Prague Counterpoint (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  ***

  Within hours of the disastrous press conference by Chamberlain, Winston Churchill stood before the CBS microphone beside Ed Morrow and drawled his response to British apathy about the situation between the Czechs and the Germans. Churchill’s speech had first been delivered at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester before a crowd of several thousand; now, in a lonely studio, he repeated the words with the same drama. Murphy listened to the broadcast in the lobby of the Savoy Hotel.

  “Here is the practical plan. Britain and France are now united. Together they are an enormous force, moral and physical and one which few would dare to challenge. I should like to see these two countries go to all the smaller states who are menaced, who are going to be devoured one by one by the Nazi tyranny, and say to them bluntly, ‘We are not going to help you if you do not help yourselves. Are you prepared to take special service in defense of the Covenant? If you are willing to do so, and prove it by your actions, then we will join together with you and protect each other and the world from another act of aggression.’”

  Murphy applauded loudly, although he was nearly alone in the plush lobby. The midnight desk clerk looked up sharply. “Nobody is listening,” he said dourly.

  “Oh yes, they are!” Murphy said. “It’s suppertime in the States, and everybody in Czechoslovakia has insomnia! They’re listening, pal!”

  “If we could rally even ten well-armed states, all banded together to resist an aggression upon any one of them, then we should be so strong that the immediate danger would be warded off.”

  Murphy prayed that such words were indeed having an impact in the right places. He imagined the rage of Hitler at such a plan and hoped that the voice of Winston Churchill pierced even the Chancellery in Berlin.

  “Is that not far better than being dragged piecemeal into a war when half those who might have been our friends and allies will have been pulled down one by one?”

  The question resounded in Murphy’s mind long after the late-hour adjustment to European time dragged him into sleep. Again and again the phrase penetrated his dreams. The hope expressed by Winston Churchill gave Murphy hope, where Chamberlain had offered only the nightmare of appeasement.

  “If only they knew, Elisa,” he mumbled in his sleep. “They haven’t seen Vienna, or they would not throw Prague to the wolves.”

  ***

  Amanda Taylor caught up with Murphy in the plush lobby of London’s Savoy Hotel the next afternoon. She patted him cheerfully on the back and linked her arm in his.

  “Can I buy you a drink, Johnny?” she asked playfully. “Or have you sworn off the stuff?”

  Murphy felt his face redden. He was grateful that Amanda had recovered her dignity enough to speak to him, but her nearness made him uncomfortable. “On the wagon,” he replied with a shrug.

  “Also canned, I hear.” She tugged him toward the bar. “Good for you, I say, getting away from old Craine. Now you can write what you want. A blessing most of us only dream of. And so, my dear boy, I offer you the scoop of the century for your darling American publisher. A trump for old Trump, if you will.”

  She had barely taken a breath since grabbing his arm, and now with a promise of a story, she had Murphy hooked.

  He followed her into the bar, settling in at a quiet corner table in the nearly deserted room. “Okay,” he challenged, “what have you got, Amanda?”

  She stroked his arm. “First, tell me how you’ve been. Did you take the wife along to the States, Johnny?” There was a flicker of resentment in her eyes.

  Murphy looked down at the starched white tablecloth. She had him there. She wanted to see him squirm, no doubt. “No,” he answered quietly. “She’s still in Prague.”

  “With all the nasty riots? Nazis running rampant, and the army mobilizing in the Sudetenland?” She spoke with mock concern. “What sort of place is that to keep a wife?”

  “Look, Amanda.” Murphy was in no mood for this sort of game. He really was squirming now and the enjoyment on her face was obvious. “We’ve always been friends, huh? Don’t do this.”

  Her voice hardened. “Do what, Johnny?”

  “Play games.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “I was a little smashed,” he said by way of apology. “I . . . I’m sorry. The whole thing was my fault. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

  “Nothing happened.” A flash of anger crossed her face. “Absolutely nothing.” Now there was a warning in her voice. “Right?”

  Dignity was everything to Amanda; Murphy had known that from the first days in Berlin. Now she was telling him that what happened between them did not matter at all as long as he did not discuss it one way or another with the rest of the guys. “Right.” Murphy caught her meaning without further need of elaboration. “You know me.” He managed a timid smile. “I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”

  “It wasn’t much of a kiss.” She relaxed a bit now. “But that’s nobody’s business either, is it, Johnny? I have a position to maintain here with the other men. It’s hard enough, you know.”

  Murphy felt the same pity for her that he had felt that night in her foyer. “You’re a heck of a newsreporter, Amanda. You did well in there yesterday with that old owl Chamberlain. Got him while the rest of us were sitting on our hands.”

  She almost smiled, then brushed her bangs back and resumed her businesslike attitude. The charade was over, and they were simply colleagues once again. “All right then,” she said. “I’ll pass along a little something from the grapevine.” She lowered her voice as a waiter approached and took their orders. Whiskey sour for her and a Coke for Murphy. He had no intention of making himself vulnerable again.

