by Bodie Thoene
“But what?”
“What good would the death of an Austrian do here in this?”
“Are you planning on dying?” Sporer gave a short laugh and clapped him on the back.
“Your leaders must be from the Sudetenland; otherwise the Czechs will say that you have imported troublemakers from Austria.”
“They said the same of me when I was arrested in Vienna,” Sporer defended, not liking the fact that Otto Wattenbarger was trying to get out of the coming fray.
“Yes, they said that of you. And it hurt the cause. When the end of Czechoslovakia comes, let it be said that the German patriots living here brought it about.” Otto frowned. “There is enough for me to do at home in Austria.”
Sporer regarded him with some disdain. “Austria is insignificant compared to Czechoslovakia. You have heard the words of the Führer with your own ears. Czechoslovakia is the aircraft carrier of the West. If the Führer should attack France and Britain, this place will forever threaten the rear of the Reich unless it becomes a part of the Reich! The Führer cares little for the two and a half million racial Germans inside the border of Czechoslovakia. He wishes military security. Austria was only a stepping stone.” The face of Sporer grew animated as he explained once again what Otto already knew.
Otto had known it all from the beginning. He knew enough, and now he simply wanted to return to Vienna. He nodded. “All this will be done even if I do not take part in the battle. You can surely find some other use for me. I do not wish to prove an embarrassment to the Führer and the Reich. There is no need to use imported agitators here as we did in Austria.”
“By the end of May armies of the Reich will take over the Sudetenland. And then they will march to Prague. Otto! Comrade!” Sporer patted him on the back again. “Surely you do not wish to give up your place in the glory of the event!”
Otto raised his eyebrows slightly in weariness. “If you cannot see the reasonableness of my request, Albert—” Otto sat down—“we have seen eye to eye on everything.”
“And that is the point, is it not? We have been comrades since the first days in Stuttgart. Shoulder to shoulder for the Führer and the Fatherland.”
“And so we are still. But my heart is in Austria first. A small request. That I return to serve in Austria.”
Albert Sporer was visibly disappointed. He shrugged and slumped down beside Otto. They had seen so much action together, and now Otto was leaving him to face it alone. Had they not been the closest of comrades? Had they not shared the same hatred of the Jews and those who set their faces against the Führer and the Fatherland? Sporer had always admired this would-be priest turned Nazi. He had respected the fact that Otto Wattenbarger abhorred violence and yet had faced it and had accepted his duty to the Fatherland above all else. Otto Wattenbarger had brought something more to the movement than mere enjoyment of brutality. He had somehow bestowed an element of purity to the cause—and hence, to Sporer himself.
“Well,” Sporer said at last, “still thinking like a priest, are you?” He sighed then. “You have never liked the sight of blood. Even Jewish blood. I have known that all along.” Sporer wiped sweat from his brow. “I, on the other hand, was born for this.” Otto did not reply as Sporer reasoned his way through to a conclusion. “If you must leave while we’re still in the thick of it, then I’ll make certain you’re still in the middle of the whirlwind, my friend. Your mind, your reason, give us all a bit of dignity. Himmler himself said as much about you. Why do you expect that I would give up your help here easily?”
Otto looked sharply at him. “Because you will do very well without me. I am an Austrian-German and could be better used in Vienna.”
Sporer laughed. “There! You see? A man of reason to the last!” He extended his hand, and Otto knew that he had won. “When will you leave?”
“Tonight. Now.”
“Then Heil Hitler!” Sporer saluted him.
“Heil Hitler!” Otto replied solemnly.
His valise tucked beneath his arm, Otto Wattenbarger slipped from the hotel and boarded the train for Vienna, long before the first shots were fired in the opening riots of Czech Sudetenland.
***
Before Murphy took the Kronenberger document from his pocket, he bolted the doors of Skies’ apartment and pulled the draperies. Somehow, even that did not seem like enough, so he went to the lavatory and, perched on the edge of the huge claw-foot bathtub, he pulled the papers from their envelope and began to read.
The lettering was neat German script, in handwriting so beautiful that Murphy had a sense he was holding some ancient, medieval document. That feeling was dispelled the instant he scanned the first paragraph.
Beneath the heading, which was phrased much like another will, the story began:
I, Walter Kronenberger, being of sound mind and body, on this the thirteenth day of March 1938, leave the reader of this document all I have.
And what do I have left to give you in these last moments of my life? I have no material possessions left, certainly. I lost those long ago. By the end of this day I expect that even the clothing I wear will be blood-soaked, torn by Nazi bullets. But what I have, friend, I will give you. I offer you my story, with the prayer to Almighty God that my story will not also be your story one day! I offer you my warning, not as a dead man but as a husband and father, as a man who has wanted nothing more than to live in freedom with my loved ones! Like you, I have wanted nothing more than to love my family, to serve my God and my homeland as my heart instructs me. For me it is too late. Perhaps it is not too late for you.
Murphy shifted his weight on the lip of the tub. He looked up from his reading, sensing that Kronenberger was speaking directly to him. The voice was almost audible, echoing in the tiny blue-tiled room.
