by Bodie Thoene
“From Murphy?” she asked, wondering if he was somehow part of this.
“So it will appear. The good doctor observes that perhaps your mother does not know of your previous activities. Or those of your father. It is best if it remains that way.”
They had thought of everything, including a method of getting her out of the house without explanations. “Yes. Thank you.”
“When you reach Vienna, you must go immediately to a bookseller. Fiori’s Bookstore. Dealer in rare books.”
“On the corner of Kartnerstrasse,” Elisa said, feeling some excitement. “I know the place well.”
Now the man smiled. Gold flashed briefly. “Take him your father’s copy of Faust. Tell him you have a rare edition to have appraised, and––”
Elisa sat up as if to protest this instruction. “But . . . how can I take it without my father suspecting––”
“He will not question you.” There was a knowledge in his eyes now that finally convinced her. Had Theo been part of this plan as well? She did not ask. She would not ask what whispered words had passed between her father and the doctor. Theo had seen her helpless misery and indeed understood why she must return. “The time is right then,” she muttered.
The instructions continued. “Tell the bookseller you have a rare edition to have appraised. He will ask if it is Goethe or Marlowe. You must answer Goethe, of course. Then he will tell you what you must do.”
“And if I am followed? Or the Gestapo––”
He raised his hand to silence her. “My dear girl! ––” his voice was patronizing––“you have done nothing wrong. You are a respected musician. Aryan. Deny everything. Deny anything past or present that might be incriminating. Show them your passport. Call the American Embassy.” He was smiling. “Call your maestro and he will call the Nazi minister of propaganda. What harm can come of having your father’s volume of Faust appraised?”
“And then? Will I be able to help––?”
“You cannot help Leah Feldstein. What you are involved in is not a simple matter of pulling a few Jews from the fire.”
Elisa frowned. “A few Jews?”
“We have larger concerns now, Elisa. All of Europe, for instance.” He sounded amused. “We are not in the business of rescuing refugees.”
“Then why am I here?”
“You have proven yourself on an amateur level of operation. Your name was offered to us as one who would be ideal as a courier.”
Elisa sat silently, wondering who might have submitted her name as though it were an application for employment. She did not ask. The man would not have told her, anyway. “And what is it you want from me?”
“Simply carry the volume across the border. You will be given further orders, other things to carry on to Paris. There is an old bookseller there. He is called the Dead Man.”
“A strange name.”
“He is a strange man. But helpful, nonetheless.” The man shrugged and Elisa thought that this Dead Man could not be any more strange than the one who sat across from her now.
“But the children. Leah . . . ” She could not let go of the thought of them.
He leaned forward impatiently. “Put those matters out of your thoughts. They are insignificant compared to this operation. We cannot risk it for any individual. If you cannot put that aside, then we have nothing further to talk about.”
Elisa lowered her eyes. This was not what she had been hoping for. This man had no connection with the Jewish underground or the rescue of children. He seemed to have no thought whatsoever of those who remained trapped beneath the iron fist of the Nazis. And yet, quite obviously, he was working for the same goal her father had worked for. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly, unwilling to give up this tenuous connection with someone who fought Hitler and the Nazi state. “And what if I find Leah?”
“Don’t look. If you work with us you are involved in something too important for personal indulgence. You must trust me in this. We cannot risk anything for the sake of one woman. Even your own life will be expendable. You make the choice.”
“What choice do I have? I cannot remain here and do nothing.”
“You were looking for us before we heard of you. Remember that. You decided long ago which side you belonged on.” He smiled at her patronizingly. “Yes. I think it is right that you join us.”
***
The telegram sent to Elisa at the Prague house did indeed look authentic. Now, as Elisa sat beside her father at the dining table, she wondered if he knew the truth. Did he suspect that the summons to Vienna had not been sent by Murphy at all? Only Wilhelm seemed to see right through her deception. She did not dare look at him.
Anna looked unhappily at Theo as she passed a basket heaping with rolls. Elisa had not brought back any butter, but that was not what bothered Anna now. “How can he ask you to return to that terrible place?” she asked Elisa. “Theo, you must forbid her to go. She cannot go back to Vienna now. Tell her, Theo.”
He did not answer for a moment; then he gazed steadily at Anna. “I am only her father, my dear, not her husband.” Then he smiled. “And if we had been in similar circumstances when we were young, Anna, would you have let your father dictate to you whether you should join me?”
His point was well taken. Theo and Anna had married against her father’s wishes, after all. Anna shook her head grimly. “And now my youth comes back to haunt me.”
Theo laughed, then winked at his wife. “Any regrets?”
“You would not have asked me to join you in hell!” she snapped.
Elisa had listened in silence to their discussion of her safety. She was glad that Anna did not suspect the truth. Her marriage to Murphy once again served as a wall of protection even against her mother’s disapproval. Now Elisa played out the charade. “Murphy would not ask me to join him if there were any danger, Mother,” she said quietly. “We won’t be in Vienna long, at any rate.”
