Prague Counterpoint (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  The INS telephones had been tapped. All dispatches had to be cleared by Goebbels himself, who had come to Vienna to make certain that the transition from free press to censorship went smoothly. Austrian newsmen were already rotting in concentration camps. An efficient lot, these Nazis.

  A pervasive gloom had settled on the tight fellowship of foreign correspondents. Today, John Murphy was coming back to Vienna, but it was unlike the Vienna they had all loved.

  Skies lit the cigar stub. Smoke rose around his big, square head like a cloud. He imagined it smudging the new paint a little, helping it to match the old paint a bit better. He continued to look at the newly painted patch on the wall. No change. Still too bright, whiter than the rest.

  Again the picture of Kronenberger flashed through his mind. What had the man reached for? Not the gun. It was something . . .

  He sat down heavily and scratched his head as the question persisted. He was supposed to be a newsman. Supposed to notice stuff like that, and remember. He felt old. “Hey, Timmons?” he asked quietly. “The guy who was killed . . . ”

  “What about him?” Timmons’ voice was reluctant. He was only just getting used to the paint smell. Any more talk about what was under the paint and he was going to lose his lunch.

  “Right before they got him—” Skies talked around the cigar—“remember?”

  “Yeah,” Timmons said weakly, wishing he didn’t remember. He was a sportswriter, after all.

  “He reached into his pocket and pulled something out . . . something.” Skies stood up in the place where Walter Kronenberger had drawn his last breath.

  Timmons’ eyes grew wide. He looked pale. “Knock it off, Bill. I told you, I feel a little queasy.”

  It was too late. Skies was reenacting the drama—mentally hearing the shouts of the doomed man once again. “Tell them—” he reached into his jacket and then, as he had seen the fatally wounded man do, raised his hand high, and––

  “An envelope!” Timmons jumped to his feet. “They shot him just when he got it up. He was yelling at us, not the SS!” Timmons walked quickly to Skies, who stood frozen in his pose.

  “That’s it!” Skies began searching the floor. “Did they take it? Did the Gestapo get the envelope?” Now both men were on their knees, searching the black-and-white tiles for the envelope.

  “It was thick! I don’t even think those rats noticed it.”

  Skies and Timmons ran their hands beneath the adjacent desk, a space too narrow for the scrubwoman’s brush to reach. Each at the same moment grasped a corner of the envelope that had fallen unnoticed and camouflaged onto a white tile. With a shout of discovery they held it up to the light.

  Printed neatly on the front were the words The Last Will and Testament of Walter J. Kronenberger. Two tiny flecks of blood seemed to mark the period at the end of the line.

  ***

  Churchill had spoken boldly to Parliament about the planned German takeover of Czechoslovakia. In Paris that morning, Thomas had listened to the broadcast with other members of the German Embassy staff.

  An exchange of glances told Thomas that Ernst vom Rath had also heard in Churchill’s words confirmation that someone in the German High Command had sent the British a message.

  Ernst had no way of knowing who had sent the message, or that it had been brought from Vienna to Paris by Thomas himself. Although Thomas trusted Ernst, he would not involve him in this. There was no use endangering Ernst in what was surely a death sentence if Thomas was caught.

  Other couriers no doubt ran the same risk, but Canaris and Oster had decided that the less each participant knew about the others, the better their chance of safety if any member was captured and tortured by the Gestapo. Thomas agreed; he did not need to know more than the location of Fiori’s Bookstore in Vienna and the bookstall of Le Morthomme on the bank of the Seine in Paris.

  It was almost noon when Thomas reached the book market. He walked quickly toward the strange little bookseller’s stall. The Dead Man appeared the same as he had yesterday—same shapeless beret, same string tie and frayed yellow shirt beneath a dusty-looking black coat. The bookstalls were not so crowded today, and the Dead Man looked up expectantly for Thomas as the bells of Notre Dame chimed the noon hour.

  Thomas was certain he had not been followed and now, in the quiet of the empty stall, he examined the book that the Dead Man pulled from beneath the table. It was not the same book that Thomas had brought here yesterday, but the cover was remarkably similar.

  “Our English friend did well,” said the Dead Man of Churchill. “But no one cares.”

  “To whom shall I return this?” Thomas asked in a soft voice.

  “Fiori. He will see that it reaches the top.”

  “What do the British reply?”

  The Dead Man opened the book to page 178 and held the page to the light. Pinpricks of light shone through the first letter of each word in the message. Without the light behind the page, the tiny holes could not be seen. Name, date of planned operations will stand firm.

  So here was the British promise to those within the German command against Hitler. Warned of the coming moves of the Führer, Britain would stand firm against any further violation of territory by Hitler’s army.

  Thomas closed the book with relief. This was all so very simple. Such encouraging words from the British would certainly strengthen the resolve among the German military to resist further aggression by the Führer! Thomas slipped the book into his pocket and paid Le Morthomme two francs. His book had indeed been valuable! Winston Churchill himself had appraised the information in it and had believed the threat against the Czech nation. Canaris, Oster, and the rest would believe his promise that England would stand firm.

