Prague Counterpoint (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  Leah spoke reassuringly to the brothers. “I have counted eleven doorknobs. Now twelve. Thirteen is the furnace room. And now we make a turn.” She patted a corner and pulled the brothers along with her. The corridor narrowed here, and she slid her fingers along the cold stone blocks until she found one last doorknob. By now the raging of Adolf Hitler had dimmed to an inaudible rumble behind them. Leah turned the knob and quickly opened the door. Then she flipped on a light switch to reveal a tiny practice cubicle with soundproof walls and an upright piano that took up the entire length of the back wall.

  “The light hurts my eyes.” Louis said.

  Charles merely blinked uncomfortably.

  Indeed, after their dark journey into the bowels of the Musikverein, the light seemed unnatural. Leah shut the door and propped her violoncello in the corner. She fumbled a moment with the lock, and then considered the piano. She wished that Shimon were here, but he wasn’t, so she would simply move it herself. Unlocking the casters, she leaned into the upright. Charles and Louis helped, and she was amazed at how easily it rolled across the floor. Once in front of the door, she locked the casters again and sat down breathlessly on the bench.

  “This is my secret place,” she said conspiratorially. “I practice here quite often because no one else seems to want to come this far back. Listen.” She inclined her head slightly. The brothers did the same. “Tell me what you hear?” she asked with a smile.

  The boys looked puzzled. The air seemed dead. “I don’t hear anything,” Louis said. Charles shrugged.

  “That’s right. This is a very quiet place. No ugly shouting can come into this room. It is a magic, peaceful place. Music lives here in the walls. Beautiful music.”

  “Why can’t we hear it?” Louis frowned.

  “It won’t come out until those very bad men we heard just now are gone. While they are here, we must wait very quietly also.” She put a finger to her lips. “We will play the quiet game. Whoever can be the quietest will get a penny.”

  Louis stuck out his lower lip. “But that’s not fair. Charles never speaks.”

  Leah ignored the remark. “The game begins now. And if you are both quiet, I have a penny for each.”

  This seemed to satisfy Louis. The boys sat back on their heels and waited, studying the magic walls that surrounded them. Minutes passed. Leah was satisfied that neither light nor sound would escape from the tiny cubicle. If the barest hint of cello music seeped out to someone’s ears, they could not trace it to this room behind the furnace. The place was little known even to members of the orchestra. Leah had retreated here a hundred times since she had discovered it two years before. No one had ever found her here.

  At last she cleared her throat. The sound seemed foreign in the stillness of the air. “You have both been such good boys.” There was no need to speak louder than the softest whisper. “A penny for each of you.” She looked deliberately toward the paper bag that Charles clutched in his hand. “Now we may have to share your lunch, Charles. We did not have opportunity to get my box of pastry from my locker, but later I promise.”

  Charles extended his offering to her, and only then did it strike her that the child had not uttered one sound since she had first seen him. The scarf was securely tied over his mouth and covered even the lower part of his nose. “Do you have a cold, Charles?” she asked.

  The boy shook his head and nodded to Louis, who would explain for him. Leah looked from one to the other. “What is it?”

  “He can’t talk,” Louis said simply, hungrily eyeing the lunch bag that Leah held on her lap.

  “Are you unwell?” She directed the question at Charles, who touched his fingers self-consciously to his mouth beneath the wrapping.

  “No,” Louis continued. The explanation was bright and untroubled. Charles began to unwrap the scarf. “Mama says that God left Charles’ lips in heaven where they sing night and day to the angels.” First one layer was unwound and then a second. “Now Mama is in heaven with God too, and Father says that Charles is singing to her right now, even though Charles and I are––”

  Leah tried not to allow her face to show the pity she felt at the first sight of the gaping split where the child’s upper lip should have been. A jagged opening ran through the palate into his nose. Her smile became frozen and she wanted to stare, but she did not. Her eyes faltered and Charles noticed that moment of Leah’s grief at the glimpse of his deformity.

  She lowered her chin slightly when Charles looked away. Then she reached out and lifted his chin until their eyes met in understanding. “How wonderful it is of God to let you sing to your mother. I am sure she would be very lonely for you otherwise.”

  Tears filled the child’s eyes as he nodded slowly. There was an unspoken question there. Leah heard it clearly: But who will sing for us now?

  His sorrow seemed too much for a small boy to bear. It tore at Leah’s heart and made her want to gather him in her arms. But she did not. She had to think. If, in fact, these boys had been chosen by the Gestapo to snare her, they were an excellent choice. She looked away from Charles at that thought.

  He frowned and sat back in obvious disappointment. His hand moved instinctively to cover his mouth. The spell was broken.

  ***

  Just as the tiny killdeer bird draws the predator away from the chicks in its nest, so Walter Kronenberger had run far way from his sons.

  Twice he thought he had escaped the snare of the Brownshirt who followed him doggedly. Then members of the Gestapo had joined the hunt.