  “Why me?” he said a minute later as he sipped his Coke.

  “Because you happen to be working for the only sensible syndicate on either side of the Atlantic, Johnny.” She frowned and stared into her drink. “Word from the top has come down that we are to take a sharper tone in our reporting of the Czech situation.”

  “Somebody is telling the London Times how to write the news?” Such information seemed terrible but not unbelievable to Murphy.

  Amanda nodded. “And not just us. The BBC is getting the same sort of advice.”

  Murphy raised his eyebrow. The British Broadcasting Company too?

  “Chamberlain doesn’t think much of the Czechs,” Amanda continued. “He says they’re not out of the top drawer. Or even the middle.”

  That was not news to Murphy. Chamberlain’s comments at the conference had made his position clear. “So what’s the scoop you lured me in here with?” He was teasing, but for a moment he thought he saw a hint of pain in her eyes. He touched her hand. “So you’ve scooped us all, and now you can’t even use it with the Times; is that it?”

  His comment seemed to mollify her once again. Dignity restored, she leaned forward and whispered her story in urgent tones. “You remember I told you my husband is a friend of the German foreign minster?”

  “Ribbentrop. Yes. They were wine merchants together or something?” Murphy tried to remember the exact details.

  Amanda looked over her shoulder and kept her voice low. “Something big is coming in Prague. Something is up; Ribbentrop says it will change everything. He says something is coming that will make even Churchill change his mind about who are the good chaps and who are the bad in this.”

  “That’s it? No details?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, Johnny. That’s as far as it goes. But we might try a bit of deduction in the matter.”

  Murphy frowned. “If there is one thing Nazis are good at, it’s turning black into white, and vice versa.” He paused, trying to piece it together. He did not have a clue. “What do you think?”

  “Another riot, maybe. Then the Nazis can level charges of brutality against the Czechs for squashing it.”

  “That seems to be working in the Sudetenland.”

  “Maybe. But that sort of conflict takes time. Hitler is in a hurry, I hear,
to get this wrapped up while Chamberlain is dithering on the matter of Czech policy.” She stared above Murphy’s head as though she could see something written there. “Perhaps an assassination? A political figure. Something to throw the Czech government into chaos.”

  “I don’t know. That didn’t work in Austria with Dollfuss.”

  She smiled, certain that she was onto something. “That’s because it was the Nazis who did the killing. If the Communists had killed him, Austria would have fallen much sooner. Maybe Hitler learned something from that little effort.”

  “Pretty good, Sherlock. But who would be the target?”

  “That’s not my department. But we should have someone there to report on it if it happens!” She smiled, enjoying the game. Then she waved her hand as if to brush away the nonsense. “It probably isn’t anything, Johnny. At least nothing as grim as all that. But here I am, stuck with the Times and orders from above to take more of a pro-German stance against the Czechs. It’s so frustrating. So, there you have it. From the mouth of Ribbentrop to the ears of my ex-husband. One wine merchant to another. The Nazis don’t seem very concerned. Quite confident they’ve got it in the bag. I can’t think what it all might mean.”

  “I guess we’ll know when it happens,” Murphy replied quietly as he again thought of Elisa. He wished she and her family were out of Czechoslovakia. Out of harm’s way, if indeed something was in the wind.

  As if reading his mind, Amanda put a hand gently on his arm. “Look,” she said, “I know your wife is in Prague. She is a lucky girl to have a man love her like you do. I wonder if she knows.” She faltered, then attempted a bright laugh. “Not many men would walk away from me.”

  “That’s for sure,” Murphy agreed, but there was a tone in her voice that told him others had walked away from her. Her ex-husband, for instance. “A guy would have to be crazy. Like me, huh?”

  “Or very much in love.” There was no concealing the sadness in her voice now. “I only wish that some nice fellow felt the same about––” she caught herself, suddenly glancing at her watch and pretending that she was in a hurry. “Good heavens! It’s almost three o’clock and I haven’t even written my story.”

  “You’re one great newsreporter, Amanda,” Murphy said as she pushed back her chair and gathered her handbag. He knew the words were little comfort to her, even if they were true.

  She studied him with curiousity. “And so are you.” There was admiration in her voice. “That little piece you published in Liberty? You said it all, Johnny. Everything that should have been said about the Nazis and the church, and . . . and you tossed in a good bit more in the bargain.”

  He shrugged, embarrassed by her praise. After all, they had both covered the war against the church from the beginning. “Well, it was nothing you couldn’t say.”

  She inclined her head slightly. “You’re wrong there. A great deal more than I could say.” She frowned and looked away. “Like what you told me that night . . . about being worth something.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Johnny.” Then she walked quickly from the room—chin high, eyes forward, her dignity intact.