  A quick trip back to Fiori’s in Vienna would let them know what they must do. Britain must know the date ahead of time! With that information in their pocket, they could deal easily and publicly with the threat.

  Thomas smiled. “Tell me how you came by your name, the Dead Man?” he asked the bookseller.

  “I have said always that rare old books are like the voices of dead men, crying warning and wisdom and folly to all the future dead men of the world.” His ancient leathered face warped into a grin. “You are a dead man. I am a dead man. We are all heading for the same place, oui, monsieur?”

  Thomas patted the book in his pocket. “Not too soon, I hope.”

  The smile on the face of the old man faded as he watched a man walk slowly past and cast a furtive glance toward Thomas. The Dead Man lowered his voice. “By Friday noon I look for you,” he whispered.

  Thomas followed his gaze and watched as the observer strolled on by. Friday noon? Yes. That would be just enough time to get back to Vienna. If there was a date already fixed for the invasion of Czechoslovakia, certainly someone would know of it.

  Thomas nodded. “Fine. Yes. Friday will do.”

  ***

  It was early in the morning when Leah was awakened by the sound of men’s voices and jolly chortling at the foot of the stairs. She cracked the door slightly and peered down to the foyer.

  Three men stood together in the light. The door of the concierge’s flat was open. Have they been searching for something? Leah wondered.

  “Congratulations on your appointment, Herr Hugel!” A uniformed SS officer clapped his civilian companion on the back.

  The civilian laughed again and nodded in eager reply. “The reward for loyalty to the Führer all these years!” he said proudly, peering into the concierge’s flat. “It has been a hard climb for the Hugels in Austria, but today I reach the summit!”

  So this Herr Hugel was to be the new concierge of the apartment building. He looked to Leah like a gross mountain of lard. He was dressed in lederhosen and the woolen jacket of a native Austrian. His enormous belly extended over the waist of the leather knickers, and he seemed to have no neck. Folds of flab were even evident in his drooping eyelids, and his laugh revealed short, yellowed teeth.

  It must hav
e been a hard climb for a man of such physical immensity, indeed! thought Leah. She wondered how low a position he had begun from, since his ultimate “summit” was a position as Nazi informer in an apartment building. And now, how many human backs would he climb on for the approval of his superiors? He guffawed again and wiped tears of delight from his watery blue eyes.

  “We shall leave you to your task, then, Herr Hugel,” said the officer with a click of his heels.

  Herr Hugel was not ready to give up the importance of his great moment. “Ahhhh . . . the Jew. The Jew, Herr Haupt! A weasely little fellow. Whenever I came to deliver the coal, he spoke badly of our great leader! I did not dare to answer him back then for fear of what the Loyalist government would do if they knew my sentiments.”

  He wagged his head seriously. “I knew the time would come, though! The little Jew would pay for his remarks. And one day I could speak out!” He peered into his new apartment again. “Quite a nice flat.” He chuckled. It seemed to be part of his speech—words and then a burble of laughter. “Too bad my wife did not live to see this day! Always she warned me to keep my mouth shut about National Socialism, but she knew nothing of politics. She knew nothing much, really. A brainless ninny.” Again the laughter. “Ah, but I miss my bride. She would have set everything in order, and how proud she would have been of her little Hugel then, ja?” Now there were tears of sentiment along with a low snorting chuckle. “Well, I do go on!”

  Leah saw the two German soldiers exchange glances. They managed to smile in mock sympathy, but it was obvious that they were not as impressed with the summit of Herr Hugel’s success as he was. The new Nazi government in Vienna had need of informers. Men of the basest and most ridiculous natures would suddenly become important. Herr Hugel had not wasted a moment in reporting the anti-Nazi remarks made by Herr Haupt. Suddenly Herr Haupt was the enemy, and in his place was this greasy coal man who thought so much of himself that he would stop at nothing to elevate himself from his own gutter-rat existence.

  So this is an example of those who will hold even small positions of power in Vienna! Leah realized as she shut the door quietly. The thought of a man like Hugel in the same building made her shudder.

  Yet somehow his presence also convinced her that she could not wait for Elisa any longer. Days had passed, and her dear friend still had not returned. The news reports, though now slanted to the Nazi perspective, stated that the frontier to Czechoslovakia was closed because of Czech military threats against the Reich. As long as this remained true, Elisa would be unable to get back into Austria. She would not be able to fulfill her promise to return.

  Leah stood in confusion in the center of the little kitchen. Perhaps she could take Charles and Louis to the Tyrol herself. But where would she find the money to purchase tickets? That problem alone seemed insurmountable.

  There was still plenty of food in the cupboards. What Elisa had figured would feed Leah and big Shimon for a week seemed to stretch on and on. Grief and worry for Shimon had robbed Leah of her appetite, and these two small boys ate little. If they stayed here and hoped for Elisa to come, there was still enough to last them for a considerable time. If it had not been for the installment of Herr Hugel downstairs, that would have seemed the safest course to follow. Why place themselves in danger on the streets when for the moment they had food and shelter, and no one asked any questions?

  Outside, she could hear the heavy footstep of Hugel on the landing. The clap of his meaty fist on the door caused her to jump. She did not move to answer his knock until it sounded more insistently once again. Pulling her robe close around her, she tiptoed to the door.

