by Bodie Thoene
“Hear, hear!” shouted one young MP enthusiastically, and a few others tapped their feet against the floor in agreement.
The voice of Churchill rose to a resounding crescendo. “Where are we going to be two years hence, for instance, when the German army will certainly be much larger than the French army, and when all the small nations will have fled to Geneva to pay homage to the ever-growing power of the Nazi system, and to make the best terms that they can for themselves?”
The question, like Murphy’s vision, was a prophecy of doom and terror for Europe. The audience shifted in their seats and, unable to face such a prophecy, most of them closed their ears to his words. Murphy watched as men looked away to the ceiling and scribbled notes to one another. Churchill cried out his warning for the perilous safety of Czechoslovakia and her giant Skoda munitions industry. Then he spoke of the rich oil fields of Rumania, which also stood in the path of Hitler’s plan of conquest. But he had already lost his audience. They simply did not want to hear or believe that more might be lost to Europe than little Austria.
“Czechoslovakia is only a small democratic state, but they have an army two times as large as ours; they have a munitions supply three times as great as Italy’s! They are a virile people and have a will to live freely!”
Some Englishmen were even uncertain how to pronounce the outlandish name of Czechoslovakia. How could they be expected to care about the country that must certainly be next on Hitler’s agenda of conquest? Murphy wanted to stand up and shout to these men with hooded expressions who yawned politely behind their hands: “Wake up, you fools! Listen to him and act before it is too late!” But he sat in silence with the rest of the press corps.
“Czechoslovakia is now isolated! It may now be cut off unless out of our discussions arrangements are made securing the communications of Czechoslovakia.”
No one hears you, Winston. Murphy felt sick. They don’t want to hear you. A voice crying in the wilderness . . .
Murphy mentally checked off a list of the procedures he would have to follow to get Elisa and her family out of Prague. A visa to the United States. He would show her Times Square. It was only a matter of time now until the hour would toll for the Nazis, and Death would ring his little bell.
***
The arguments of Churchill were inevitably ridiculed by the prime minister and dismissed by the members of Parliament as the sort of nonsense that sold newspapers but served no real purpose. Just as Hitler had received a verbal slap on the wrist when he invaded the Rhineland, the invasion of Austria was “deplored,” but no action would be taken.
Disappointed but not surprised, Murphy filed out of the press section with the other correspondents. As it turned out, Amanda had not really missed much by staying away. Several members of the press corps would have been better off if they had nursed their hangovers and listened to Churchill on the radio at home.
Strickland looked undamaged by the previous night. He met Murphy just outside the entrance of Parliament and slapped him hard on the back. “Still dressed like a bum, I see.” He eyed Murphy’s wrinkled suit. “Thought Amanda was going to dress you last night.”
Murphy shrugged. “I got fresh. She let me have it and sent me packing.” Murphy hoped he could at least salvage some vestige of dignity for Amanda. No doubt they had been the subject of gossip last night after they left together.
Strickland did not seem surprised. “Figures. So, are you packed?”
Murphy laughed. “Everything I have I’m packing on me. This is it.”
Strickland glanced at his watch. “That makes it simple. You’ve got less than an hour to get to Heathrow.”
“You sending me back into the fray so soon?” Murphy was relieved at the thought that he would not have to stay on in England. To return to Vienna now meant that he would be back in Prague with Elisa at least a week before he had thought it possible. He had a lot to tell her.
Something had happened to him along the way. He had fallen in love. He felt a new wind blowing in his life and waking him up. He had to tell her the truth. When he had muttered the words of the short version of the wedding ceremony, he hadn’t realized that it really had meant a lifetime commitment for him. Maybe she would listen. If only he could have the time to look her in the eye and––
“A different kind of fray I’m sending you into,” Strickland answered as he pulled a neatly folded telegram from his pocket. “I don’t know what you did, Murphy, but the Chief sent this wire all the way from California this morning.”
“The Chief!” Murphy exclaimed. That title was used for none other than Arthur Adam Craine, the undisputed king of American publishing, who owned the Times and the INS, and who took a certain pride of ownership in his employees as well. He was the monarch. They were his loyal servants. He ruled his empire from a castle he had purchased in Spain and had dismantled and shipped to California. From his mountaintop lair, the old lion watched over his world, dictating editorial policy, influencing government policy, and intimidating everyone from lowly mayors to the president of the United States himself. A wire from the Chief was ominous. Murphy swallowed hard. “A wire from California? What’s he want?”
“He wants you.”
“Me?”
“He says he wants to see this young John Murphy fellow. He heard the broadcast. Read some of your copy, I guess.” Strickland held out the telegram, and Murphy backed away from it.
“So what’s he want me for?”
“If he wanted to fire you, Murphy, he wouldn’t want to see you in person. You’d already be on the street. He wants you back in Vienna for a couple days. Pick up impressions. You know nothing is getting out, so he wants you to carry the story out in your mind. See? Like you did for the broadcast.”
