Prague Counterpoint (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  She looked up at the vile little man who still grinned at her from behind the counter. She had no choice. He knew it, and so did she. She hated him for knowing how vulnerable she was. She hated him for his power over her.

  “You are a thief,” she said calmly, picking up the money.

  He laughed at his victory. Yes, he was a thief, but he was a successful thief, the laughter seemed to say. And he would be a very wealthy thief before all this ended. “A businessman, madame,” he said happily, pulling the cello off the counter and out of Leah’s reach.

  She turned quickly away so he would not see her tears. His laughter followed her out of the dusty little shop and echoed horribly in her mind as she hurried away to the train station.

  28

  Out of Captivity

  The main assembly room of the Craine Castle was so large that Casa del Sol would have fit inside it easily. Two dozen guests were dwarfed in the eighty-by-thirty-foot room. All those assembled could have stood inside the enormous fireplace. Huge tapestries hung from the ceiling above dark oak-paneled choir stalls purchased from a sixteenth-century monastery. At either end of the room ancient Roman busts were perched atop gold-leaf pedestals twenty feet high. A marble statue of Venus gazed shyly down on the guests.

  In his starched white shirt and black dinner jacket, Murphy imagined that he must look like one of the servants. He stood apart from the others, most of whom he recognized from movies. They played cards and sipped champagne while they chatted amiably and waited for their host. Clark Gable and Carole Lombard sat together on a long red-and-gray, floral-print sofa at the end of the room. The statue of Venus seemed to eye them in particular, Murphy thought with amusement. He wondered if Gable had also advised Miss Lombard to come to San Sebastian without any clothes in her suitcase.

  Marie Dressler, her matronly figure draped in fox fur from head to toe, chatted with western star Joel McCrea as they played bridge with a man and woman Murphy did not recognize.

  All the while Murphy hung around the huge grand piano and talked quietly to the piano player. No one seemed to notice either of them, and Murphy was relieved that he blended into the surroundings. The “beautiful people” gathered in this room were the other guests Craine had been entertaining for the past week. Murphy recognized the laughter of a slim blond woman dressed in a blue silk evening gown, but he did not know who she was. As he leaned against the piano and watched his companions, he was left with the sensation that these guests were also mere adornments of Craine’s grand castle. They were like the paintings and tapestries, like the sixteenth-century choir stalls that served no other purpose than to decorate the room.

  The pianist finished playing Chopin’s Nocturnes, and no one even looked up or applauded.

  “You know any jazz?” Murphy grinned. “Scatman Caruthers?”

  The pianist, a young man of twenty-five, nodded. “Not here, friend,” he said, quietly shuffling through his sheet music. “The Chief doesn’t allow it.” He chose another piece by Chopin. ‘There are a couple of dives in ‘frisco where I play the hot stuff. But not here. The Chief says it would clash with the décor. Guess he’s afraid his Venus might wake up and jive! Quite a museum he’s got here,” the musician added under his breath. “Gotta play stuff to match the decor.”

  Even the pianist was part of the total image. So how, Murphy wondered, did he fit in? And why was he now being called out of confinement to sup with the Chief and his elegant guests?

  His answer came, strangely enough, from the mouth of the musician. “So you’re the journalist, huh? The one from Europe?”

  Murphy eyed him curiously. “Been in Europe a while, and here too long.”

  “You going back with Lindy, I hear.”

  Murphy squinted, trying to catch up with the piano player’s thought. “Lindy?”

  “Yeah. Lucky Lindy. Charles Lindbergh.” The pianist looked amused at Murphy’s confusion.

  “That’s news to me.”

  The pianist laughed at what he thought was a joke. “A good one! News to you! Did you hear the plane this afternoon?”

  “The plane?” Yes, Murphy had heard a plane. But he had not connected it with Lindbergh.

  “His plane. He buzzed the castle. Boy, you sure know how to play dumb. Everyone knows. You don’t have to pretend. They all know why you’re here. Going to cover Lindbergh’s trip to Germany. Right? Going to fly along with Lucky Lindy while he gets his medal from Hitler.”

  So this was the “hot story” Murphy had been summoned to cover! He had not heard that the American hero was to be decorated by the Führer. Nor could he quite grasp that he had been chosen to write the story of this ill-timed and inappropriate pilgrimage. Murphy continued to stare hard at the inside of the grand piano. He did not speak as he let the information sink in. “How’d you hear all this?”

  The young man inclined his head at the guests. “They’ve been talking about it all week. Can’t keep any secrets from the piano man. They hang around here every night and gossip. Think the servants and the musicians are all deaf, I guess. They think we don’t have ears.” He laughed. “Stand around the piano and gossip. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I know!”

  “Like whether Lindbergh is coming to dinner?” Murphy tested.

  “Sure! He’s upstairs with the Chief in the gothic study talking it over right now. The Craine papers have bought an exclusive on the whole thing. And you’re the man going along for the ride. Everybody knows, from the cook to the hairdresser to the tailor. I sat down in the alterations shop and jawed with the tailor while he finished your suits. What a deal! All I ever get out of this is a new dinner jacket once in a while. I like your suits. Like the brown double-breasted one best. And the brown wing-tip shoes.” He was grinning broadly at the expression on Murphy’s face.