  “Who is there?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Herr Augustus Hugel!” came the proud reply.

  “Who?” She let anger tinge her voice. It was, after all, very early.

  “Herr Hugel. New concierge of the apartment! Open the door, please!”

  “Go away!” she said angrily. “I don’t care who you are! It is only six in the morning, and I am a musician who works late and must sleep!”

  There was silence on the other side of the door for a long moment. Herr Hugel was thinking, which was a difficult process for such a mind. The voice that finally answered was less arrogant and somewhat apologetic. Leah knew she must be strong in order to handle this oaf. “Bitte,” he stammered, “I am an early riser myself, and I forget. . . .”

  In a show of bravery she cracked the door open and faced him. His face was flushed and he was sweating from his walk up the stairs. Leah wished that the flat were on the third floor. He would not often lug his weight up three flights of stairs to bother the occupants above her. Her scowl caused him to back up a step. He looked confused, and once again he chuckled with embarrassment.

  “All night last night I performed for the highest members of the Nazi Party,” she lied fiercely. “I received many compliments from the Gauleiter! How do you think he will like it if I tell him my performance is ruined by the apartment concierge banging on my door at some ungodly hour because he is an early riser!” Her voice carried, echoing in the hall behind him.

  He lowered his chin, causing layers of flab to gather around his neck like a fleshy ascot. His eyebrows arched with shame. “Bitte,” he whispered now, “yours was the first flat I came to, and I . . . ” He was perspiring heavily. He mopped his brow. “I simply wanted to introduce myself to the tenants.”

  “You’d better wait until the sun is up!” she snapped angrily. “Or your tenants may throw you down the stairs!” Then, in a burst of inspiration, she raised her hand haughtily and pronounced words of dismissal. “Heil Hitler!” The effect was wonderfully devastating.

  The fat man meekly flipped up his wrist and stammered his response. “H-heil, uh, H-h-itler.”

  With one last withering glance, Leah closed the door on his face in triumph and locked it. She leaned against the doorjamb as total weakness engulfed her. Slowly she slid to the flood and sat trying to catch her breath as Herr Hugel tiptoed away from the apartment.

  19

  Silent Testament

  As Murphy’s plane circled above Vienna, he could clearly make out the flag-draped buildings. He remembered not long before when he had viewed Berlin with the same ominous sense of death, and he was relieved that Elisa had remained in Prague.

  He fingered the letter she had sent for him to give to Leah. Below him the spire of St. Stephan’s rose up like an accusing finger. He knew that Shimon and Leah Feldstein must be still within the shadow of the cathedral; that is, unless they had been dragged off like the thousands who had been caught in the first sweep of the net. If they were down there, Murphy would find them. He had promised Elisa, and he would stick to his promise.

  Bill Skies was at Alpern Airport to pick up Murphy. Skies looked ten years older, thin and haggard. “I haven’t slept at all.” Skies could hardly look at Murphy. His eyes darted all around the building, which was crammed with uniformed soldiers of the German Wehrmacht.

  “Even God rested after six days, Bill.” Murphy tried to joke, but his words fell flat.

  “God left Austria when Hitler marched in.” Skies was not joking. He added in a painful voice, “You won’t believe it, Murph. You just won’t believe . . . ”

  When they arrived at the Sacher Hotel, they found it swarming with German officers and administrators who had been brought in from across the border. The wheels of Nazi justice were churning as quickly as possible to obtain housing for these new officials. Jews were being driven from their homes through German “legal proceedings,” but still such matters took time.

  “Every hotel is full of them,” Skies muttered as they left the lobby and climbed back into the car. “You can stay with me.”

  Murphy had already decided that he would stay at Elisa’s apartment. He still had some hope that Leah and Shimon had made it there to safety and were managing to escape the net of the Gestapo. “It’s okay.” Murphy let his mind drink in the masses of German uniforms on the sidewalks. “
I’m staying at my wife’s apartment.”

  Skies narrowed his eyes. It was evident he had forgotten that Murphy was married. Skies did not reply or speak until they turned onto the main road from the airfield. His face was grim and pained, and his hands nervously clenched and unclenched the steering wheel.

  A thousand questions raced through Murphy’s mind, but he sat in silence as if the city were now some vast cemetery. Skies did not seem to want to rehearse the details of the last week, and Murphy did not ask.

  When at last they turned onto the broad Ringstrasse, Bill Skies said slowly, “It’s been hell around here, Murph. Just hell, that’s all.”

  Murphy could not tear his eyes away from the buildings. Banners and slogans and huge posters of Hitler were evident everywhere—except for the shopwindows smeared with the word JUDE!

  Now that Bill had opened his mouth, there was no stopping him. “Even the embassy had trouble getting Johnson out of the Gestapo claws. He’s in Geneva now. Better not come back, either, they said. But the worst of it––” he swallowed hard—“the worst was the guy they killed in the INS office. It was bad enough when we thought he was just some crackpot, but then—” he frowned at Murphy—“hey, you covered the war against the churches, didn’t you?”