by Bodie Thoene
Elisa laughed through her tears and obediently blew her nose. “Leah, you have seen me in the worst states!”
“What are friends for? You threaten to hit me, kick me out of your apartment, and now you almost drip on me!”
Elisa laughed again and sat up, feeling better than she had felt in almost a year. “Well, now I can tell you that we are almost blood relations.”
“Does that mean you’re going to come to the Zionist meetings?”
“No.”
“Smart girl. Hold on to those Aryan identification papers. You are worlds ahead of us if the world caves in.”
“The world will not cave in.”
“We can hope,” Leah said with a wave of her hand. “Vienna may not notice as long as the coffee does not run out. Speaking of which, how did it go tonight with John Murphy?”
“He proposed.”
“Americans work fast.” She smiled. “Did you slap him again?”
“No. But I told him no.” She looked down at her hands, feeling suddenly shy. “But I like him, Leah. A lot. I . . . wanted to kiss him before I got into the taxi. I wanted him to kiss me. It has been a long time since I felt that way about anyone. A year ago in the Tyrol I met a boy; I let him kiss me, but nothing was awake. You know?”
“And this Murphy? He wakes you up?”
“Yes. I . . . kept hoping he would kiss me. But he is so—”
“American. They believe you when you play coy games. The French never believe that every woman alive isn’t ready to make love. The Italians have the same mentality. Germans—I am sure they have a manual of proper rules of order for such things. The English—well, I always wonder how there got to be so many little Englishmen running around!”
Elisa was laughing out loud by now. “And what do we do with the Americans?”
“They are sweet puppy dogs, I think. Be kind. Be kind to Americans. Be kind to John Murphy, Elisa. He bought tickets to sixteen concerts, and I think he probably loves something besides the music!”
Elisa became suddenly silent. Tears filled her eyes again as she remembered an old family story. “My father did the same after he heard my mother play here in Vienna for the first time. He was on leave from his squadron, and while the rest of his friends spent their nights in the Seventh District with those . . . women, Papa came every night to hear her play.” She looked up at Leah. Her eyes were shining. “Every night he came to hear her. They got married. She loves him still, and if he still lives, I am sure his every thought is for her. Always I have wondered—even with Thomas—if any man could ever love me the way my father loved my mother.”
“Then tomorrow, at rehearsal, play your violin for him, Elisa. Play for John Murphy and listen to the song your heart sings.” Leah winked. “That is how I knew I loved Shimon. Big, silly Shimon. I played for him. Felt my music reaching out only to him. Like a prayer, yes? Like a hymn to God. And love came back to me in the music.” She looked at Elisa who seemed transfixed. “Well?”
“Tonight at the concert, I did not look at him. But I felt him there looking at me, Leah. And I did not want to give my music to him; but somehow . . . I felt him taking each note like a kiss, drawing the bow across my strings as though he were the musician, not I.” She raised her eyebrows, slightly surprised that she could express so precisely what she had felt.
“Yes.” Leah nodded with approval. “Perhaps you should take another long look at John Murphy. And play for him, Elisa. For him!”
25
“God Alone Should Have My Heart”
On this snowy afternoon, Elisa had agreed to meet Murphy after rehearsal. Friends, yes. Just friends. And yet, when she emerged laughing from the theatre, he thought his heart would break with the ache he felt for her. She waved good-bye to Leah and five other young women from the orchestra, then greeted him with a wave and a “Guten Tag, Murphy!” She skipped down the stairs, and he saw the flash of her red skirt beneath her heavy woolen coat. Her golden hair was covered by a bright red scarf, and he could not help but think that she would make an ideal model for some craftsman carving angels in a tiny stall in front of the Rathaus.
“Are you ready for shopping?” Her cheeks were already rosy with the bitter, bracing cold. “Something for your mama, ja? For her Christmas in Pennsylvania.” She stood before him, her chin slightly upturned as though she was waiting for a kiss. But she wasn’t, so he didn’t.