“Okay, pal,” he said quietly. “I’m listening.” He focused back on the page, and the voice became louder and more insistent with each well-chosen word.
This morning as I write this, the table beneath my pen is trembling with the roar and vibration of Nazi tanks passing beneath our window. Listen. You will hear them. You will feel their presence in the room where you sit. Close your eyes and sit here with me. Share this moment. It is all I have to give you.
Look with me at the water-stained ceiling of this shabby hotel. My two sons sleep together in the bed in the corner. Tousled blond heads peep out from beneath the quilt. They are nestled together like spoons, Charles and Louis. Do you see them, friend? They share the same pillow, just as they shared the same warm womb of their loving mother. Louis came into this world whole and unmarred. Little Charles emerged with his lip and palate not perfectly formed. And yet the heart of that child is so deep and so perfect that I think he must remember what heaven is like.
How can I share what I feel with you? For just this moment, I ask that you think of those you love most in the world. Picture them in your mind, or gaze gently on them with your eyes, and then imagine what I feel now. They sleep and dream sweet dreams and yet when they awaken I must find some way to say good-bye to them. Now I look my last on them. How can I embrace them, knowing that when I let them go I will never touch them again? How can I say good-bye with the certainty that they will never hear my voice again? What should my last words be? I love you? I am proud of you? Do not be afraid? They are only five years old. Will they remember this morning of our final farewell? Will they believe that the heart of their father broke at this moment, this moment when everything is ending?
I will long be in my grave before these questions are answered. For this short time they sleep there together, and I cherish the sight of them—the sound of their sighs and the scent of little boys in the room. These things I bequeath to you.
Hear my heart, dear reader and friend. I have brought you here to share this moment in my life when death is certain. Can you hear the clatter of tank tracks against the cobblestones now? Do you sit here with me at the wooden table as I write? Do you see Charles and Louis there beneath their quilt? Can you
find in your own heart the love for them that I feel, and the grief at our parting?
Yes, I sense somehow that my words will find a way to you. I reach across the great chasm of time to you. And you reach now for me. Listen, then, to our story; and for the sake of those you love, stand firm for all that you know is true and holy before God. Do not bend a fraction when the winds of evil blow upon you! Do not sway with others, or one day this terrible moment of farewell will come upon you, too.
Murphy looked up from the paper, surprised that Walter Kronenberger was not in the room with him. How strongly he felt the life of this man! The effect was like a shattering blow to Murphy. Once again he remembered the slack jaws of the children who had been crushed by the Nazi bombs that rained on Madrid! Evil had overpowered the most beautiful of days. Death had come unexpectedly to men and women and children who had not thought of it at all when they had risen in the morning. The Nazi planes had smashed an ordinary morning and ordinary lives beyond repair. The victims had no time to cry their warning to other men and women like themselves. But Walter Kronenberger had foreseen the certainty of his end, and now he shouted his warning clearly to any who would listen! It can happen to you! Fight evil before it finally overtakes you! Stand firm before it is too late!
Murphy bowed his head and closed his eyes in the sense that he held something almost holy in the papers of Kronenberger. Somehow the man had even envisioned his own death. Bullet-riddled clothes. Nazi bullets. Blood on the floor of the INS office. And in all of it, Murphy heard the warning clearly: It could happen to you as it has happened to me!
With a sobered sigh, Murphy opened his eyes and continued to read the terrifying story of one ordinary family caught in the whirlwind of evil that had swept Germany.
The Nazis closed all schools run by the churches. State doctrine was substituted for the teaching of the Holy Scriptures. Small children were taught to recite this prayer at bedtime: “Adolf Hitler, you are our great Führer. Thy name makes the enemy tremble. Thy Third Reich comes, thy will alone is law upon earth. Let us hear daily thy voice and order us by thy leadership, for we will obey to the end and even with our lives. We praise thee! Heil Hitler!”
The evil had come gradually, the document explained, at first through legislation. While church leaders who protested were thrown into prison camps, most Protestants and Catholics floated along, hoping that they would not be forced to make a choice. But members of the Nazi Party ridiculed Christians, and everyone knew that one could not remain true to the doctrines of love taught by Christ and also belong to the Nazi Party that proclaimed hatred everywhere.
In Bavaria, church members fought to save their schools. Nuns were dismissed without pensions. Convents were forcibly closed. Priests rebelled against Nazi orders and preached sermons condemning Nazi policy from their pulpits. Those priests spoke out against the forced sterilization of those considered “racially unworthy.” They decried abortion as the murder of the unborn and marched against the state-financed institution that performed the procedures. Those who protested were arrested. Children continued to be indoctrinated. The state took absolute control over the education of the young. And, of course, the forced sterilization programs continued.
At this point the tragedy gripped Walter and his family by the throat. The order came that Charles was to be sterilized as racially undesirable. Walter and his wife protested and then were faced with a court order that they, too, must report to the clinic for sterilization. After all, had they not given birth to a defective child?
