The Lost Prince

by Selden Edwards

  “As there were from yours,” Jodl said, in a momentary and uncharacteristic lack of discretion, this staunch man who seemed to judge human nature so well.

  The officer looked them both over until the smaller man had a chance to collect himself. “Many cowards on your side,” he snarled. “Not much to crow about.” He looked at Paolo, the young driver, for a long moment. “You, the Slovene,” he said slowly, and Paolo showed no expression. “I suggest that you take your contraband automobile and depart at once.”

  Paolo looked at Jodl, who stood grim-faced, then he looked at Eleanor. She was doing her best to appear unmoved, but her eyes betrayed fear and concern.

  “I am sorry, signora,” the young man said, looking into her eyes, hoping for some kind of reprieve.

  “It is all right, Paolo,” Eleanor said. “You have served us bravely and well. Now you must go.”

  Paolo nodded his gratitude, then backed away slowly, still looking at her. “It has been an honor serving you.”

  “You have done so very well,” she said. He turned and walked quickly to his contraband automobile, his limp more pronounced than ever before. No one seemed to notice as he grabbed the protruding wires and started it up. All attention was back to the Viennese as the car drove away.

  The rat-faced officer gave a silent signal with his hand and the two other soldiers stepped forward, and each grabbed one of Jodl’s arms. Jodl reacted with a stiffness that Eleanor had seen before, and she watched in fearful anticipation as she remembered the hand that had shot out at the drunken man at the train station only days before. But Jodl did not budge.

  “Are you arresting me?” he said.

  At first, the officer said nothing, only looked him over again. Then he said, “We cannot have enemy residue wandering freely through our country as spies, can we?”

  “We are not spies,” Eleanor said, her first words in the encounter. Jodl tried to silence her with the movement of a hand, but it was too late. The rat-faced officer spun around to face the affront and glared as if surprised to hear a woman speak. “I am an American,” she continued, “and I am searching for my brother who was lost in battle, on your side. This man is my assistant and interpreter.”

  The officer looked at her coldly. “We are not arresting you,” he said as if issuing a warning.

  “This man is not military,” she had the audacity to say. “He is not your enemy.”

  Now the rat-faced officer held up his hand to silence the impudence and signaled to the men, who tightened their grip. Again, Jodl did not move but stiffened further.

  “Wait,” he said suddenly, and he held out the indispensable briefcase. “This is the lady’s,” he said. “It contains her personal effects.”

  The officer said, “Well, we shall have to have a look,” and he reached for the briefcase, the briefcase that held the American dollars, the lifeline. Time seemed to stop in that moment. Eleanor stood frozen.

  Jodl’s fist was tight on the briefcase handle. “Her personal effects,” he said distinctly. “Personal feminine effects.” Again, everything stood still. And with that the officer stared at the briefcase for a long moment. Everything froze. Then he pulled back his hand and gestured to allow the transfer from Jodl’s hand to Eleanor’s.

  “The American lady will have to be escorted safely to Venice,” Jodl said with an authority that certainly did not come from his current position as a very compromised prisoner, and the officer said nothing. They led Jodl away to a waiting automobile, and one of the soldiers stayed beside Eleanor as she watched the door close and then the automobile drive slowly away.

  A new sense of peril seized her in that moment. Ever since leaving Trieste they had become aware of the martial law that seemed to sweep up soldiers and stragglers at random and try them and execute them on the spot, even now since the armistice. “What one does not wish to be in this hellish countryside,” Jodl had said to her grimly back in Udine, “is a military prisoner.”

  Who these supposed officers were and where they were taking this man she had grown to depend on so was now totally uncertain. She collected herself enough to speak. “I need help getting to Venice,” she said, obviously trying to be strong.

  The soldier beside her looked her over with a salacious smirk. “We shall see,” he said in a way that did nothing to diminish her feeling of vulnerability.

  I must get to Venice, she thought, and raised herself to her full height, allowing as little of her feelings of desperation as possible to show. “I am an American,” she said suddenly with an assertiveness borrowed from her brave companion who had now disappeared. “Are you the one who will help me, or do I need to find someone else?”

  Everything froze again. The officer, startled again no doubt to hear such authority from one in her position, stared for a moment. Neither Eleanor nor the officer breathed.

  “You are right, madam,” he said suddenly, and then snapped an order at an enlisted man standing some distance away. “Corporal, bring the automobile, and see that this American lady gets what she wants.”

  The corporal rushed away and soon an Italian automobile had driven up and she was ushered into the backseat. “This should serve you,” the officer said, “and you will tell the driver to take you to the train station. The trains will take you where it is you need to go.” Her feeling of immense relief could barely suppress the companion feeling that she was abandoning Franz Jodl.

  Considering all she had to worry about, she gave little thought to being a woman traveling alone. At the train station in Venice, a porter told her that a gondolier would take her to a hotel for a tip. “In Venice,” the cheery man said, “you can find anything for a tip.”

  And so she found herself out of harm’s way, in a gondola on the Grand Canal in Venice, probably the most romantic location in the world, on her way to a tourist hotel, an irony not lost on her in her dire situation. Just imagine that you are Henry James, she told herself, and she formed a plan.