He took her violin from her and then felt warm and pleased when she linked her arm in his for the walk to the Ringstrasse and the teeming Christmas shops. He knew that she held his arm as a hedge against the slippery ice, but all the same, her touch added a magic to the spell of the street musicians and the decorated shopwindows.
“Something small for her,” Murphy instructed. “Something beautiful and delicate.” He was looking at Elisa. “Maybe an angel I can send airmail.”
“A wood carving, perhaps!” Thankfully, she did not notice the wistful look on his face, and when she glanced up at him he tried to conceal the emotions that were tumbling out.
“Perfect,” he agreed as she tugged his hand toward the makeshift stalls of village artisans who had gathered from all over Austria to sell their wares to Vienna.
Drums filled with scraps of wood burned in the midst of the artisans’ market. Men and women gathered around to warm their hands before they strolled on through displays of wooden toys, hand-crocheted lace and linens, jewelry, carpets, and carved crèches.
Above the cheerful voices of the shoppers, the sweet violin music of “Good King Wenceslas” rose up from behind a semicircle of polite listeners. A scuffed violin case lay on the ground beside the old peasant musician, a few coins were tossed into it, and Elisa stopped to hear him play the entire melody.
Murphy drew a deep breath at the sight of her tender, transfixed expression while she listened to the beggar musician. She applauded louder than the others who drifted away after tossing the most meager of offerings into his case.
“Lovely,” she said. “Sehr schön.”
He doffed his ragged cap and bowed deeply to her, then smiled toothlessly. “And you also are sehr schön, Fraülein!”
Murphy tossed two shillings in to the case. The old man had said what Murphy was afraid to say. He ached to tell her, but he could not. Not after last night’s accidental proposal, at any rate. Friends, Murphy. Just friends.
“We are looking for a booth of fine wood carvings,” Elisa said to the musician. “Where is the finest at the fair?”
The old man looked at her strangely, then squinted as if trying to bring up some memory. “The finest, Fraülein, are from the Tyrol cooperative, of course. The booth” —he pointed down the row to where men and women crowded before a wooden stall—“the finest of Tyrol.”
Elisa and Murphy made their way through the throngs, stopping for a moment before the open fire of an oil drum. Rich and poor were gathered here. Murphy remembered the farmers’ market of his boyhood in Philadelphia. Perhaps the world was not so very different, after all.
The Tyrol wood-carvers’ booth was a display of work from all the Alpine villages. Tiny angels and wise men hung on golden threads from the top of the booth to the bottom. Mary and Joseph knelt beside oxen and sheep overlooking ten variations of the newborn Christ child. Behind them now, the old musician played “Stille Nacht” as the carver in the booth explained the origin of each of the delicate pieces.
Murphy could see better than Elisa, who was standing on tiptoe behind a very tall man and a rather large woman as they chose their crèche.
“Do you see anything you like?” Elisa called up to him.
Murphy scanned the multitude of carvings. “There are almost too many, too beautiful to choose one.” Then he stopped at the sight of an intricately carved Madonna holding a tiny, lifelike baby Jesus. Joseph looked on with such love, not at the infant but at the woman. Murphy almost gasped in astonishment. As if someone had heard his thought, the image of the young woman was that of Elisa. Clearly Elisa! And in a
line, above the carving, a row of angels played intricately carved violins as they floated on their golden threads. Elisa! All Elisa! Murphy looked down at her living, breathing beauty. How could this be?
“How may I help you, mein Herr?” The merchant directed his gaze at Murphy. He noticed that Murphy’s eyes were riveted to the carvings. “Beautiful, ja? Hand carved in the Tyrol. The finest—”
“Yes. I want them all. The angels—”
“All the same? The whole dozen? You do not wish some variety?”
Elisa could not see his purchase and tugged his sleeve impatiently. “Not all the same, Murphy. It is better if some are different. Each from a different village.”