“Two days in Vienna.” Murphy was mentally calculating how long he would need to search for Leah and Shimon Feldstein. And if he found them, what could he do to help them in two days? “Then where?”
“Well, the Chief is in California, and if he says he wants to see you in person, it’s a cinch that he’s not coming here.”
“California! But . . . ” Images of Elisa flooded his mind.
“Yeah. California. At the castle. Like Sir Lancelot being called to Camelot. Probably means a promotion. Nobody gets invited to San Sebastian unless they are a movie mogul, a gorgeous dame, or about to get promoted.”
“But I can’t leave Europe now!”
“You can file your story in Paris at the INS office. You’ll have a day before you head for New York.” Strickland grinned. “You’d better practice your salute.” He clicked his heels and raised his hand. “Heil Craine!”
“What I have to do in Vienna will take more than two days!” Murphy protested.
Strickland shrugged. “The Chief has you on some sort of schedule. Says he wants you for a really big story—the story in Europe, he says. But first he wants you to meet some bigwig celebrity in California.”
“I can’t go. Not now.”
“Then you will be fired.”
“Tell him you couldn’t find me.”
“Then I’ll be fired.”
“California!” Murphy’s heart sank. He had promised Elisa that he would be back. First Vienna, then Prague. He had given his word that he would try to find Leah and Shimon. How could he go all the way back to the States? A trip to California would take weeks!
“You’re booked to leave Paris on a dirigible in two days. Sure beats ocean liners, don’t it? ’Course, I don’t know if I want to fly across the water in one of those things either. Not after the Hindenburg crashed and burned. Is that it, Murphy? You scared of flying?” Strickland was talking to him now as if he were a child.
“I just don’t see how I can go. The story is here.”
“The story is where the Chief says it is.” The decision was made. “So, you’re booked to New York and then cross-country to California from New York by plane.”
Murphy sighed in resignation, even as the thought of resigning from hi
s job flitted through his mind. Travel by air would cut the wasted days by half. If the meeting with Craine didn’t last long, maybe Murphy could make it back to Prague before he was missed. “Guess so,” he muttered.
Strickland eyed him with fatherly concern. “Look, pal, the last time the Chief noticed you, he screamed an order for you to shut up and lay off the Nazi government. I thought you were going to get canned then. Old man Craine has a little soft spot for Hitler because he thinks the Nazis are fighting the Communists. He’s scared to death of Communism. No wonder. The guy is the champion capitalist millionaire. He got along swell with Hitler when he visited in ’34, and now Charles Lindbergh has filled his head with all the great stuff Hitler is doing to fight the Communists.” He slapped Murphy on the back. “Don’t you get it, Murphy? The Chief has forgotten all about that reprimand you got! Not only are you not going to get fired, you’re going to get promoted! And you’re going to get a juicy assignment—whatever it is. At least smile, will you? Snap out of it.”
“Strickland, I don’t want a promotion. I don’t want to be noticed.” Murphy knew his protest was futile.
“Well, this is the way not to get promoted. But you’ll be noticed all right. Arthur Adam Craine will personally see to it that you don’t have a job. He’ll make sure you can’t get a job, get it? You don’t say no to him. As a matter of fact, you’d better agree with everything he says, even if you don’t agree. See? Otherwise don’t talk politics!” Strickland took Murphy by the arm and was guiding him down the steps toward a waiting taxi.
“How can I not talk politics?”
“Remember, he doesn’t want the U.S. to get involved with Europe. He hates the French. Likes the Italians, and thinks Hitler is not far wrong on a few points.” The matter was settled. Murphy was going. “He had Winston Churchill at the castle in 1929. If you want to make a point, quote Churchill. Craine likes Churchill.”
Murphy jerked his arm from Strickland’s grasp and turned, looking him squarely in the eye. “This doesn’t make sense!” he snapped. “How can the guy agree with Hitler and like Churchill at the same time?”
“I dunno, Murph,” Strickland responded. “But it doesn’t matter much. The Chief’s in charge of a very big boat. Don’t rock it, or you’ll end up in the drink.”
Murphy got into the taxi, and Strickland jumped in beside him. “This is nuts, Strickland. I’m a small fry. Why’d he have to take an interest in me, anyway? I just want to stick around Vienna.” He was really thinking of Elisa in Prague.
Strickland paid no attention. He rattled off a string of orders and emphasized each one with a jab at Murphy’s arm as the taxi pulled into traffic. “The Chief loves animals. All kinds. Mice. Birds. He’s got a zoo at the castle. Antelope, gnus, lions, and stuff. Tell him you love animals. Tell him you’re a dog lover. He loves dogs.” Strickland was rattling on like a machine gun, listing the topics that were safe for discussion and those that would arouse the fury of the Chief. “He’s dedicated to preventing cruelty to animals. Don’t mention hunting, for goodness’ sake!”
Murphy blinked at Strickland in disbelief. “Yeah? Hates seeing the little animals get shot, huh?” A call from the INS office had kept the plane waiting at the airfield. “Well, how does he feel about people getting shot? Austrians? Jews and the like? Huh, Strickland? Can I talk to him about that?”