  The man was right. Murphy wouldn’t ask him what he thought about the argyle socks. The piano man knew the details about Murphy’s life better than Murphy did. “Well, if you know so much, tell me why Mr. Craine hasn’t seen me all the time I’ve been here.”

  The pianist looked blank. “I don’t know. Why?”

  Murphy drew himself up and tugged on his bow tie. “My clothes weren’t finished. Can’t meet the Chief in coveralls.”

  The pianist shrugged and glanced up at the clock. “Three minutes,” he said cryptically.

  The guests fell silent and looked toward the tall paneled door beside the great stone fireplace. The clock inched toward eight. Servants stood at rigid attention as the seconds ticked off. Then, as the minute hand touched twelve and the bells in the bell tower chimed, the door opened and the tall, stern figure of Arthur Adam Craine emerged, followed by Charles Lindbergh, who appeared very young and boyish. It had been ten years since Lindy’s flight across the Atlantic to Paris. Murphy had still been in high school. He had seen Lindbergh several times since then in Europe, but always among a mob of other newsmen. Until Lindbergh had toured Germany and pronounced the infallibility of Hitler’s air force, Murphy had always considered him a hero. Tonight, however, in the glow of the tall silver candlesticks of the Assembly Room, Lindbergh’s image seemed a bit tarnished.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Craine extended his thick arms wide. “You all know Colonel Lindbergh, I assume?” Then he gazed directly at Murphy. “And soon you’ll know him better. The Craine newspaper chain has just been granted exclusive coverage of the colonel’s upcoming journey to Europe.” He smiled a perfunctory smile in Murphy’s general direction. “Beginning with tonight’s dinner, if you please, Mr. Murphy.”

  ***

  The red flags were everywhere. Leah lowered her eyes and pulled her scarf over her hair. On the crowded sidewalk she brushed past what seemed like a thousand groups of laughing German soldiers. Black, shining jackboots against the pavement was all she could see. The threats of the pawnbroker followed doggedly after her. The man was nothing more than a thief; now that he had stolen Leah’s lifeblood, would he also call the Gestapo? Was she being trailed a
t this moment?

  She overheard snatches of conversation as she walked by a group of Blackshirts.

  “My right arm, Hans . . . so weary.”

  “A tough one, was he?”

  “Yes, but he cracked in the end. They all do. But still, my arm is quite sore from the beating I gave him.” The comment was completed by raucous laughter.

  Leah wanted to cover her ears with her hands and run from this nightmare, run from the thought that these evil men might be boasting about the beating they had given Shimon. Her Shimon! Her heart cursed them. Run, Leah! Run and they will shoot you, and everything will be finished. If they killed Shimon, then you cannot live either! Run! Run from the life that is not life anymore at all!

  But she did not obey her thoughts. Instead she walked steadily onward toward the train depot. No one stopped her along the street. They did not notice the small woman with her eyes averted. She blended into the stone façades of the buildings. Voices echoed. The scuffing of soldiers’ boots and laughter pursued her as she focused her mind on the children. On little Charles, symbol of the last fight of many good men in Germany. Now they were dead. But Charles must live! If there was a God, then this helpless little boy must live!

  Her legs carried her up the steps of the depot as though she were simply a passenger in her own body. Beneath the familiar arches of the building she at last looked up. Here too, where her beloved orchestra had come and gone a hundred times, the dreaded swastika draped the vast hall.

  Thousands of people were crammed into the waiting area; baggage was piled on the platform. Stern Gestapo watchers were evident behind every pillar, at every entrance and exit. Faces of hopeful passengers were strained and fearful. Could there be any moment more frightening than the last moment still within the reach of the Nazi authority? Leah could see it plainly. Those who waited in the long serpentine lines to purchase tickets were also terrified.

  “Travel documents!” barked the rock-jawed agent who prowled the length of one line and then back along another. “What? You do not have the proper papers to travel in the Reich! Trying to sneak past us?” he roared at one ashen-faced woman. “You know there is no excuse! To travel without proper documents is to find oneself in Mauthausen!”

  “But I did not know!” she protested, clutching his arm. “Please!”

  He shook himself free and shoved her to the ground. With a snap of his fingers two men appeared like grim apparitions and dragged her away as she wept loudly.

  Travel papers! Leah had none. Nor could she acquire any. She had not known! How could she have known? She could not purchase train tickets without them!

  A wave of dizziness swept over her. She leaned heavily against the stone wall of the building. She had lost Vitorio for nothing. It was hopeless. Not only was it impossible for her to fly away on the winds of the magic cello, now she could not even take a train from this place.

  As all eyes turned toward the unfortunate woman who had attempted to purchase a ticket without Nazi permission, Leah drew a breath, steadied herself, and slipped out of the echoing hall into the sunlight.

  Still more soldiers walked past her on the steps. Could they see the terror on her face? The hopelessness?