“No,” Murphy insisted, in spite of the fact that these particular angels seemed to be a bit higher in price than the others. “All the same.” He passed a handful of bills to the startled but pleased merchant.
“Our finest. Most lovely. They seem to breathe their praise, and one can almost hear their song, ja? ‘Glory to God in the Highest!’” He took them down and wrapped them carefully in newspaper one at a time.
“May I not see?” Elisa asked impatiently.
Murphy grinned down at her, feeling foolish, and yet, somehow, like he had captured part of her to take back to his room with him. “No.” He was firm. “Not until I get a little tree first.” He took his package and tucked it under his arm, holding both the violin and the angels with the same arm so he could clutch Elisa’s hand with the other.
Her face was still raised as she tried to see the rest of the booth over the heads of the crowd, and impulsively, Murphy bent down and kissed her lightly.
Again he had shocked himself. He started to apologize, but she put a finger to his lips and smiled up into his eyes. “A friendly kiss, Murphy,” she said softly. “Fröhliche Weihnachten. Happy Christmas.” Her voice was gentle, like a song. She took her hand away and lifted her chin expectantly. This time it was no accident. Murphy pulled her near to him, and in the midst of the crowd, he kissed her. He felt her lips part slightly as she leaned against him. For a moment, the rush of warmth was so strong through him that he imagined she might have to hold him up. The world spun. Then she pulled away. They stood oblivious to the clamor around them.
“You have made me feel alive again.” She laid her head against his chest.
Murphy had trouble finding his breath, let alone speaking. “Yeah,” he replied.
“Angry. Embarrassed. Pursued.” She laughed. “Desired—” Her voice was still wistful.
“Elisa.” Murphy gulped. “Elisa.” The name itself was magic to him.
“Yes, Murphy?”
“I think I want to sit down,” he breathed. “And then can we do that again?” He was confused. “Friendly—uh . . .
Throwing back her head, she laughed and tugged him, stumbling, away from the crowd. “Come on, Murphy. What you need is a good strong cup of Turkish coffee!”
***
Elisa led Murphy down an uncrowded side street and down steep stone steps into a dimly lit coffeehouse. He heard the music before they entered the room.
She ooked over her shoulder and smiled at him, and for that moment, all the horrible visions he had seen for Vienna vanished. It was easy to understand on such a day how people could pretend that there was nothing else in life but this glorious city and the music . . . Elisa’s music.
A small man in a black turtleneck sweater and wire-rimmed glasses played a guitar at a table near the front of the room. He looked to be about twenty-five. His fingers moved over the frets and strings,creating a sound as complex as an orchestra.
“I wanted you to hear something different today,” Elisa whispered as they moved quietly through the crowded tables, finally finding an empty one in the back of the room. “He studied under Segovia,” she explained. “From Spain, where you have been. He is here for further training. Starving, like all musicians—but at least no one is blowing up his guitar.”
This afternoon Elisa ordered for them. They drank strong, black Turkish coffee while the young guitarist played work by Bach that was originally written for solo violin. Elisa explained that the gifted, hungry Spanish guitarist was one musician she could listen to without mentally dissecting his work. “Other violinists,” she said as the candlelight flickered on her face, “I listen to them play and think about technique or interpretation. You see?”
“Yes. Like reading another writer’s work.”
She nodded, grateful for the simple comparison. “Exactly. But I cannot compare this man’s guitar techniques with mine on the violin. So this is my secret place, Murphy. This is where I come to worship.”
His smile faltered. She had lost him there. Faith was only a distant memory in his own disillusionment and search for meaning in life. “Worship—like in a church? I don’t understand—”
She took his hand. “Just listen, Murphy,” she whispered.
He listened with her, closing his eyes to shut out the coffee cups and the brick walls of the cellar. He recognized “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” He had not known that Bach had written the melody. Wasn’t this a song played at Christmas by bent old ladies in lace collars at little pump organs? The hands of the young Spaniard somehow created a cathedral in this dark meeting place. And Murphy felt his heart lifted with Elisa’s as he listened. He squeezed her hand. “Beautiful,” he said when she opened her eyes. Indeed, it was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Was it because he was hearing it with her?
