by Bodie Thoene
***
By the time Murphy reached London, the showdown was over. Eden had resigned. Chamberlain had won his battle for appeasement. He had circumvented his foreign secretary and begun negotiations with the Italians himself. Eden was effectively made to know that his opinion did not matter any longer. There was nothing left for him to do.
This afternoon, Murphy sat in the old room at Churchill’s Chartwell Manor and simply listened as Churchill, growling like an old bulldog, explained the events of the last few weeks to him.
“And so Roosevelt’s offer was turned down without even so much as a consultation with Anthony. Cadogan was waiting for us at the station when we returned from France. He told Anthony the bad news. I believe he might have resigned then, but Chamberlain smiled and told him that he could not resign over something that was supposed to be top secret.” Churchill clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the late-afternoon sky. “It is a decision that leaves one breathless even now. How could he turn down such a significant offer from Roosevelt?”
Murphy was not taking notes. He sipped his tea and stared out the window past Churchill. “And now what?”
“The differences between Britain and Italy seem minor compared to the refusal of Roosevelt’s overture. Have you seen the statement that accompanied Eden’s resignation?” He shuffled through a stack of correspondence on the desk. “Here it is.” He handed the message to Murphy.
Above Eden’s signature were the words:
I have spoken of the immediate difference that has divided me from my colleagues, and I think I should not be frank if I were to pretend it is an isolated issue. It is not. Within the last few weeks, upon one most important decision of foreign policy, which did not concern Italy at all, the difference was fundamental. I do not believe that we can make progress in European appeasement if we allow the impression to gain currency abroad that we yield to constant pressure.
Murphy looked up. Churchill was scowling angrily. “The resignation of Eden is being proclaimed in Italy as another great victory for Il Duce. They are saying, ‘You see how great is the power of our leader; the British foreign secretary is gone.’” Churchill shook his head sadly. “Eden was hoping to get some commitment from the Italians that they might stand by the Austrians if Germany invaded. It is hopeless to imagine now that Italy will stand by the Rome Protocols, or that Britain will lift a finger to help. All over the world, in every land, under every sky and every system of government, wherever they may be, the friends of England are dismayed and the foes of England are exultant.”
“And what of the future?” Murphy asked, although he feared he knew what Churchill’s answer would be.
“The resignation of the foreign secretary may well be a milestone in history. Great quarrels, it has been said, arise from small occasions but seldom from small causes. Eden adhered to the old policy that we have all forgotten for so long. Chamberlain has entered upon a new policy. The old was an effort to establish the rule of law in Europe and build up through the League of Nations effective deterrents against the aggressor.”
Churchill considered his own words as though he were delivering a eulogy. Perhaps he was. “The new policy is to come to terms with the dictators by great and far-reaching acts of submission.” He almost smiled. “The other day Lord Halifax said that Europe is confused. Perhaps we are confused, but I know of no confusion on the part of the dictators. They know what they want, and no one can deny that up to this moment they are getting anything they want.” He sat down heavily in the battered leather armchair next to Murphy. “The future?” He shook his head slowly. “Seems to be whatever they have set their eyes on, whatever they reach out to grasp. Now that the one man with sense has been removed from the British cabinet, what will stop them, Mr. Murphy?”
“Have all the Germans gone crazy?” Murphy thought of Austria and the tirades that Hitler blasted over the radio.
Churchill carried a knowledge in his eyes that he could not speak of openly. For an instant Murphy saw it there. “You may quote me exactly if you like, Mr. Murphy. What I tell you today, on February 22, 1938, is true now and will still be true fifty years from now or one hundred.” He paused and Murphy took out his notebook.
“Then I’ll write it as you say it, Mr. Churchill.”
The gruff old man toyed with the stub of his cigar. He thought for a moment, then began to speak as though his audience was the whole world.
“Germany occupied the Rhineland only two years ago, the beginning of 1936. They broke the treaty. Now we know that a firm stand by France and Britain under the authority of the League of Nations would have resulted in the immediate withdrawal from the Rhineland without the shedding of a drop of blood. That might have enabled the more prudent elements in the German army to regain their proper position. It would not have given to Hitler that enormous ascendancy which has enabled him to move forward. Now we are at a moment when the next move is made. By bullying and threats, Austria has been laid in the thrall, and we do not know whether Czechoslovakia will not suffer a similar attack.”
“But Austria still exists.” Murphy tried to play the devil’s advocate in the discussion.
“They have been forced to accept the political ultimatums of Adolf Hitler. How long will it be until the next ultimatum? And then what will come?”
Churchill got up and moved to the window once again. “Yes. This last week has been a good week for the dictators—one of the best they have ever had. The German dictator has laid his heavy hands upon a small but historic country, and the Italian dictator has carried his vendetta against Mr. Eden to a victorious conclusion.” He turned to Murphy. “So, though we have not seen it yet, that is the end of this part of the story.” Churchill looked out toward the last rays of the sum. “When I heard that Mr. Eden had stepped down, sleep deserted me. From midnight till dawn I lay in my bed, consumed by emotions of sorrow and fear. For a time there was one strong young figure standing up against long, dismal, drawling tides of drift and surrender, of wrong measurements and feeble impulses. Eden seemed to embody the life-hope of the British nation. Now he is gone.” He furrowed his brow. “I watched the daylight creep through the windows and saw before me the vision of death.”