  After she had been delivered to a small hotel and had parted company with the soldiers, she did her best to settle in and take care of her disheveled appearance. With her companion’s life in the balance, she could hardly enjoy the essential short but very warm bath or the thought that she now found herself in one of the world’s most beautiful cities.

  She stood at the window for a moment, transfixed by the vista of narrow streets, canals, and in the distance a piazza she had read of in novels and heard described by countless visitors.

  She did what she could to clean and press her dress and to straighten her hair, to regain at least some proximity to a woman in charge. She knew she had to act quickly if she was to save Jodl, who might already have met a terrible fate. Then she asked to be shown the American-owned Bank of Italy, the largest bank in Venice, and was granted an appointment with an official, a well-dressed Italian man with what she thought was the proper arrogance. “Can you cable New York City?” she asked.

  “Of course, madam,” he said, heartily making clear his surprise that she even needed to ask.

  “I must send this message.” And she handed the man the words she had carefully written out on a piece of bank stationery.

  “Are you sure of this address?” the man asked suspiciously, as if her careful handwriting was not completely clear and legible. “And the addressee?”

  “I am certain,” Eleanor said, nodding, without apology, as if her position and request were a natural part of the clear crisp Venice morning. “That is correct. He is a personal friend,” she said to add a note of authenticity. And the banker looked her over for an instant, not certain that he believed her or that he would proceed. Then he turned and disappeared into a spacious side room.

  The New York cable was to the most powerful man in America, son of the most powerful man in the world, Mr. John Pierpont Morgan Jr.

  53

  A Very Well-Placed Nephew

  It was late afternoon when she received the message at her hotel.

  She had spent the day
by herself in her room, uncertain what to do, sure that at least for the time being waiting for word from New York was the only course of action available to her. If nothing came within twenty-four hours, she would try something different, but exactly what that would be she had no idea. How, in these moments of anxious waiting, she felt the split in her personality, the logical and systematic thinking of Dr. Freud and the innovative and spontaneous impulses of her friend Jung, caught between the two, always wondering how each would handle the situation, always wishing for their great skill of detached objectivity, always aware of her weaknesses of being overly anxious and connected.

  Twice during her long wait, aware of the extraordinary setting in which she found herself, she went out for a walk, once along the Grand Canal and once into the Piazza San Marco and into the basilica, which in other circumstances would have been for her a source of awe and wonder. There in the darkened space, surrounded by candles lit by penitent Venetians, she sat alone on a cold wooden pew, trying to assuage the feelings of helplessness. In that moment in the cavernous basilica of San Marco in one of the most beautiful and historic cities in the world, she prayed that her mission would end successfully and soon, that she would rescue Herr Jodl from his predicament, find Arnauld in one of the Italian hospitals, and return home speedily to Boston and her family.

  Always in her past, when in the presence of such symbols and rituals of European Catholicism, she felt a kind of deep envy of that simple connection to religion that the candles and iconic images of saints and the Virgin represented. Now she admitted to a desire to submit to it all and allow the Virgin and the saints to intercede for her. How simple and affirming that would be, an end to the independence and inner strength that had been her blessing and the weight she carried all these years.

  She thought of her children, the girls on Acorn Street and Standish safe with Fräulein Tatlock. So many times while on this journey, far from home, she dreamed of them. She worried about them, but she also carried deep within her the confidence that each of the three of them had developed internal strengths that would get them through this ordeal of separation from their mother. But now, in this ancient and sacred space, she allowed the image of them—Susan the scientist, Jane the poet, Standish the mythic athlete and hero of countless games—to come to her, and in a welcome reversal to comfort her, children comforting mother. She closed her eyes, and in the flickering light of the votive candles she savored each image, they and the woman in white of so many of her dreams. Oh, Mother, you are well! she heard Susan exclaim to her as they emerged from the dark night of the dreaded influenza. We have survived after all, she heard herself respond. And she was able, as her friend Jung recommended, to hold the image of that joyous scene for a long moment before opening her eyes and rising and walking back to her hotel for more of the interminable wait.

  She asked at the hotel desk if there had been any messages during her absence, then returned to her room and waited. When the word finally came, she hurried through narrow streets to the address she had been given back near the Piazza San Marco, on the Grand Canal.

  After a short wait beside a secretary in the reception area, she was ushered into the large wood-paneled room of the American consul, who greeted her with a broad welcoming smile. William Hardy was a lean, fit American with prematurely gray hair. He shook her hand vigorously with an obviously studied and firm grip. “I am glad to see you, Mrs. Burden. You will have to pardon the tentativeness of our office. We have just arrived, obviously.”

  “I am relieved to find your office open, Mr. Hardy,” she said.

  “We can be of service, Mrs. Burden, I hear.”

  “I am so glad you could see me,” she said with the greatest relief.

  “There is someone who can be of great help to you,” he said, and ushered her into an adjoining room where a handsome young Italian in his twenties awaited, unlike the type of Italian soldier she had grown accustomed to in the past few days. His uniform was tailored and neatly pressed, something new in her experience in Italy, and he smelled of fine cologne.