She softly sang the chorus:
“Jesu, joy of man’s desiring,
Holy wisdom, love most bright;
Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring
Soar to uncreated light.”
The melody written by Bach had words too? And it spoke of God, the source of joy, wisdom, and love. He hadn’t known. He had not imagined all the things she must hear in the music that was as familiar to her as the craft of words was to him. More than sound, it was a prayer and a hope—a reaching out to the Creator. “Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring soar to uncreated light . . . ” He leaned closer toward her, afraid that if he let go of her hand, she would vanish. “What does it mean?” he asked. “Explain it to me.”
She smiled. “Explain it?” She had never been asked to explain the music and words of Bach before. “Can’t you hear it, Murphy? Can you not feel your soul drawn upward until you almost touch God’s face? I come here often, alone. I do not tell my name to anyone. But here I close my eyes and lift my heart to God. Someday perhaps Segovia or this student of his will play in St. Stephan’s Cathedral, but until then I come here—”
“Why have you brought me to your secret place?” He could barely speak in the hope of her answer. He had only glimpsed her heart as she played. Now she was opening up so much for him. Why?
“Because . . . I . . . for so many months now I have prayed for joy, for wisdom, for love—someone who could soar with my soul . . . ”
Murphy felt almost overwhelmed. Suddenly he wanted to know everything there was to know about her. He longed to discover her and the music of her life. What words were hidden in every melody? What had he heard but never known the meaning of? The music was different now. Slower, but still intricate. “What is he playing now?”
“The Arioso.” She sensed her eagerness. “I stand at the threshold.” She seemed curious. How could anyone not know this? “You have not heard the verse before?”
Murphy nodded. “Not in music. I stand at the door and knock.” He remembered the words from his childhood, the picture of Christ standing at the door.
“ ‘If anyone hears my voice and answers, I will come in.’ Yes. Jesu, Creator, knocking and hoping we will hear. And I want to hear Him, Murphy. It has been so long—” She did not finish. The music spoke to her and for her.
There was so much more to this woman than he had bargained for, more than a willing kiss or a bright smile. She was at this moment showing him a part of her soul that he sensed she had never shown to anyone before. He carried a
dozen little angels in the box. The image of her physical beauty could be duplicated . . . but this! He looked into her eyes, and in their depth he saw her very soul. He saw himself as one she trusted enough to share herself with. And he wondered if he could find the depth in his own heart that she had found in hers. What had she learned in her loneliness this year that she offered so freely to him?
“Was Gott tut, das ist wohligetan,” she said as if in answer to his silent question.
“What God has done is rightly done,” he translated. Then he frowned. “I don’t think I can agree with you on that one, Elisa.”
“Nor can I. It is the song. ‘Cantata 99.’ But maybe someday we will be able to believe that God knows what He is doing . . . not now, Murphy. But maybe someday—when we see holy wisdom, and find love and hope that is greater than our darkness. Is God evil? I ask myself sometimes when I think of my father and the others who suffer now, maybe even more than Christ on the cross. But I do not come here to question, Murphy. I come here only to worship and remember, Gott soll allein mein Herze haben.”
“God alone should have my heart,” he translated again.
“Yes. A child’s bedtime prayer my mother taught me. And no doubt Bach’s mother taught him. That is his ‘Cantata 169.’” She laughed at the expression on Murphy’s face.
“Is there any thought at all that you cannot find in music?” he teased.
She answered him with a steady, serious gaze. “In answer to your question, Murphy, listen to me play tonight. You in your rented suit and your fistful of tickets. Tonight you must listen as I play, and tell me what you hear.”
“If I see or hear or feel any more, Elisa—” His heart was evident in his voice. Desperate. In love as he had never dreamed possible.
She touched his cheek. “Thank you.”
Were those tears in her eyes? “Why are you thanking me?”