  Through the press of the crowd, Walter pushed as though he fought a riptide. Ahead he could see the Rothschild Palace. German soldiers stood at attention guarding all entrances of the home of this famed Jewish baron. Just for an instant, Walter found himself hoping that the baron and his family had gotten out of Vienna in time. Just beyond the palace was the office of the INS. Walter Kronenberger had no other goal left in his life except to reach the doors of the International News Service offices.

  There were at least six men fighting their way toward him now. Their arms were raised as they, too, swam against the crowds. They had long since stopped shouting. Voices and commands to stop Walter went unheeded in the tumult.

  Walter was a mere twenty feet from the back of the crowd. Faces were still turned toward the balcony. The sidewalk in front of the INS office was empty. He prayed that someone, anyone, from the free world would be inside to witness what was to be his last will and testament. Images of Louis and Charles swirled in his mind. As he ran the final yards to the door of the office, he prayed for them, not for himself.

  Shouts in harsh German accents answered from behind. “Halt! Halt! Schweinhund!”

  A single shot rang out and whistled past Walter’s right ear, then ricocheted off the stone of the INS office. Walter cried out, not from fear but with exertion as he lunged for the door, jerked it open, and fell into the front office.

  Startled faces gawked at him as he lay panting on the floor. Men in German uniforms mingled with disgruntled-looking fellows in civilian clothes. Jackets off. Sleeves rolled up. Ink stains on fingers. These civilians were journalists!

  Walter wept with relief. He could not find his voice. He struggled to his feet and stumbled through the low-swinging door into the newsroom. SS soldiers pulled out their guns in front of him, and the first of his Gestapo pursuers crashed into the office. Two more followed closely behind him. All of them were as breathless as Walter from the chase.

  “What the––” One of the journalists snatched his cigar from his mouth and leaped to his feet.

  Already the net was tightening. Walter fought to speak. “I am Kronenberger! Journalistin from Hamburg! They will silence everyone! Silence . . . kill!”

  A Gestapo agent dashed toward him. Walter struggled to reach into his coat pocket. The startled onlookers stood frozen in horror. As bullets from a dozen Nazi-issue pistols tore through his body Kronenberger shouted, “Tell them! Warn––” A final bullet slammed into his mouth
and silenced him forever.

  The envelope he had drawn from his jacket pocket fluttered to the floor beneath a desk and lay there, unnoticed.

  11

  Night Music

  Leah would have paced if there had been room in the tiny practice cubicle. Louis spread his meal out in front of him on the floor and nibbled each morsel. Charles turned away to face the wall so Leah could not watch him struggle to eat. If Leah moved one inch she would have stepped on cheese or bread or one of the boys. She was not hungry, so she sat on the piano bench and tried to decide what she must do now.

  Only this morning she had rejoiced that all the refugee children had been dispersed from their apartment and were now staying outside the Judenplatz. How then, could she bring two boys back into the Judenplatz? The fires of Nazi hatred burned hottest there. She dared not think about what was happening in the neat little square in front of her home. The image of Shimon falling to the cobblestones made her physically ill. She wanted to cry out loud with the worry she felt, but circumstances made it impossible for her to act out her own emotions. Against her will, she now had the feelings of these two children to consider. She was forced to remain strong when it would have been the height of self-indulgence to cry and rage against what was happening. A good scream would feel luxurious like a hot bath on a cold night, she mused.

  An hour had passed without any stirring in the corridor outside.

  Louis looked up from his lunch. “It’s really suppertime, isn’t it?” he asked, sensing the lateness of the hour.

  Leah checked her watch. It was four in the afternoon. “Teatime,” she answered.

  “This was a long time to wait for lunch,” Louis said. “When will we eat supper, since we ate lunch so late? And will the bad men go away so the music will come out?”

  There was little doubt in Leah’s mind that they were alone in the vast building now. She cleared her throat and studied the cello case. There was nothing that cleared her mind like practice. “I think it is time for us to hear the music.”

  Charles scooted around and faced her as he replaced his scarf. He has handsome eyes, Leah thought as she maneuvered the case. His sad eyes seemed to notice much more than little Louis could ever see. The eyes now glowed with pleasure as Leah opened the case to reveal the warm, rich varnish of the instrument.

  “What is that?”

  “He is called––” she removed the instrument and tried not to think of the last night she had played––“a violoncello.” She pretended a cheerfulness she did not feel. “His name is Vitorio, and he sings.”

  She had a captive audience now, and the look on their faces was a comfort to her. She could talk for hours about Vitorio! She could easily pass the time as they waited for darkness to descend outside. When it was dark they could sneak out and go . . . where? That was the question. She must get back to Shimon tonight. The German officer as much as said they held Shimon hostage to guarantee her return to the Judenplatz. So what would she do with these two?

  “How does Vitorio sing?” Louis chirped.

