by Bodie Thoene
He wanted to see her again—welcomed the excuse, as terrible as the errand was that brought him here. And that made him angry at himself. Yet at the same time it compelled him to stay and search for her. Life had been all right before he had met her. He had not felt particularly empty or lacking in anything. He could buy what he needed to keep himself satisfied. Now suddenly he knew he was alone, empty and miserable. And he’d been miserable even before the brandy and the hangover.
It was Christmas in Vienna, and all he wanted under the tree—under any tree—was Elisa Linder.
***
The portrait of Emperor Franz Josef hung on the red silk-covered walls of Sacher’s restaurant and stared down at Murphy. Although Murphy would not admit it to the waiter, he was not impressed with the taste of the Sachertorte and ordered apple strudel instead.
“The Musikverein?” The young waiter frowned. “There is not a concert there until New Year’s Eve, Herr Murphy. Each year there is an all-Strauss concert. And then again on New Year’s Day. But both are probably sold out. There are many other musical events in the season, however.”
“No,” Murphy replied bluntly. “I’m interested in the first thing at the Musikverein.”
“It is the Vienna Philharmonic that plays there. And of course on Sundays there is the concert. But you will never get a seat now. Those are subscription tickets. Held by the same families for a hundred years, and—”
“New Year’s Eve?” Murphy interrupted, mentally calculating a week-long stay in Vienna.
“Must it be the Musikverein? You can see, today the street musicians are out in force already.” He sensed Murphy’s concern and felt somehow personally responsible to see to it that a customer got satisfaction in Vienna. This concern, known as Gemütlichkeit, permeated the city; it was part of the atmosphere that made Austria so charming.
“My friend is a violinist with the orchestra, you see, and I want to hear her play.”
“Which orchestra, mein Herr? There are several in Vienna. The Symphony, the Philharmonic, a dozen chamber orchestras—all of them playing some time or other at the Musikverein.” He frowned again. “No doubt she will be playing for the season now. They all are. She gave you this address and nothing more?”
Murphy felt more foolish than ever. It was obvious that Elisa had some reason why she would not give more specific information than the building on Bösendorferstrasse. Perhaps she had intended that he write her there first. Such a general address would certainly add to her protection. She had not mentioned which orchestra she performed with, and it might take Murphy weeks to check with every one of them.
“Musikverein. That’s all she told me.”
“Ja. Maybe you should go there. Someone might know where she lives, Herr Murphy.” The waiter could tell that Murphy had not come to Vienna for the sake of musical appreciation. “You might also go to the Vienna State Opera House, ja? Just around the corner. If she is well known and perhaps plays with the Vienna Philharmonic . . . and at the Konzerthaus is the Vienna Philharmonic.”
“How far?” Murphy looked out as a trolley car trundled past the window.
“Not far. Lothringerstrasse.” The waiter looked amused. “This violinist?” He smiled. “She must be very pretty, ja?”
“Hmmm,” Murphy answered distractedly. “Big. A couple hundred pounds. Really big.”
“Ah yes!” The waiter grinned broadly. “My Gretl is also big. More to love, I say!” He winked. “She is young and soft?”
“Soft, anyway,” Murphy said seriously. “But mature. Maybe fifty.”
The waiter became serious. “Ja. I see. Then very rich, I suppose.”
“Loaded.” Murphy used the American term, and the waiter puzzled over it for a moment before he filled Murphy’s coffee cup.
“You will find her, Herr Murphy. There cannot be too many rich, round women playing the violin in an orchestra, I think. As long as you know her name.”
Murphy did not admit that he was not even certain that Elisa had given him the correct identification. Today he would walk back to the Musikverein and ask around—if there was anyone there to ask. Who knows? he thought. Maybe a janitor or stagehand will know her. Somebody will recognize her. There can’t be that many beautiful blond violinists around, can there?
