by Bodie Thoene
Strickland sounded angry. “Murphy! What are you doing in Prague?” There was an accusation in the question. How dare a reporter desert the front lines in Vienna as Hitler marched in at the head of Hess and his troops?
“You want news, don’t you?” Murphy yelled back. “You won’t get it from Vienna!”
“Did you see it? Let me get a pencil.” Strickland was suddenly attentive. Of course the only accurate reports would have to be sent from outside Austria. The Nazis had closed down every means of communication with the outside world. Even before the German troops had arrived in Vienna, Austrian Nazis had invaded the INS building and closed down the dispatch offices and broadcasting services. The only news from Austria had come in the shrieking banners of German newspaper headlines.
Murphy stared sullenly at the front page of Hitler’s propaganda papers, the Völkischer Beobachter. “German-Austria Saved from Chaos!” Murphy read aloud. “Is that what you’re hearing over there?”
“Herr Goebbels has announced that there were violent disorders by the Reds in Vienna. Fighting, looting, murder. What about it?”
“A lie. Complete. Any lie will do. The only violence I saw in the streets of Vienna last night was after the Austrian Nazis crawled out from under their rocks. They closed off the Jewish districts of the city. Who knows what’s happening there this morning? They closed down the newsrooms. Started arresting anybody who looked in the least anti-Anschluss. Most of the Austrian cabinet ran for their lives. I heard they kept a plane waiting at Alpern Airport for Chancellor Schuschnigg until the Luftwaffe started landing. Schuschnigg refused to go. The guy has guts; I’ll give him that.”
“Where is he now?”
“Under arrest, where else? And there were suicides all over the city last night.”
“Suicides?”
“Mostly Jews. Some Socialists. That was the only blood spilled in the whole messy business, Larry. The only blood.”
“No defense of Austrian territory?” Strickland’s voice seemed preoccupied. He was taking notes, and Murphy paused, then began to remove wads of crumpled paper from every pocket. He held the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and ear as he smoothed out the papers and tried to make sense out of the scrawled lines and paragraphs that he had written as he witnessed the horror of Austria’s capitulation.
“Hold it a minute, Larry!” He squinted at the back of an envelope. “I’ve got it all here. I wrote it all down. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. Just hold it and I’ll give it to you ready to print.”
Strickland cleared his throat. He seemed relieved that he would not have to decipher the torrent of thoughts and emotions Murphy had sent over the wire. “That’s our boy. Okay, Murphy. You got a story for me?”
The story was written in the margin of a menu, continued on the back of a torn magazine cover, and concluded on Murphy’s bill from the Sacher Hotel. Murphy noticed for the first time that the boys in the press corps had charged a magnum of champagne to his room-service account. He would settle up with them later when he got back to Vienna. That is, if they weren’t all in some concentration camp by now. And if anyone went back to Vienna.
“Yeah, Larry. A story. It reads like an obituary.” The crackle of long distance consumed the remainder of his words.
“What?”
“I said it reads like an obit! Like a train wreck! The sinking of the Titanic! About that terrible, too.” He held up the first scrap of paper. “Ready for copy?”
“We got a deadline––”
“Let’s give ’em a real headline.” Murphy tossed the German newspaper to the floor. “Try this: ‘Nazis Seize Power After Hitler Ultimatum.’”
“It beats what we’ve heard from Germany so far.” Strickland gave a short, bitter laugh. He was angry, and his anger fed Murphy’s own sense of indignation, which had been almost lost in his weariness.
“If you think that will go, how about a box at the head of the column?” He repeated the words that he had written last night after he had left the INS office by the back door when the Nazis came in through the front.
“Vienna, March 11. Censorship has started. An order posted in the Central Telegraph Office said all telephone conversations from the room must be in German. Correspondents for the International News Service, an American organization, were detained at their office against their will, without charges.”
“Great! Great stuff, Murphy!” Strickland’s admiration seemed to chase away the static, and suddenly his voice came in like a call from next door. “Finish this, and then tell me how you got out.”
“I’m saving that story for after-dinner conversation at the Press Club.” Murphy did not want to mention Elisa or her father. Theo Lindheim slept peacefully now in the little house near Old Town Prague, but the terror of last night’s escape was still too fresh for Murphy to want to talk about it.
“Everybody’s going to have a story out of this one,” Strickland said. “That will be some conversation!” He laughed, but Murphy did not laugh with him. He was too full of fears for his friends who remained in Nazi-dominated Vienna. He did not want to imagine that such a meal at the Press Club might have a lot of faces absent from around the table.
Murphy shuddered involuntarily. “Well, let’s give Americans something to talk about over their pot roasts, huh? Ready?” He began reading from the margin of the menu:
“Under threat of force from Berlin, Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg of Austria yielded last evening and resigned in dramatic circumstances. The Nazis, with Dr. Arthur Seyss-Inquart as chancellor, are in power . . . ”
“Slow down!” Strickland sounded panicked.