  Run! her mind shouted, but instead, her trembling legs staggered forward. Back to the apartment. Back to confinement. And now there would be no music to comfort them as they waited. Leah could not even think any longer what it was they were waiting for.

  ***

  Charles could hear the rustle of paper in the other room. They had left the sheet on which Louis had been practicing the alphabet in plain sight. The fat man laughed, delighted to have discovered the childish scrawl before him on the table. Louis squeezed Charles’ hand tighter.

  Where had Leah put their papers? Charles gasped as he remembered their German identity cards and his father’s letter had been placed in the drawer of the night table. Yes. Herr Hugel would look there, too.

  Heavy footsteps walked toward the bathroom. Herr Hugel did not bother to close the door. There was no other moment for Charles to act. While Hugel was busy obeying nature’s call, he tore his hand free from Louis and squirmed out from under the bed. He crawled across the floor to the nightstand.

  The toilet flushed as Charles quietly slid the drawer of the nightstand open and pulled out the incriminating papers. Footsteps walked toward the bedroom. Charles closed the drawer quietly even as the doorknob turned. The child lunged for the bed, scrambling under it and out of sight just as the bedroom door crashed open and the worn shoes of Herr Hugel crossed the threshold and stood still. His labored breath smelled plainly of stale beer and sausages, and he reeked of sweat. The boys held their breath as the bursting leather shoes walked toward the bed and stopped. After a while he moved to the dresser. Drawers opened and closed. Herr Hugel chuckled once again and stood motionless; then a pair of lace panties fell to the floor. With a grunt of effort, the fat man bent his bulk to retrieve them. The drawer slammed shut.

  Feet splayed outward to support his weight, he walked toward the closet. He threw it open and beat his hands against the dresses as he searched for . . . for what? for whom?

  The fat man sniffed loudly in disappointment. No one was hiding in the closet. He turned in a circle. Charles could see his toes pointing toward the bed again. The fat man was thinking, sniffing the room for a clue like a cat sniffing for a mouse. He walked the two paces to the bed. The toes of the ragged shoes poked beneath the footboard. He lifted his foot to measure the inches between floor and footboard. Charles could almost hear him thinking: Small enough for a mouse. But not for a human.

  Louis squeezed his eyes and gritted his teeth as Herr Hugel circled the bed. He repeated his calculation with the side rails that were a fraction higher from the floor than the footboard. The fat man started to stoop down, but the effort proved too great. He scraped dust from beneath the bed and nudged it with his toe. The dust seemed to satisfy him.

  With a grunt of confusion, he turned once again to see if there was any place he might have missed. “Night table,” he muttered, pulling open the drawer and pawing through its contents. The drawer slid back, but Herr Hugel did not move for a moment. Then he sat heavily on the bed.

  Above the boys, the springs groaned and sagged, pinning them painfully against the hard floor. Louis grimaced as the weight of Herr Hugel pressed against his head and shoulder. Charles almost cried out with agony as his tender face was pushed down against the unyielding floor, and his breath was nearly cut off.

  For a full two minutes the boys remained pinned beneath the fat man’s build. Then, just as the pain became unbearable, Herr Hugel struggled to his feet and stood in the room for a moment longer before he cursed and walked slowly toward the front room. He closed the door behind him, careful to leave the place as he had found it.

  Trying to regain their breath, the boys followed the shuffle of the fat man’s footsteps through the apartment as Herr Hugel searched the place one last time.

  What had he found? Nothing. Nothing but a childish scrawl on a slip of paper. The moment Herr Hugel had envisioned as a great victory for his prestige with the Nazi Party now ended as he lumbered out into the hallway and locked the door of the apartment behind him. But he was not finished. His exit now did not mean defeat. There was something—something—he had overlooked, and he would wait and watch until he found it.

  29

  The Mutiny

  Murphy was seated to the left of Lindbergh at the long dining table in the room Craine called The Refectory. The table was at least twenty-five feet long. It, too, was a part of the priceless cache of antiques Craine had purchased in a foundering Europe. Four hundred years before, this had served as a nuns’ dining table in a convent in Italy. Murphy could not help but wonder if the good ladies now looked down from heaven and shuddered at the conversation around their table.

  Six silver candlesticks, each three feet tall, provided the only illumination in the room. The dim light was lost in the high ceiling above the
m. Behind Craine hung an ancient French tapestry depicting scenes from the life of Daniel. It was flanked on either side by still more ornately carved choir stalls. How many cathedrals, Murphy wondered, how many convents closed by the European Fascists have been shorn of their treasures? The glory of dozens of churches and monasteries now adorned this castle built for the glory of Craine. First sold by the government authorities to dealers, the art had been gleefully purchased by Craine’s agents. Besides the things on display here, two entire warehouses were crammed full of Craine’s possessions.

  This knowledge caused Murphy to remember uneasily that Hitler and Göring had also accumulated a mass of treasure from the collections of those condemned by the Reich as “vile Jews.” Murphy had seen the Rembrandt and daVinci paintings that hung so prominently at Göring’s Karinhall mansion. He had not dared to ask where they had come from. He already knew the frightful answer.