He had thought this was going to be easy, and maybe he was making it more complicated than it really was. There had to be some reason why she gave this address, after all. Hadn’t Theo given the same address? There was one Musikverein in Vienna, and one Elisa. He would find her. If her mail went there, he would hang around until she picked it up. For a week or so he would disappear, and nobody in New York would mind—he hoped. After all, Timmons and Johnson and that new guy Murrow were still in Berlin. He frowned down at the strudel. Maybe to be on the safe side, he would cable New York and indicate that he was hot on a story in Vienna. It might, in fact, be the truth.
Murphy tipped the waiter a bit more than was customary, wrapped the strudel in his napkin, and slipped it into a folded newspaper. He might need it if he had to wait at the Musikverein long. He wired New York and gave the Sacher Hotel as his residence before he trudged through the park toward the place of Elisa’s address. The snow on the front steps remained undisturbed, and two sets of footprints led to the stage door of the Musikverein Concert Hall. Murphy followed them, feeling a little like Sherlock Holmes tracking his quarry.
The stage door was unlocked, and Murphy entered the building without knocking. He called loudly, startled at the way his voice expanded in the vacant hall. Row on row of plush velvet seats waited, silent and empty. Murphy looked out, imagining what Elisa must see with each performance. He felt suddenly very close to her. This was her place, familiar ground to her.
The sound of footsteps approached behind him, and Murphy turned.
A bent and weathered little man, dressed warmly in a heavy coat and cap, hurried toward him. “Ja?” he asked, somewhat aloof and stern. This was obviously his place too, and he did not welcome the tall foreigner who had entered uninvited.
“Guten Morgen.” Murphy tipped his hat. “I am looking for someone.”
“There is no one here but me!” the old man snapped. “So unless you are looking for me, you should go away, thank you.”
Murphy did not let the man’s reply stop him. “Her name is Elisa Linder. She gave me this address.”
“She does not live here. Why should she give you this address?” He was scowling. Suspicious.
“It was a mailing address, but I—”
“Ja. The young musicians give this as the address for mail because they move so often. So why don’t you write her a letter, then? Good-bye.” He turned his back on Murphy and started to walk away.
“Wait a minute!” Murphy stepped in front of him, at the same time dropping a bill onto the floor. He stooped to pick it up and waved it like a flag beneath the old man’s nose. “Did you drop this?” It was a ten-shilling note.
The old man stopped in his tracks and stared at the money. He took the bill after a moment. “I cannot tell you what I do not know.” He shrugged.
“What do you know?”
“What I told you. She comes here to pick up her mail. As do many young musicians. She has gone since the holidays, I think. I have not seen her.”
“When will she—”
“I do not know that.”
“Does she come quite regularly? A special time of day?”
“Around four o’clock every day or two.”
“You do not have an address?”
The old man hesitated, hoping for another bribe. Murphy complied, slipping a five-shilling note into his hand. “Not an address for her. No. But she has a friend, Leah Goldblatt. A cellist. A very excellent cellist at that. Perhaps the most excellent—”
“Her address?”
“You must not tell Leah Goldblatt that you gave me money. I could lose my job, and then where would I be? Out on the street with the rest of the beggars. Perhaps I should not chance it�
�” He frowned.
Murphy pressed yet another bill into his palm. “That’s the last,” Murphy lied. “Where is this Leah Goldblatt?”
The old man turned and shuffled off toward a dark office. He flicked on the light and flipped through the telephone book, sliding his finger down the page. “Ah!” he said at last. “The telephone she shares with four others. But here is her own address. There is nothing for Elisa Linder in the book. Probably because she is quite beautiful, and young men would be likely to call on her even if she did not want them to.” He smiled broadly, revealing an uneven row of teeth stained by years of drinking the dark Viennese coffee.
Murphy groaned. He had paid twenty shillings for an address out of a phone book! He scribbled down the number and address and left. He could hear the uproarious laughter of the old man as he hurried out the stage door. Yep, Murphy, you are one fantastic investigative reporter. He patted the slip of paper in his pocket and tucked his chin against the blast of cold air that blew snowflakes along the sidewalk. A new storm had gathered, and the street musicians who had been playing so happily an hour before were now packing up their instruments and scurrying for cover.