***
That night, Theo lay on the pallet of the Herrgottseck surrounded by men and yet alone. He had not gotten a ration of bread. It did not matter anymore. He wanted simply to be finished, just as the professor had wanted to be finished.
Like the man in The Trial, the old professor had been tried and executed without ever knowing why. But whom would Theo talk to about that now? If Julius had been there, they might have talked about his death. Perhaps they would do that one day . . .
But tonight the light in Theo flickered and the burning fever of typhus at last found its grip on his weary body. The guards had left the professor’s body in the forbidden zone as a warning. They would leave it through the next day. Men would become hungry again after they finished their precious loaves of bread, and then they would notice the old man.
Theo would follow his friend soon enough. Like the priest and the cantor, the flame would waver and sigh and fade away. He could not keep the covenant to live and to remember. He must be content to be remembered by others.
The heat of his fever increased as he thought of Anna, her fingers dancing on the ivory keys of her piano. Elisa stood beside her, smiling softly as they played together . . . something . . . Schubert, maybe? Theo tried to think of the piece and the composer, but only the music floated around him. Melody by no one, owned by no one. Only music. Sweet sounds serenaded him until he fell asleep in his own bed once again, in his own house. Downstairs someone was baking bread and he could smell it. “Rolls and butter for breakfast, Theo,” Anna whispered to him.
“Anna!” He put out his hand to her and held her tightly until the sun streamed fiercely in through the window of Barrack 8 and an urgent voice called him back to Dachau.
“Jacob Stern!” cried the voice. “Get up!
You must get up, Herr Stern! Roll call! Get up!”
Theo opened his eyes and looked up at the young, frightened face of a man not more than twenty. “I can’t get up.” Theo’s voice was a choked whisper through the heat of his fever.
“Get up! You will die if you don’t.” The man pulled out a piece of bread from beneath his shirt. “I saved some for you!” he said. “I saw them shoot the old man yesterday. I tried to get to him, but the crowd . . . I missed hearing you talk last night.” He shoved the bread into Theo’s hand.
“Save it for yourself.” Theo could not remember the name of the young man, although he had known it yesterday.
“Eat! Get up!” The man pulled him up. “Come on. I’ll help you to the line.”
Theo obeyed. The world swam in a yellow mist around him. He bit into the soft bread and chewed slowly, and the man guided him out to the prison yard as Theo had guided Julius the day before.
Cold air splashed against his burning cheeks and revived him slightly. The young man placed him in his slot on the line. Already someone new stood where the old man had been. Theo stood swaying and silent. He could hear birds far away. He hoped the birds would not perch on the electric wire on top of the wall.
A new officer emerged from the guardhouse. He wore an immaculately tailored overcoat. His boots shone in the sunlight. He held a clipboard and walked along the line. He shouted names, and men stepped forward to form another ragged line when he called them. He walked slowly toward Theo, looking at the list and then at the faces of the men.
“Julius Stern!” The officer barked the name of the professor. No one stepped forward. Theo could not form words on his lips to say that Julius Stern had left the compound yesterday. The officer looked angry as he approached. “Professor Julius Stern! Step forward!” came the command. He stopped by Theo. “Stern!” he shouted again.
Theo swayed beneath his gaze. He raised his hand slightly as if to explain, but the air became a mass of humming black dots that closed in until Theo could not see or hear at all. He felt his knees buckle, and then there was no sight or sound for a time.
Distantly the voices argued over his body. “What’s the use of this? He obviously has typhus. He’ll die anyway. What’s the use?”
“Orders!”
Hands lifted him up. He was not free yet. He could not see Julius or the priest or the cantor or the others. The hands of his tormentors still touched him. From somewhere came the deep rumble of a diesel engine and then Theo lapsed again into dreams of Anna and the children. The music came again sweetly to him and he slept, warmed by his fever and lulled by the melody.
***
Elisa’s small apartment was crowded with friends of Leah and Shimon. They had all come to celebrate the wedding of the two. It had been a short civil ceremony, but Leah and Shimon were married, nonetheless. Shimon beamed happily; Leah blushed and spoke firmly about the next wedding they would have in Palestine, under a proper canopy and officiated by a real rabbi. But it was good, they all decided, that the first wedding be celebrated here among friends. They had been together for so long in Vienna, and who could know what the future held for any of them now? Only Leah and Shimon were certain for themselves. Palestine. In May. Only two months from this moment they would be in Palestine!
Elisa had not told anyone about her own wedding—not even Leah. She couldn’t face their questions—her own. She had slipped away quietly from the American Embassy and pretended it had never happened. She and Murphy had only been parrots mimicking the words of the ridiculous little man in the embassy office, after all. It meant nothing—only that she was now the proud owner of an American passport. She was officially the spouse of an American—what a door her new name would open for her as she crossed the border into Germany!