  “We can make him sing.” She crooked her finger to beckon Charles closer. “Give me your hand, Charles.” She took his fingers and pulled them toward the strings. “Go ahead. Pluck one.” The child obeyed and chuckled hoarsely as the cello replied with a clear, precise note. This was the first time Leah had heard Charles make even a slight sound. His laughter pleased her.

  Forgetting his scrapes, Louis had already inched forward on his knees. His index finger was ready. “Me?”

  Leah nodded, and Louis reached out to pluck one string; Charles roared with delight and plucked another. As they giggled and squirmed, all trauma forgotten for the moment, Leah unsheathed her bow and held it before them.

  “And this is called a bow.” Little fingers reached out to pluck that as well. “No.” She drew it back. “We can’t touch the horsehair because it will get dirty, and we can’t wash it.”

  Quickly the hands went behind their backs as if to put them out of reach of temptation.

  “And this is what we do with the bow,” she said as she slowly drew the horsehair across the strings in one long, sustained note. The sound was soothing, calming. The wonder of it shone in the eyes of the two young captives, and when Leah began to play the clear, lively music of the Bach suites, they bobbed and swayed with the melody.

  Leah closed her eyes and played from memory as she had done when she was a child. There were six suites with five or six cheerful movements in each; she went from one to another without opening her eyes. An hour and a half later, she had considered all danger and possible plans. She knew what she must do. Finishing with a flourish, she opened her eyes to find herself back in the little practice room. She was convinced now that the boys had not been brought to her as some sort of a trap. Their need was genuine.

  Somewhere in all of it, Leah had lost her audience. Charles and Louis were fast asleep on the floor in the corner.

  Quietly Leah put away the violoncello and pulled the cover off the upright piano. She spread it over the boys, then turned off the light and lay down to wait until dark.

  ***

  Elisa sat outside the little house in Prague while the last sunlight faded away. The sound of piano music drifted through the windows until the stone structure seemed like a giant music box.

  Inside, Anna was playing the piano Theo had purchased for her in 1936 when he first began to believe that they could not remain in Germany any longer. It was a beautiful baby grand, shining walnut inlaid with tiny bouquets of delicate flowers. Of course it was not so magnificent as the massive concert grand in the music room of their home in Berlin, but Theo had hoped that it would be some consolation for his dear Anna. Prague, too, could be a happy place for them.

  Yet, in all the time Theo had been in prison, Anna could not bring herself to play it. There had been no music in the house until tonight. Tonight for the Lindheim family, formerly of Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin, there was reason for joy and celebration. Why, then, was it so difficult for Elisa to join her family at this moment? She remained behind the wheel of the Packard and stared up at the lighted windows. She was an observer of the joy, but her own heart could not sing with the happiness of her family when there was so much grief only a few hours from this place.

  She dared not tell her mother about her attempt to cross back into Austria, Elisa decided. She would simply explain that the flights to London had been booked for days ahead of time. She was forced to remain in Prague until things quieted down. In her own happiness, Anna would accept any explanation for Elisa’s long absence today. Tonight, within the four stone walls of this ancient house, the world was perfect and everything was true and good.

  Elisa stared through the smeared windshield toward the halo of a streetlamp. Somewhere within this city, others grieved for Vienna as she did. Somehow she must find those people. In the shadows of a house across the street, Elisa caught sight of the orange glow of a cigarette. For an instant she could make out the dim features of a man’s face. Heavy brow. High cheekbones. Thick, drooping mustache. Was he looking at her? She blinked at the darkness where the image burned like the afterflash when a camera bulb goes off. A surge of fear rushed through her. Her hands grew clammy on the steering wheel, and she quickly gathered her purse and small suitcase and the violin, and climbed from the car. How long had the man been standing there? And why was he there at all?

  She hurried up the steps and knocked hard on the door. The music stopped, and she could hear the laughing voice of her brother Wilhelm as he rushed to answer the door.

  “It’s Elisa!” she called. Even the sound of her own voice startled her. She wished she had not said her name. She glanced over her shoulder into the blackness across the street. There was no sign of the watcher, but still she felt eyes looking down at her.

  “Elisa?” Anna’s startled expression appeared as she threw open the door. “Why aren’t you in London, darling?” She gathered Elisa into the safety and light of the house.

&nbs
p; “I tried, Mama,” she said with a weak smile. She did not say more; no one was very interested in any explanation, anyway. They were simply glad she was back.

  “Theo!” Anna called into the parlor where Theo lay on a sofa beside the piano. “Look who’s back!”

  “We’re having a recital,” Theo said in a hoarse but happy voice. “Your mother is playing all my favorites at once, and we are catching up.”

  Theo’s face, smiles, light from the lamps—all reflected in the raised top of the glistening baby grand like a mirror. Anna directed her into the parlor while Wilhelm took her luggage from her. Elisa caught sight of her own reflection in the sheen of the wood. I must smile, too, tonight, she thought. I cannot mar such an event.