“One minute within the reach of those vile men is too long.” Anna was more frightened than angry. “First Germany. Then Austria. And now the riots in the Sudetenland! Did you hear the broadcast? Did you hear Hitler? They will even have Czechoslovakia if he has his way.”
Elisa managed a smile. “Then you might as well let me go to Vienna if they’re coming here, too.” It was a poor joke and was met by an icy silence.
Theo cleared his throat and dabbed his lips with the linen napkin. He was the only one with an appetite. “Anna,” he said, his voice comforting, “tonight the frontier opens again. The situation has calmed enough for that. Elisa has things she must get out of Austria.” He looked knowingly at his daughter.
Yes. He knew. It was not for things that Elisa must return, but for the sake of much-loved friends who had been left behind.
“Things!” Anna could hardly speak. “Is there anything worth going back for? You can buy her anything she wants. Her American husband can meet her in Paris, and––” Her eyes brimmed with tears. Her protest was in vain.
Elisa wondered what her mother’s reaction would have been if it were not for the phony telegram. “Mother, I have an American passport,” she reminded Anna. “My husband is a journalist. The Nazis would not dare lay a finger on me. They are still trying to woo the American press into seeing things their way. I will be fine!”
Anna bit her lip and stared down at her plate. The lovely supper was cold. Ruined. Elisa was leaving, and there was no way to stop her. “You must wire us when you arrive,” she said weakly. “Or I will not be able to sleep. Or eat.”
An hour later, gaunt and gray, Theo leaned heavily against the door of Elisa’s bedroom as she packed. They were alone for the moment, and he held out the leather-bound copy of Goethe’s Faust.
“You will want to carry this?” It was not really a question. The eyes of father and daughter locked in understanding. Elisa was returning, and Theo must let her go now, although he alone understood the danger to her.
Elisa nodded and took the volume; then Theo pulle
d her close in a final embrace. “Thank you, Papa,” she whispered, grateful that he did not make the parting more difficult than it already was. “Don’t worry, Papa.”
For a moment he did not answer but simply stroked her hair. “So much at stake,” he said at last. And in his voice was the yearning for his own child to be safe as well. “I will pray.” He released her and she stood before him looking down at the book.
There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, but there was no time. Perhaps there would never be time. What must be said could only pass silently between their hearts. She had been so young and innocent the night Theo had picked this book from the shelf of his library in Berlin. Now he offered it to her.
He spoke quietly now. “In Dachau I made a covenant with other men and with God. I promised that I would not forget . . . that I would not sit idly by while the innocent perish. You are my own flesh, Elisa. If you have made the same covenant in your heart, I have no right to try to stop you. I will not stand in your way. Know that I offer you all the strength I have in prayers until I can once again join you in the fight.”
He lifted her chin with his finger. “I am proud of you because you are my daughter. And I am frightened for the same reason. Be careful, Elisa. Trust no one until you have irrefutable proof of where they stand. You must now pretend to be what you are not, but always remember who and what you are. All the world, it seems, has sold its soul. Hold tightly to the hand of God, Elisa. Hold tightly to His hand.”
32
A Song in the Dark
The gun lay on the packing crate beside the flickering candle. The eyes of his companions were now on Herschel. He looked at the revolver and then to each of the young men of this tiny Zionist cell.
“After what is being done to Jews in the Reich, we must show the world, Herschel,” said Hans as he touched the pistol grip and nudged it closer to Herschel. “Your name has been drawn to accomplish the deed. Are you man enough to fight for the nation of Israel? To avenge your coreligionists?”
The questions stabbed at Herschel’s faltering courage. He was meeting here in this dingy room with three others who called themselves Zionists. They talked together and deplored the acts of the Nazis in Germany, in Austria, and now in the betrayed provinces of Czechoslovakia. What stronger protest could they make before the world than this?
Herschel drew himself up. Light flickered on the faces of the young men around him. Lips parted in smiles of approval as he reached for the gun.
“For the sake of Zion I take up this weapon,” he whispered hoarsely. Nods of assent ringed the small circle. “It will be easy to kill him.” Hans seemed relieved, Herschel thought. Had he been planning this the first day they had met in the bookstall of Le Morthomme?
“I hate him.” Herschel stared at the gun. He clenched the grip in his hand until his knuckles were white. “I have hated him since Berlin.” Now Herschel spoke through clenched teeth as he thought of Thomas von Kleistmann.
“Your boss will lose a good customer,” laughed Johann, lighting his cigarette on the candle as he spoke.
“There are plenty of Nazis where Thomas von Kleistmann comes from,” Herschel said, feeling more confident by the minute. “And I would kill them all if I had the chance.”
Uncertainty now showed on the face of Hans. “But only one dead Nazi in the German Embassy will make our point.” His voice held a warning. “And the timing must be exact, Comrade Herschel. The day and the date must be fixed to make the strongest impression on the Fascists back in Germany.” He paused, as if lost in deep thought. Then, “yes!” He snapped his fingers as Herschel eyed him expectantly. “May Day!”