Murphy could not slow down. He wanted to read the terrible words quickly. He wanted to be done, to tear up the notes and pretend that such news could not really happen.
“To an unprepared public, listening to a typical radio program of pleasant Viennese music. . . .”
Images of Shimon and Leah Feldstein filled his thoughts. Why hadn’t they stayed at Elisa’s apartment? No doubt they had heard the announcement of Schuschnigg’s resignation as they listened in the Judenplatz. By then it had been too late for them to get out to safety. No one in the Judenplatz would be safe this morning. No Jew in Austria would be safe now. He paused again to give Strickland time to catch up.
“Okay. I got it. Go ahead.”
“The voice of the man who may have been the last chancellor of an independent Austria announced at 7:45 p.m. that, in his own words, he had ‘yielded only to force.’”
“Yielded to force? In quotes?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“He said that on the radio? With the Nazis coming into Austria? He’s a dead man.”
Murphy did not reply. Strickland was only too right in his assessment. The Austrian chancellor should have taken that plane from Alpern Airport. Murphy was sorry the man had not done so.
“To avoid bloodshed under threat of a German invasion that began even as he spoke, Chancellor Schuschnigg then resigned his office.”
“Got it.”
“When Schuschnigg had finished, thousands of Nazis began swarming into Vienna’s streets to take control unopposed.”
“Thousands?”
The image of the apple-cheeked peasant boys swilling schnapps at the barricades became vivid to Murphy once again. “Kids,” he muttered. “Students, mostly. Too young to remember the last war. Too stupid to see where Herr Hitler is leading them.”
“You want me to copy that, Murphy?” Strickland was perplexed.
“No. But it’s the truth.”
“Tell me when you’re just talking, will ya?” The sound of the pencil scratching out Murphy’s last words came through clearly.
“Sure. Sorry. Deadline, right?” Over the next ten minutes Murphy composed the story of the death of a nation over the phone. The facts were reported clearly, like an obituary. His tired reflection stared back at him in the window. He wanted to be done, to go back to Elisa and put his arms around her and sleep
for a week or so. But it was not to be.
Strickland read the complete news story back to Murphy. “This is one for the history books, Murph.” He was clearly impressed. “While the rest of the guys are still under wraps, you scooped them all. They’ll be boiling mad!”
The thought gave Murphy no pleasure. “That’s it, then. I’m going to find a soft bed, and––” Murphy was instantly sorry he had opened his mouth.
“Sorry, Murphy. You can’t sleep yet. Not in Prague. Word from the top says we need you here in London. News bureau is putting together a live broadcast. First time we’re going to brave a live broadcast to New York. With a story like this we’re going to need you here.” Strickland announced the plan as though Murphy should be elated.
Normally Murphy would have given anything for such an opportunity, but not this morning. Leaving London meant being away from Elisa. How could he leave her now? After last night? After everything? “You’re going to have to find somebody else.”
Strickland lapsed into a momentary silence, then exploded. “There is nobody else, you idiot! Get a plane! Swim the Channel if you have to, but you’ve got to be here by midnight tonight.” Strickland would not be argued with.
“Tonight? But––” Murphy’s reflection appeared as though it might weep.
“Tonight. No buts. You miss this one, and you’ll find yourself back in the States writing about the soup kitchens and the ladies’ charity league! Got it?” The static returned as though Strickland’s roaring was damaging the telephone.
Murphy muttered his reply, hoping that he would leave Strickland in doubt about his agreement. But there was no doubt. Not really. Even the tired face in the glass understood that the world needed to hear about Austria. Those too young to remember Germany in war needed to be reminded. Those too blind to see the future needed to see it through Murphy’s eyes.
He hung up the telephone with the realization that the story was far from over. Indeed, it was only beginning, and it might be a long time before anyone slept peacefully again.
***
Anna Linder opened the door before Murphy could knock a second time. “You don’t need to knock, John!” She gave her new son-in-law a quick hug. “Elisa told me all about it! You must be really something for our Elisa to marry you without so much as . . . ” She snapped her fingers to finish the sentence.
Murphy swallowed hard. He did not know what Elisa had told her mother, but obviously it was not the whole truth. “Well, I . . . I have to get used to this.” He smiled awkwardly as Anna took his coat and hat.
“Theo and I got married the same way. Didn’t tell my parents. They wouldn’t have approved. Although I am sure we would have approved of you. I mean, we do approve of you!” Her enthusiasm made Anna look years younger than she had when Murphy had first seen her before dawn that morning. He was amazed at how very much like her daughter Anna Linder looked. An older version of Elisa, but still beautiful.
“How is Theo?” Murphy changed the subject, but he was sure that Theo must be doing well.
“A little care, food, lots of love, and the doctor says he will recover. I . . . don’t know how to thank you.”
Her gratitude embarrassed Murphy, so he changed the subject again. “Where is Elisa?”
“In your room. Come on. You must be exhausted. I shooed the boys out of their room.”