***
Murphy followed two stout women in fur caps and galoshes into Demel’s Konditorei, a pastry shop laden with tortes and cream puffs of every size and description. Not surprisingly, the counter was three deep with customers who flocked in for last-minute treats for friends or relatives. A few solitary souls sat in the rococo dining room, where marble floors and gilded stucco were surpassed in elegance only by the desserts on display. Demel’s was almost the only pastry shop open for the holiday, and the long lines jostling for the last dozen bonbons or chocolate confiseries spoke of the Viennese passion for sweets. The aroma of chocolate, freshly baked pastries, and cakes was almost more than a mortal could bear.
No doubt Murphy would have been affected like everyone else if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was still lugging a hangover with him. He stood in the center of the crowd and searched for a telephone. A gilded phone booth was tucked discreetly in the far corner by the entrance to the kitchen. As Murphy carefully dialed Leah Goldblatt’s number, he noticed that the telephone was caught in the cross fire of noise between the kitchen and the counter.
He could barely hear the phone ring on the other end of the line, and when at last a man answered, Murphy thought he could hear the distinct roar of a party in the background. He shouted, and was sure the man was shouting back, but the two could barely hear each other.
“I’m a friend of Elisa Linder!” Murphy said loudly.
“Elisa? I don’t know if she’s here. Hey! Quiet back there! A friend of Elisa is on the line!” The background din seemed to get louder. “You’ll have to speak up!”
“I’m looking for Elisa!”
“She’s as likely to be here as anyone else! Come on over!”
“Is she in town?”
“Everybody’s in town! Can’t you hear?”
“But Elisa—”
“Come on over. But leave your instrument home . . . no room! Standing room only!” The telephone clattered down onto the receiver, leaving Murphy shouting at a dial tone.
Unwilling to wait in line, Murphy stopped a rosy-cheeked grandmother, her arms laden with boxes. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said politely. “Would you sell me some of that?”
“An hour I have waited in line, young man!” She seemed indignant.
“One box of anything. I’ll pay you double what you paid.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose with interest and the bargaining began in earnest. In the end, Murphy paid what the entire load of food had cost, and emerged from Demel’s with only one small package of roasted ham. The aged Frau seemed content and chuckled happily as Murphy skated off down the slick sidewalk with his prize.
Murphy had crashed a few parties in his day, but never one so unusual as the party at Leah Goldblatt’s little flat. From the street outside the tall, ancient apartment building, Murphy could hear the clarinet of a Benny Goodman recording. He checked the address once again, hoping that this was indeed the home of the cello player. Satisfied, he followed two black-coated Hasidic Jews up the narrow flight of stairs to where people spilled out the door of an apartment, clustering in groups of four and five on the stair landing and sitting on the steps, leaning on banisters and against the walls. The music was Benny Goodman all right, but the strange mixture of guests and gate crashers at this party made Murphy wish that he had bought a chocolate torte from the woman at the pastry shop. A wide white banner stretched over the front door and proclaimed: Welcome, Zionists, Friends of Eretz-Israel. Shalom!
Murphy had passed three synagogues in the neighborhood on his way to Leah’s flat, but now it seemed that everyone had congregated here. He held tightly to his package of ham. No. It would not be wise to put a ham on a table crowded with gefilte fish and herring and a dozen different homemade strudels.
He had unknowingly entered the Jewish district of Vienna, and a gathering on behalf of Zionism, at that. Perhaps such a meeting was safe in this part of the city, but Murphy could not help but wonder about the wisdom of being so open in these times. After all, it was only two years since Dollfuss had fallen to the Nazis. And wasn’t Hitler screaming about the dirty socialist Jews just across the border? In Vienna Hitler had first made his link with the anti-Semites while he struggled to survive as an artist in a city overflowing with artists. And Vienna had also given birth to men like Theodore Hertzl, the father of Zionism. Such were the paradoxes of this city.