  “Lieutenant Sonino here will be assigned to you. We have a car and a driver waiting outside Venice. Lieutenant Sonino has the full authorization to give you all you need.” The Italian smiled. “Come with me,” William Hardy said, and led her into his office.

  The American diplomat folded his hands on his spacious desk. “Your mission has the fullest cooperation of the Italian military. You know Mr. Morgan, I gather.” He paused. “Personally.”

  “His father was a personal friend,” Eleanor said without pause or further explanation, allowing any inference that could be drawn.

  “Well, that friendship will be of great service now. Italy is in great disarray, and Lieutenant Sonino is very well placed.”

  The young man joined them. He had the polished look of aristocracy about him. He nodded his complete agreement when the American described his full cooperation. Eleanor smiled her gratitude at the American diplomat and then the lieutenant.

  “You are on a mission to find a missing officer, I hear,” he said, “an Austrian.” He paused and looked down at the paperwork in his hand. “And your colleague has been taken into custody.” He was not very successful in suppressing a frown. “A compounding of the problem, for sure.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. “My companion is a retired Viennese policeman who is helping me in my quest. He was taken prisoner by a group of soldiers near Treviso yesterday. It was a dreadful mistake.”

  Eleanor proceeded with a complete description of her crossing the border with Herr Jodl and their encounter with the Italian military, including the actions of the rat-faced officer. “I was sent on to Venice,” she said in conclusion. “I am very concerned about the fate of my colleague.”

  “We will find him,” the lieutenant said. “You need not worry. You have the full weight of the Italian government behind you.” Even though there was something very glib about the handsome lieutenant, there was reassurance in his brash confidence. Where Eleanor saw disorder and chaos out there, the self-confident Lieutenant Sonino saw a new purpose and meaning.

  Lieutenant Sonino shook the American’s hand and smiled graciously in his good-bye. “I must make a few telephone calls on your behalf,” he said, taking his exit.

  “The lieutenant has connections,” Mr. Hardy said when they were alone, “the nephew of a famous general. He represents the new Italy.” The last of the comment carried weight. “And if I might add a bit of a warning,” he said, “there will be no talk of defeat or humiliation of the Italian troops. The war effort has been one of great purpose, and a united Italy has emerged stronger from the experience.” The American diplomat looked at Eleanor for long enough to see that she understood.

  “I understand,” she said. “I have been in Italy long enough to know how to behave.”

  “I was not suggesting that you did not,” he said. “I am only being cautious, perhaps overly so.”

  “And I appreciate that,” she said.

  “You are in good and safe hands,” he added.

  “As long as everyone remembers that it is the new Italy,” Eleanor said, smiling.

  “Exactly,” the diplomat said. “You do understand.”

  The smartly tailored lieutenant rejoined them. “I believe that I have found your Austrian policeman,” he said with a smile.

  When they had left Venice and were alone in the car, the young lieutenant inquired further about Eleanor’s mission. “The man you seek is named Esterhazy. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. “Arnauld Esterhazy.”

  “His is an old family. Hungarian nobility, I believe. In former times he would have been a guest of state in our country. Now you seek him in the most humble of hospital wards. Such is the irony of war.”

  The driver took them back toward the river Piave outside Treviso, to the small military station Lieutenant Sonino had been able to locate from the details Eleanor had related. When they walked in, she found the atmosphere compl
etely different. The motley collection of officers who had been rude and disrespectful before now stood at attention and addressed Lieutenant Sonino with efficiency and officiousness, with many a “Yes, sir” and “Yes, Signor Lieutenant.” The rat-faced officer had converted his manner to one of total unctuousness.

  It took no time for the crudely organized band to locate their prisoner, with the young lieutenant watching unsympathetically the whole time, tapping impatiently on the countertop of the small office. Suddenly a door swung open and there was Jodl, standing beside two of the men who had taken him away with so little respect just one day previous.

  “Here is your man,” said the rat-faced officer Eleanor knew well from her previous experience, and Lieutenant Sonino said nothing but merely looked over at Eleanor to see her silent approval.

  Eleanor was so glad to see her companion, alive and unmarked by abuse, that she stepped forward quickly and suppressed an urge to embrace him. She burst out, “Yes. Yes, this is Herr Jodl.”

  Jodl, for his part, retained his stiff rectitude but could not suppress a smile. “I think you came just in time,” he said to her in a whisper. And then he turned to the young lieutenant. “I am very glad for your arrival,” he said. “There was a mistake in identity. These gentlemen are convinced that I am a spy.”

  Lieutenant Sonino said nothing but extended his hand and gave Jodl’s a vigorous shake. “I am pleased to be of service,” he said finally.

  Then after the lieutenant had signed a few papers, Jodl said, “Now we have our Esterhazy to find,” and the trio walked out into the sunlight.

  On the way to the auto, when they were alone, Jodl released a loud sigh. “Things did not look good,” he said. “I had become convinced that they were preparing an execution. Then everything changed. They started racing around.”

  “I came as quickly as I could.”