Strickland considered the question, not seeming to notice the sarcasm in Murphy’s voice. “Gee, I don’t know, Murphy. I don’t think the Chief is as interested in people as he is in animals. Play it safe. Follow his lead. He doesn’t like anybody to disagree with him, you know.”
Strickland accompanied Murphy to the Lufthansa passenger plane bound for Vienna. He stood back and waved broadly as Murphy boarded and the plane finally lifted off.
Murphy sat at the window and sighed deeply as Strickland and London became mere specks below him. The cessation of Strickland’s voice was a relief. Then it suddenly occurred to Murphy that he had not had the time to file his story about Churchill’s stirring speech to Parliament this morning. As the plane left the coast of England, Murphy decided that maybe nobody on either side of the Atlantic would care much. A. A. Craine, the most powerful publishing mogul in America, was probably more interested in closing down the fur trade than revealing to the world that Europe was about to be devoured in one gulp by men who themselves were more cruel than animals. The thought settled on Murphy with a gloom darker than the clouds that settled over the English Channel.
He did not speak to the other passengers during the entire trip, leaving them to speculate as to why the takeoff had been delayed until he had arrived. “Someone quite famous,” they would mutter. “It’s a pity we don’t know who. . . .”
18
Dead Man
Since the Anschluss and the shooting of Kronenberger, the INS office in Vienna remained mostly deserted. Only a few correspondents were on duty; the covey of reporters who usually hung out there had found other quarters. The place gave everybody the creeps. As a matter of fact, all of Vienna gave everybody the creeps. But there was definitely something morbid about the thought that a man had been shot to death within these walls as Austria cheered the Führer.
Bill Skies gazed around the press room at the empty desks. The place had been a sort of press club, even for the independents. The usual hand of poker had folded on Anschluss day. Skies already missed the old gang. In and out, and in and out. What’s new? Nothin’. You wanna play a little gin or drink some?
Some of the foreign correspondents were Jewish. The smart ones had left a step or two ahead of Hitler. A group of them was now in Prague, where something new was simmering. A few were in Paris, and some of the guys, like Murphy, were in London digging around Whitehall and Parliament.
Then there was Johnson. After twelve hours in a relatively tame Gestapo cell, he had been rousted out at the insistence of the American Embassy and driven to the border, cursing all the way. He was now on the blacklist of Herr Doktor Joseph Goebbels, head of the German Ministry of Propaganda. Johnson was told not to come back to the Reich or else. It was a shame Johnson had gotten himself arrested before the man had been mowed down by the SS in the office. Maybe Johnson could have written something about it when he reached the INS office in Geneva. As it was, Bill Skies and everyone else who was left still had their hands tied by censorship.
Bill hoped that the guys who were still in Vienna would drop in. Maybe in a few days they wouldn’t think about the bullets and the blood splattered all over the front desk. The bullet holes had already been patched, and fresh paint covered the bloodstains on the plaster. Bill thought now that he maybe should have repainted the whole office. The fresh paint was almost as obvious as the blood had been. The black-and-white-checkerboard tiles on the floor had been cleaned by two Jewish women the SS had dragged in off the street after Walter Kronenberger’s body had been carted off. Still, it was easy to imagine the thick red puddle oozing beneath the desk.
The spectacle had sickened every journalist in the office. The SS and the Gestapo, of course, justified their action loudly when they found the pistol tucked into the dead man’s belt. With strict censorship the rule, the incident was barely a footnote to the publicized happenings that week. Walter Kronenberger, they said, had stormed the INS offices, waving a pistol and shouting that he would kill the Nazis. It made a good story.
Was Kronenberger just another crazy pushed over the edge by the sight of the German army in Vienna? Bill Skies wondered.
It was a remarkably common and tragic story. While thousands were being arrested, hundreds were ending their own lives. Poison. Pistol. Gas. A rope over the rafter. When the Gestapo broke down the door to take away another “enemy of the Reich,” they often found that their victim had chosen a quicker alternative to a slow Gestapo death. Maybe that is what Kronenberger decided to do, Skies mused. Maybe the guy just didn’t want to live anymore. Maybe he split in a Storm Trooper’s eye and ran in here yelling bloody murder. And the SS goons
were more than happy to oblige. Well, whatever it was all about, the poor man sure had managed to empty out the INS office. Until the contrast of the fresh paint toned down a little, the place definitely gave them all the creeps.
As if reading his mind, Timmons mumbled, “Never did like the smell of fresh paint. Makes me sick.”
Bill Skies stared at the wall and plugged a cold cigar butt into his mouth. “Yeah,” he agreed.
But it wasn’t the paint that sickened him. He shivered at the memory of the bullets, tearing flesh and breaking bones. Then he saw, once again, Kronenberger’s hand raised in that last desperate instant.
What had been in his hand? Not the gun. The truth was, Skies reflected, the man was shouting that the Nazis would kill him . . . which they did promptly. And he wasn’t waving a pistol.
Bill Skies’ reporter instincts kicked in. His mind began churning.