Murphy squeezed past a small group of girls who blocked the doorway. He scanned the faces, searching for Elisa. Conversation drifted up from every corner of the room. The topic of each little company was not the weather or the season but Palestine! Who had gone or hoped to go. Who had chosen the United States instead, and why.
“The riots are terrible in Jerusalem now, she said.”
“The Mufti stirs them up.”
“There is talk that the British will restrict immigration even more.”
“Like everywhere.”
“Samuel has gone to a kibbutz in the Negev.”
“Negev? Where is that?”
“The desert. Like Moses in Sinai.”
“This is all well and good, but I’m going to New York.”
“America! The place is drowning in the Depression. Nobody gets visas to New York America anymore!”
“I have an uncle. He lives there and will write a letter for me. He will vouch for me.”
“Yes. Yes. To get into America it is only possible with connections.”
Murphy could not see Elisa anywhere among the bobbing heads in the little flat. A tall handsome man with fists full of crackers and a full mouth passed by. He seemed more interested in food than in politics. Murphy grabbed him by the arm.
“I’m looking for Elisa Linder.”
“Who isn’t? She’s got my violin.” He swallowed and smiled. “My name is Rudy Dorbransky. You are American, aren’t you?”
A hush fell over a small circle of men and women around them. To get into America you must have connections! Murphy felt the eyes penetrating his back.
“No, Russian,” he said, and the hum started up again. No one wanted to go to Russia. “So, you know Elisa?”
“Yes.” Rudy seemed disappointed. “So, how do you know her?”
“We are old friends.”
“Well, you won’t find her here. Haven’t you noticed?” He seemed bored. “Every year Leah puts on this party for the Zionists in Palestine. To raise a few shillings. A Jewish version of a Christmas party, yes? We finish playing La Traviata at the Staatsoper, and then everyone comes here. Every year. It is a tradition if you’re Jewish. Which Elisa is not, and neither are you.” He cocked his head and smiled curiously at the box of ham that was slightly open. “Pink and rosy stuff there.” He seemed to enjoy Murphy’s embarrassment. “Not exactly kosher.”
“Is Leah anywhere around, then?” Murphy pret
ended to look around the room as though he would recognize Leah.
“Of course.” Rudy raised his eyebrows in amusement. “You are standing right beside her.” He jerked his thumb toward the petite, animated young woman who stood in the center of a group of teenaged girls and told them in glowing terms of life in a kibbutz.
Murphy turned away from Rudy with a nod of thanks and waited for Leah to take a breath.
“Young, strong hands, that is what they are calling for. It is no difference—boys or girls. They are treated alike. Work with the same enjoyment—”
Murphy cleared his throat and plunged in. “Fraülein Goldblatt? I have heard a lot about you. From Elisa Linder.”
“Oh?” She was not happy with the interruption. “And you are?”
“John Murphy.”
“The Russian?”
“American,” he whispered, but again the conversations fell silent and attentive. “A friend of Elisa.”
“So what are you doing here, Herr Murphy?” The question was not unfriendly, but to the point.
“I was hoping she would be here.”
“She is not. Everyone here is Jewish. Except for you. And possibly a Nazi agent or two prowling about to find out what we are up to. Fortunately it is not against the law for us to meet as Zionists in Austria. Not yet, at any rate, so they may prowl all they like.” She blinked pleasant, warm brown eyes up at him. “Are you a Nazi, Herr Murphy? Or a Zionist?” She smiled.
“Neither.” He smiled back. “Just a friend of Elisa.”
“Well, you can see.” She gestured around the room and Murphy noticed the contrasts of the men and women gathered there. Men in stiff white shirt fronts and white ties and black dinner jackets rubbed shoulders with Hassids who argued religious questions rather than political issues. Elisa would have seemed very much out of place indeed, even though she was Jewish—at least, half Jewish. Of course, that was one bit of information that only Murphy seemed to know.