“There was no need, really.” Murphy tried to explain that he would be leaving, but Anna was too full of plans to hear him.
“They are down at the bakery right now. Prague has breakfast pastry like you have never tasted. Food in Germany is so dull, don’t you think? They’ll be back in a while. I’ll fix eggs and sausage.” She flung open the door to a small bedroom where Elisa sat brushing her hair in front of the fire. In her cobalt blue sweater and skirt, she was like a picture by one of those French painters whose name Murphy could never remember. Her hair shone like corn silk, and the fire glowed behind her.
“Hello, Murphy.” Her eyes met his.
“Hi,” Murphy said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“This is your room.” Anna gestured toward the double bed. “I changed the sheets. What a day this is! A terrible day for the world. For Vienna. But God will forgive me if I am happy. My husband has come home, and my daughter has a husband––”
Elisa looked embarrassed by her mother’s words. “Mama,” she said, interrupting Anna’s reverie, “should I help you with breakfast?”
“You two want to talk. Certainly you need to talk alone,” Anna hinted. “Anyway this is your room. For the newlyweds.”
Murphy squirmed under the attention. ““Thank you, Mrs. Linder.”
“Not Mrs. Linder!” Anna protested. “Anna. Or Mama, maybe. You are part of our family now.” She patted him on the back and hurried off toward the kitchen.
Murphy and Elisa were silent. Both felt the strain of the deception. At last Murphy spoke. “This—” he gestured toward the bed—“isn’t going to work, you know.”
Elisa nodded. Her face was deep red. “Impossible.” She got up suddenly and turned away from him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find a way to explain to her what this is all about.”
“You want to walk a bit?” Murphy felt helpless, foolish, standing beside the bed. He did not want to talk about it. Clean sheets. The down quilt turned back. Two pillows.
Elisa nodded and swept past him into the hall. The fresh smell of her skin made him dizzy for an instant. “I could use some fresh air,” Elisa said, not looking back at him as she slipped on her coat.
Dumb suggestion, Murphy thought, wishing he had shut the door behind them and taken Elisa in his arms and pulled her onto the cool clean sheets. He didn’t want to walk or talk or think about anything but her. Blast Austria and the INS and Adolf Hitler and his Nazi lunatics and England and France and . . .
“You look a lot like your mother,” Murphy said, following her out the front door. “She seems really happy.”
4
The Bridge
Four tiny pairs of trousers were neatly folded beside the battered suitcase on the bed. Shirts, sweaters, and newly darned socks were already packed.
Walter Kronenberger sat on the edge of the sagging bed and quietly embraced his sons with his eyes. The two small boys stood with their backs to him and stared wide-eyed through the grimy windowpane at the spectacle unfolding in the street below their shabby hotel.
Walter did not seem to hear the roar of the crowd. Men and women crammed together on this narrow side street just off the Ringstrasse. Fathers held children high to catch a glimpse of tanks and field guns and uniformed columns of German soldiers who marched before the cheering masses on the broad thoroughfare beyond.
“We can see everything, Father!” cried Louis, his blond head bobbing enthusiastically.
Charles, his eyes bright to match his twin brother’s expression, nodded. His mouth was covered by a dark blue scarf, and in the soft glow of the morning light, it was remarkable how much alike the eyes and expressions of the boys were. How much they looked like their mother. The thought tore through Walter like the hot blade of a knife. He wanted to look away, but he could not. He wanted to call his sons away from the window, to wrap his arms around them and weep softly between them. But he did not want to steal this one last moment of delight from them. They were only five years old. How could they understand that what they watched from the high vantage point of the hotel window was a flood of terror that would soon engulf them all?
Tall buildings framed their view of the parade like partly open curtains on a stage. The boys could see only fragments of the event. First the muzzle of a tank gun appeared, then the barrel slid slowly past like the trunk of an enormous elephant. Finally the body of the tank followed, bearing helmeted soldiers who waved to the crowds in the midst of a cloud of flowers and scraps of paper fluttering in the air. Soldiers with arms stretched upward in the Nazi salute seemed to be reaching toward them.
Charles reached out to take the ha
nd of Louis. Louis, beautiful and unmarred, never seemed to notice the ugly hole that split the palate and lip of his brother. He was the mirror of his brother’s soul, the expression of emotions and thoughts and needs that Charles could only convey through inarticulate groans. Although the words and phrases were clear and bright in the mind of Charles, he had not been born with lips to form them.
“Ah-er!” Charles cried, pointing out the window.
“Father!” Louis echoed. “Come quickly!”
Walter stood behind them as the shiny black Mercedes limousine slowly moved by. There, clutching the windshield and standing with his arm raised in rigid salute, was Adolf Hitler. His eyes were hidden by the visor of his military cap. His mouth was turned slightly downward in a stern, proud expression as those he passed raised their voices in adulation. His plain brown uniform was unadorned, yet eloquent in its statement: here was a simple man who served as the voice of the German people!