This morning she had purchased a ring—a plain gold band, as she had planned. Afterward she had gone to the embassy and picked up her passport. It was all done and paid for. She would try not to think about Murphy anymore. He had kissed her hungrily, and she knew what that might lead to. She had learned enough from Thomas to know she should stay away from the brash and handsome American. Their arrangement was business. It would no doubt save her skin and make her adventures a bit less exciting. She welcomed the ability to hold out the documents that designated her as married. After that frightening night in Munich with the Gestapo agent, she would wear the wedding band like a shield.
The White Owl cigar band now adorned the head of a little wooden angel Elisa had hung from the lamp shade in her bedroom. It looked like a crown, and made her think kind thoughts about Murphy. She would not allow herself any more sentiment than that, however. The times were too precarious for emotion. She had decided not to hate Murphy for being the money-hungry mercenary that he was, but every day she would practice not caring at all. She would remember that she now used his name at a cost of six thousand dollars. There was no sentiment in that. The kiss, she told herself, had been for the benefit of the embassy official who had married them. It was just a kiss—a dangerous kiss for her if she let it be, so she tried to think of other things when the memory of Murphy’s arms around her surfaced.
There were plenty of things to think about tonight. It was not hard to put thoughts of Murphy on the back burner. Amid the good cheer of the group who laughed and joked and roasted Leah and Shimon, there was an air of foreboding. Anthony Eden, the one man who spoke openly for Austria, had fallen from power in England. Elisa guessed what such news might mean to the government in Vienna. Thomas had told her enough that there was no mistaking the darkness of such an event. She had tried every night to reach him and would try again until he could tell her what she needed to know to make a decision.
More terrifying than anything, for Elisa, was the sight of Sporer’s face on the front page of the newspaper. She would not forget the way the Nazi had looked at her. Even though he was being released on the other side of the border in Germany, she felt ill at the thought that a man like Sporer was free!
This afternoon, while the members of the orchestra had gathered to witness the wedding, Chancellor Schuschnigg addressed the Austrian Parliament and said that Austria would abide by the terms of the agreement reached in Berchtesgaden . . . but that Austria would go no further! Later, when his remarks had been broadcast, the people of Vienna seemed to find comfort in what he said. Austria was still Austria! If Schuschnigg had hope for the nation, then so would the people who had voted for Schuschnigg and his Catholic Party.
The new concertmaster tapped his spoon against his glass for attention. “Attention!”
The political discussions of the group died down and all turned their attention to Leah and Shimon at the front end of the room.
“Raise your glasses now! We should have a toast! A toast to the happiness of the bride and groom!”
A cheer and light applause erupted as Leah blushed. Everyone drank to their happiness.
“And may they produce many more musicians! We will import them from Palestine, ja?” Another cheer rose up.
“But God forbid any of them look like Shimon!” There was a roar of laughter and the big man bowed happily and waved cheerfully at the insult.
Elisa stepped forward. She put her arm around Leah and raised her glass. “May they all be jewels, like Leah. Shining bright and beautiful.”
Leah hugged her, and wine spilled along with a few tears as she whispered, “No, you are the jewel, Elisa. You are my tikvah. I will name our first child after you.” The others could not hear the words that passed between the two women. Their eyes locked in a moment that said good-bye. Did they both somehow see the future? Elisa wondered if the feeling that filled her now was true, or simply the result of weeks of worry and the uncertainty that filled Vienna with every new political disclosure. As she searched the warm brown eyes of her dear friend, she felt that this might be among their last times together. She did not want to let Leah go. And Leah clung to her as well.
“Weddings do make people so silly, don’t they?” Elisa said
, laughing through her tears.
“Practical Leah!” Shimon called to someone. “She has already sent all our things off to Palestine! No plates! No silver!”
“As long as you have a bed!” returned a male voice.
“It was Bernard Filstein who said that. A horn player! What do you expect from the brass section!” Elisa found a genuine laugh then, and all the fears disappeared for a little while.
She was so happy for Shimon and Leah—happy about their visa, their love, and their hope. They had a future. Elisa must not content herself with simply living one day at a time as she carried the violin case of Rudy Dorbransky and brought the little jewels of Germany to safety.
As the party thinned out, Leah took her by the arm and said hoarsely, “If only you would . . . you could get a visa to Palestine. I am sure of it.” There was such longing in her voice, but again, both of them knew it would not be.
“No. Remember? America for me. I’ll stay here for a while and send you little bundles from here.”
“Don’t stay too long, Elisa.” Leah was serious, frightened as she spoke. “It is only a matter of time. You cannot do what you are doing forever and remain safe.”
“I have only just started,” Elisa said. “And you want to fire me already?”
Leah did not laugh at the joke. “Promise me. Not too long.” She took Elisa’s hands. “Marry that American and go play your violin in New York.”
Elisa hesitated, debating whether to tell Leah about her agreement with Murphy. “Must it be New York?”
“That is the only place I know besides Hollywood, America, where they make those movies. And I would not have you play your violin for the film stars. You are much too good for that.” As she spoke, Leah held her hands tightly. Elisa could see that she was remembering Rudy’s broken fingers. It was there, plainly on her face. Get out before they get you too! Get away, like Shimon and I!
