I simply ask that you see that the letter is delivered.”
Murphy nodded mutely. He was watching a man drown, and he did not have a single line of hope to toss to him. “I . . . yes. Certainly.”
Theo passed him the letter. “The address is to my daughter. Not difficult to remember—”
Murphy said it before Theo had a chance. “Musikverein. Vienna. The name is Linder.” His words sounded hollow as he stared at the blank envelope.
“She told you this?” Theo was surprised.
“I crossed the border intro Austria with her. After they took you.”
“Thank you. The kindness of a stranger—much greater than my own countrymen.” He stepped closer. “If you see them . . . ” He paused, searching for words.
Was there more that Murphy could say? Something more than Theo’s own brief note?
“Never mind.” Theo Lindheim extended his hand. “Danke, Herr Murphy.” He turned to leave, limping slowly toward the door.
Murphy watched for a few seconds, feeling as though he had somehow gotten caught up in the plot of a tragic movie. “Herr Lindheim!” he said suddenly. “Colonel Lindheim. Stay a while.” Murphy surprised himself. For the last five minutes he had not thought of Elisa as more than the recipient of this terrible letter.
“I cannot,” Theo muttered.
“Just hold on, will you? Stay and . . . dry out at least.”
Theo looked apologetic, then threatened by Murphy’s eagerness to keep him. “There is nothing to change what must be done, Herr Murphy.”
Murphy looked around wildly for some purpose to delay; he needed time to think. The typewriter and the crumpled paper caught his attention. “No. Yes. I mean, if this is the way it has to be, Herr L
indheim, at least help me out. Maybe help others too. I would like to talk to you. Get a story about all this for the American press.”
Theo smiled doubtfully. “There are a hundred Jewish deaths that go unheeded every morning. This is a small thing. Small.”
Murphy felt him slipping away. “Just— a few minutes. This is not anything American readers could believe, see? But you are a pretty big man in Germany. A war ace in France and—”
“And a Jew. Racially impure to the present government. There is little else to say.”
“So that’s it? I’m taking your letter. You owe me a few minutes. A few words.”
***
Theo stood with his hand on the doorknob. He looked first at Murphy and then at the typewriter. Murphy was, in effect, blackmailing him into talking. After all, the newspaperman had the letter.
Finally Theo nodded reluctantly, then limped past Murphy to sit down on the sofa again. His right hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his overcoat. His fingers tightly clutched the pistol grip, as though by its touch he could hold firmly to his resolution.
***
Brandenburg Gate behind his car, Thomas von Kleistmann pulled to the curb of Unter den Linden just across from the Adlon Hotel. Plainclothes members of the state police were evident everywhere, even in the rainstorm. Thomas set the hand brake and opened the windows a crack, then settled back to wait. Theo Lindheim had limped into the hotel ten minutes earlier.
Thomas was here only as a matter of obedience to Canaris since he was certain that his presence as a member of the Military Police was only a gesture on the part of his superior. If Theo were to be arrested again, there was no doubt that the Gestapo had first call on the prisoner. Thomas had been sent as an observer, and the chore made him resentful. Why had he been chosen for such a duty when Canaris must know about his former relationship with the Lindheim family? He would have married Elisa in a minute if she had accepted him three years ago, before the Nuremburg laws passed. It had been her decision to wait, not his. If he had thought it would have made any difference, he might have crossed the border into Austria himself; but once she had seen him in the uniform of an Abwehr officer, she had become cold and angry toward him.
He did not write her any more. At first he had hoped she would answer him. But when he was certain of the fact that he was also being watched, he had not dared address any piece of mail to Elisa Linder in Vienna. The connection was too obvious. It was only a matter of time, everyone said, until Austria was also a part of the Reich. He feared for Elisa if that happened.
The windshield of his car began to fog, and he opened the side windows wider. Outside, rain washed the air clean of exhaust fumes from the traffic. He rubbed a small round circle on the window and peered out at the hotel. Then he laid his chin on the top of the steering wheel and watched as two more Gestapo agents walked slowly up the street and stopped outside the front entrance of the hotel.
Surely Theo is smart enough to know he cannot escape, thought Thomas, amused by the fact that Theo was inside the building, warm and dry, while a dozen of Himmler’s henchmen stood soaked in the cold street. The government was undoubtedly afraid that it would lose a fortune if it lost Theo Lindheim. Thomas had even heard it said that fat little Göring had once paid a call on Theo, on the pretext of one former fighter pilot visiting another. The result of the visit was that Göring had come away awed by the fine art and furnishings of the Lindheim home. From that moment, it was assumed by men in the know that Göring had to figure a legal way to appropriate the property and possessions of Theo.
This sort of action was common among Hitler’s closest advisors. Without fail, they always got what they lusted after. Thomas was glad that Elisa had been out of the country—no doubt she would have been regarded as a prize for some SS officer. While the law against intercourse between a Jew and a German was in effect, it still did not stop the commonplace act of rape by Nazi soldiers against Jewish women. These acts were never prosecuted—they were, in fact, looked upon with some amusement by the authorities.