Johann and Raphael nodded in instant agreement. “Yes! The day the Nazis will be holding their great celebrations of Hitler’s army. Do you remember the parades, Herschel? Remember the torchlight parades in Berlin? The raving speeches by Hitler? Himmler? Göring? Remember how they marched and sang and raged against the Jews?”
Of course Herschel remembered. The thought of it made him tremble with anger. He had listened to the speeches over the radio. He had not dared to venture out onto the streets as the Storm Troopers had roamed through the alleyways in search of a Jew to beat up. This enormous Nazi celebration was one of the most violent of all Aryan gatherings throughout the year. Beads of perspiration popped out on Herschel’s darkly handsome young face.
Hans eyed Herschel. “You see, don’t you, Herschel? The time of the May rallies is the best time to kill Thomas von Kleistmann. To walk into the German Embassy. To ask for him, and to kill the stinking Nazi right there! If they can do such things to Jews, then we will show them!” The voice of Hans was urgent. He rested his hand on Herschel’s. “We will show them, won’t we, Herschel? This will give those Jew-baiting swine something to talk about at their great Reich gathering!”
Herschel raised his eyes from the gun to the face of Hans, whose brooding face seemed fixed with the rage and hatred Herschel felt. The object of his hatred was von Kleistmann, but for an instant he imagined a million bodies stacked high on the parade grounds of Germany as the swastika flag waved, bloody and tattered, above them. “I could kill them all and then die easily,” Herschel muttered. “It is the vengeance of God that I will show them! I will show them what to expect! Yes! This time I will give the Nazis something more to read. Their papers will scream the headlines! The world will not condemn me for what I do. They will pay me homage that at last someone stands up to their unconcern!”
The three comrades of Herschel Grynspan sighed with relief and sat back. It had been so easy to convince this young Jew what he must do. Hans had spotted him for a crusader the first moment he saw him. Now Hans offered one final bit of information. “You will not be alone. Herschel. There are others. Others like us, like you, who will strike a blow for the Jewish people. I have heard that there will be others willing to risk their lives to make a statement. To show the world that Jews are not sheep for the slaughter! Through this act the world will see our solidarity, our determination! The Jewish race will not be trampled but will fight!”
No more needed to be said. Herschel held the gun high now. The barrel glinted in the candlelight. The deed would be easy for him. He had lived a miserable existence in the shadows of Paris; now, he would walk the Rue du Cherche-Midi in search of the bold light of noon. He would kill a man in the cold light of day to illuminate the fact that Jews were being murdered in the cover of night. Perhaps, like Dreyfus, Herschel would be taken to the prison of Cherche-Midi! There he would proclaim his cause and his purpose to the nations, and he would find their support!
Herschel rose from his seat. He felt better than he had felt since his arrival in Paris. No longer was he impotent. He held the courage of six bullets in his sweating hand.
***
As Elisa drove Murphy’s Packard toward the Austrian border, she wished she could have waited until daylight to leave Prague. Prague, whose name in the Slavic language meant “Threshold,” had felt safe to her, remote from the troubles and riots that had ripped through the outlying provinces. Tonight she had crossed the threshold into the ominous silence of the Sudetenland, where riots had cost the lives of Czechs and Germans alike in the last weeks.
The blackness of the mountainous countryside was illuminated for a moment as the full moon glinted like an angry face from behind the clouds. The forest of treetops bent slightly in the strong spring wind. They seemed to bow toward the tall half-timbered buildings of a small German village perched on the hillside beyond. Here, only the German tongue was spoken. Only two miles back, the Slavic language alone was understood. Tonight, both Slavic and German villages within the Czech frontier spoke of hatred and violence against their neighbors. Men and women trembled in fear of the future, just as the forests trembled before the wind.
The countryside was quiet now. A truce had been called, and the Nazis had withdrawn to lick their wounds while the Czechs did the same. Tomorrow the fighting might begin again, Elisa knew. This might be her only o
pportunity to cross the border.
It was well after midnight, but she was not tired. The silence, ominous and eerie, seemed filled with ghosts of what had been in the past and foreboding for what might be in the future. In village after village Elisa had seen evidence of the clashes between the two racial groups. Broken windows, paint-smeared buildings, the hulks of burned automobiles were everywhere in these quaint, picturesque places.
The violence had never touched the city of Prague, and Elisa shuddered as the intensity of the conflict suddenly became real to her. The horror stories from Vienna had preoccupied her for so long that the disturbances in the Czech provinces had seemed slight by comparison. The newspapers in Prague had downplayed the conflict, even as Hitler had raged against the vile Untermenschen on behalf of the “downtrodden” German population in the Sudetenland. Only now, as the headlights reflected on the colorless debris of the Czech midnight, did Elisa realize the awful threat that had come even to this place.