  38

  Release

  Elisa did not realize why she had been brought to the office of Otto Wattenbarger until he pushed a paper across the desk to her.

  “Sign it,” he said with a patronizing smile.

  Through the grime and all the horrid smell of filth that clung to Elisa’s body, her blue eyes bore angrily into Otto. He seemed to be enjoying the tattered apparition in front of him.As if he were amused that one so beautiful could be made to suffer simply by placing her in the most miserable of all human conditions.

  With some remaining dignity, Elisa picked up the document and glanced over it. It was a release form, stating that she had been well treated, adequately fed, and housed in good conditions. Her needs had been met and she would press no suit nor make any claims otherwise.

  “This is all a lie!” she snapped, glaring at Otto.

  “Were you beaten?” He raised his eyebrow in surprise at her defiance.

  “No.”

  “Were you fed?”

  “Hog swill! The bed had fleas, and there were no toilet facilities.”

  “Sign it,” he commanded, and his smile faded. “Before I lose my patience.”

  “And what about the poor souls still in that hole? Those women . . . ”

  Otto crossed his arms. “Would you like to rejoin them?”

  Elisa stared at him a moment longer, then averted her eyes to the sunlit window where clouds drifted across the blue sky. She shook her head and her defiance fled. “Why did you have me arrested?”

  “I told you,” Otto said, tossing a pen onto the paper. “You were suspected.”

  “Of what? You can’t just throw people into jail for nothing.”

  “Yes we can. That is the point. Sign, and you may go.”

  Elisa snatched up the pen and signed the page of lies. “There.”

  “Good.” Otto seemed pleased. “Now, you have plans to travel to Paris?”

  “To meet my husband.”

  “You will not be coming back to Vienna, I assume?”

  For a moment, Elisa considered that she would never come to this vile place again. Could she chance that she might be arrested next time for her work as courier? What if a man like Otto found out the truth? Quickly the image of Leah and the two boys came to her mind. “You assume incorrectly, Otto. Just as you have assumed incorrectly about me from the start. Vienna is my home. I have a job with the symphony, in case you have forgotten, and I will be going home within a day or two.”

  Elisa’s clothing was in a paper bag on the wooden chair beside the door. Her copy of Faust was still on Otto’s desk. Her gaze fell on the red cover of the book. Otto’s smile returned. “Ah yes, this is yours; is it not?” He picked it up and began to turn the pages. “Priceless. First edition, isn’t it?” He lifted his eyes to hers, then deliberately took the corner of a page and tore it out as she gasped a wordless protest.

  “No!” she finally managed to stammer as he wadded up the page and tossed it into the garbage can.

  “Now it is no longer priceless,” he said. “You may take the volume with you to France, and you will not be arrested for carrying a priceless first-edition copy of Faust out of the Reich.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and for that fleeting second, she thought it might be worth it to fall upon him and scratch his face bloody. “You!” she hissed. “It is hard to believe that you are a son of Karl and Marta!”

  The words stung him briefly; then he said stiffly, “I am a true son of my homeland. For homeland, a man will often deny himself many things.”

  Elisa took the damaged copy of Faust. “You sold your soul.”

  Otto picked up the release form as if he might change his mind and send her back to rot. “It does not pay to be too defiant, Elisa,” he warned. “There need not be a reason anymore for men to send others to certain death in some terrible place. No matter how you hate me, you must not show it, or I will send you back there until you learn to nod politely and sign what I say you must sign!” He stepped around the desk and moved close to her. His voice was urgent. “Do you understand me?”

  Once again a wave of fear swept through her. She stepped back and nodded.

  His jaw was set. He took the book from her and opened it to the torn page. “What you think is truth is sometimes mere illusion. Here I balance on this ledge above the pit of hell, and for the sake of your anger you say things that put yourself in mortal danger!” He grabbed her by the arm. “Tell me then, which of us is the greater fool, Elisa? Is it you? You, who risk everything for the self-gratifying act of defying a Nazi whom you hate? Or is it me? Am I the fool for denying myself? For denying everything I was and am for the sake of some greater good?”

  The nearness of Otto and the strong grip of his hand on her arm frightened Elisa. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Let me go, Otto.”

  He held on to her a mome
nt longer, then shoved the book back into her hands. “Be warned. There is no place left in this world for open defiance. They will shoot you for that. Then what good will any of this be?” He ran a hand wearily across his cheek and looked out the window. “Get out of here. Go clean up or you will miss your train to Paris. You must not miss your train to Paris.”

  Stunned, Elisa picked up the bag and slipped out of the room into the corridor. She stood for a momen, watching as Otto reached into the garbage can and retrieved the torn page from Faust. He opened it and held it to the light of the window; then he struck a match and let the tiny flame devour it. Sensing Elisa’s eyes on his back, he turned to face her and smiled strangely as the last corner of the page blackened and curled to ashes.