The family had gone to the church for help. Those who came to their support were ultimately arrested, as was Walter. His wife, carrying their third child, had been taken to the clinic for an abortion. Infection set in, and she died while Walter was in prison. He was also sterilized and returned home, broken in health and spirit. His wife was dead, and Charles had been subjected to sterilization as well.
Hitler was rapidly winning the minds of the nation’s youth, even as leaders among the Christians vanished one at a time. The empty pulpits were filled by those who advocated the policies of the state. The Old Testament was taken from the churches first because of the “Jewish influence.” Then the New Testament was removed because of the “weakness” embodied in its teachings of love, forgiveness, and compassion. The Bible was replaced with Hitler’s book, Mein Kampf. The cross was torn down and replaced with the swastika. Racial purity, hatred of the Jews, and the elimination of the weak were preached and practiced.
The will of Hitler had been voted into law in Germany. Praised and worshiped by the young German nation, Hitler became the messiah of evil. Torchlight processions honored him. Hundreds of thousands of schoolchildren prayed the prayer they had learned in state-run schools:
“Thou who hast saved Germany from deepest need, I thank thee today for my daily bread. Remain at my side and never leave me, Führer, my Führer. My faith. My light. Heil, mein Führer!”
Through the long and tragic story, Kronenberger wrote of the gentle love he had shared with his wife and sons. Once it had been perfect. They had not believed that this could happen! When, he asked, had it become too late to turn back? Where, along this long road into darkness, had the ordinary man and woman of Germany finally sold their souls?
The answer was simple, Walter reasoned:
It was already too late when the ordinary man or woman saw the Jewish shopkeeper being beaten but did nothing to help. It was too late when the neighbor was taken to the clinic to be sterilized as a racial undesirable. It was too late when the bishops of the church cowered in fear at the sight of the Storm Troopers! When they failed to protest and continue to fight against the evil of abortion and racial selection. When they did not tear down the signs declaring JUDEN VERBOTEN, it was too late. Too late. And soon the blackness swallowed them alive into the tomb of tyranny.
Now Austria is also lost, devoured whole in one night. What evil will come upon this place when the morning sun is up? Listen to me; I beg you! Wherever you are. Look to your own world and know that this, too, can come upon you! Look at your children, as I look now upon mine. Stand now for those things that are filled with love and a reflection of the pure heart of Christ. Judge well between that which is the true love of Christ and that which is only illusion masquerading as light. Do not be deceived, or I tell you from the brink of my grave that my end will become yours. Your homeland will be torn and devoured. Your children will vanish with you, or they will also wear the face of evil.
This is the end of my testament. I pray that my warning will reach your heart and awaken your will to stand for the right. If it does not, then close your eyes and listen. Listen to the rumbling of the tanks as they move beneath your window tonight. Your children will drive those tanks. They will become the tools of darkness in the hands of the evil that has existed on this earth since the first. The weak will be sacrificed and the strong will break the bones of those who awaken too late. It is too late for me. I pray it is not too late for you also.
Murphy was perspiring by the time he finished reading the document. Skies was right; this thing was dynamite! The perfect explosive to blow anyone off his apathetic resting place. Kronenberger had written it, but first he had lived it and died for it. There was no middle ground left. It was one side of the fence or the other!
His head was throbbing as he folded the papers and slipped them back into the envelope. Such dynamite could well explode in his face if he were caught with it. Yes, it must be published. But how was he going to get it out of the country?
21
Orchestration
It was a foolish hope, Murphy realized now as he stood in the wings of the stage at the Musikverein. Leah and Shimon Feldstein were not in their usual places as he had prayed they might be. An older man with stooped shoulders and a shock of white hair now stood at the kettledrums. Leah’s char was occupied by the sensitive, bespectacled young man who had been second to her in the cello section. As Murphy quietly watched the rehearsal, he gradually became awa
re of other missing faces among the group. Perhaps a fourth of the first-violin section was now filled with people Murphy did not recognize. Elisa’s chair was taken by an older woman who looked worriedly from the score to the conductor, then back again to the score.
Murphy was unfamiliar with the music they rehearsed. He found himself thinking of how quickly Elisa would have recognized the piece, named the composer, and reeled off the occasion and date of its composition. The thought made him angry all over again that she and the others were not here, that they could not be here! Most of the musicians now absent from the orchestra had been close friends of Leah and Elisa. It was obvious why they were missing. The German laws against Jewish musicians were now the laws of Vienna.
The conductor appeared especially rumpled this morning. His face was pained, and frustration oozed from his outstretched hands as he directed the newcomers in his orchestra.
Lowering his hands and staring unhappily at the woman who sat in Elisa’s chair, he spoke in a controlled but obviously angry voice. “Keep in mind, ladies and gentlemen, that Haydn, who is the composer of this piece . . . for those of you who might have dropped out of the music academy before you got that far—” there was an uneasy stirring among the new musicians as the insult hit its mark—“Haydn had in mind a caricature of a military march!” The voice began to rise to a forte, and the face reddened. “We have been over the second movement a hundred times and––”