For all these reasons, Thomas had urged the Lindheims to obtain foreign passports and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Now Thomas thought ironically, I should have advised them to leave without any notice at all.
He had told Theo that even Austria must be only a temporary stopping place. Hitler had, of course, signed the pact with the Austrian Chancellor Schuschnigg that Germany would respect the right of the Austrians to choose their own destiny. Schuschnigg had the assurance that no move would be made by the Nazi Party to stir up trouble in Vienna if amnesty was offered to the Nazis imprisoned there. Schuschnigg had taken Hitler at this word, and thousands had been pardoned for their part in the rebellion of 1934 and the assassination of Dollfuss.
“Schuschnigg is a fool,” Thomas said aloud. He had seen the secret documents that had been sent to Vienna and the leaders of the Nazi Party there. They were to arrange an incident, something to cast blame on the Jews. Hitler, devious in his dealings, always created a reason to strike, even if there was none. Exactly what the incident would be, Thomas did not know. Members of the army looked on such political subterfuge with disapproval. Most of the old Weimar generals who remained in power talked fearfully about Hitler pushing the country toward war.
Thomas shook his head. He did not believe Hitler wanted war. He was certain that the generals did not. No, Hitler was motivated by a bottomless lust for power—just as Göring lusted after rare art and beautiful women, no matter whose they were. This pursuit of Theo was not borne out of hatred for him as a man or a Jew. All of that was just an excuse—an excuse for lawless men to take what belonged to others. It seemed strange that those who served the Hitlers and the Himmlers and the Görings believed the constant lie that “The Jew is our misfortune.” It was those little men in the service of greed who were the most violent, the most dedicated to the brutality of the racial policies. They murdered and terrorized for one reason only: because they could. They were the law of lawlessness; the power of evil was their creed and their joy and their god!
With a shudder, Thomas stared at the men who stood waiting for Theo. Why did he not come out? If a ransom was required, he could pay it, and perhaps they would let him go. But even as the thought ran through his mind, Thomas dismissed it. Those shivering creatures waiting in the rain enjoyed their game. A cat with a full belly will not let a mouse go unharmed; they would not sell their right to intimidate Theo Lindheim. That was the way of Germany now, and Thomas was sent simply to witness the inevitable.
14
Decoy
The alterations shop of Lindheim’s Department Store was in more disarray than usual. The racks were crammed with suits and dresses and uniforms left for last-minute alterations. Grynspan the tailor and young Herschel worked feverishly on hems and buttons and sleeves. They stopped for a few minutes to wolf down their lunch, then returned to their tasks.
Old Grynspan hardly noticed the tall lean man in the dark overcoat who entered the room. Herschel looked up from a row of buttons and immediately froze with apprehension. The stranger’s face was in shadow, but he still wore his hat. Gestapo! Herschel’s heart raced, although he knew he had no reason to be afraid.
“Papa,” Herschel said quietly, and the urgency of his voice caused the old man to look up from his work to see the man near the doorway.
“Can I help you?” the old tailor asked almost absently.
“I have come to pick up a uniform, if you are Herr Grynspan.”
“I am Herr Grynspan, and if I have what you need—” He stood but did not move until the man stepped out into the light.
The stranger’s face was gaunt and worried. Herschel noticed that he spoke with a trace of British accent. “Good,” said the man. “It is a Luftwaffe uniform.”
“Belonging to?”
“A former officer of the Luftwaffe. Retired.”
“His name?”
The intruder continued. “You made the uniform three years ago. For
a special event honoring the war dead.”
“Three years ago!” Herr Grynspan scoffed. “I have nothing of such . . . ” His voice faltered, and a flicker of suspicion crossed his face.
“Don’t give him anything, Papa,” Herschel whispered.
The man moved toward them. He seemed almost angry. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know you.” Herr Grynspan shrugged and smiled in mock ignorance.
“It doesn’t matter who I am.”
“Indeed it does, in these precarious times. I cannot give away suits of clothing without some identification.”
“Then please accept this.” The man extended a crisp hundred-mark bill.
“I was paid already for the work in question.” Herr Grynspan did not look at the money. If this was indeed a Gestapo trap, he would not sell his life for a mere hundred-mark note.
“Yes, the officer told me you were paid even though the political events in Germany prevented him from ever wearing the uniform.” The man raised his eyes to the tall walnut cabinet in the back of the room. “It is in there, I believe.”
The tailor hesitated. Herschel leaned closer and hissed in desperation, “He could be Gestapo! You can’t give away a Luftwaffe uniform.”
“If you refuse, I will simply take it,” the man warned.
Grynspan raised his eyebrows. “Then perhaps I will call the authorities.”
The man laughed at the threat. “You want to be a witness for the Gestapo, eh, Herr Grynspan?” He walked toward the cabinet. “It would be better for you if you continue to act ignorant about this, I think. The officer insisted that you not become involved any more than is necessary.” He opened the cabinet himself and stood looking blankly at the row of Luftwaffe uniforms. “I’m going to take one of these, old man. Your clients will not like it if I take the wrong one.”
