by Bodie Thoene
***
The fog at Heathrow lifted midmorning, and with the sunlight a flock of taxis arrived from London. Cab after cab disgorged reporters who jammed in through the entrance of the building and vied for places in line at the ticket counter.
“A ticket to Prague.”
“When’s the plane to Prague leave?”
“What? You mean we can’t get out of here until this afternoon?”
Murphy greeted every one of his three dozen colleagues as they wandered past the bench where he was comfortably stretched out waiting for his two o’clock flight to Prague. He watched with amused interest as a fistfight broke out between Cedric Wells of the Edinborough Examiner and Keith Walpole of the dignified London Morning Post. It seemed that Cedric had crowded into line and managed to purchase the last ticket to Prague.
Amanda Taylor spotted Murphy after Walpole bloodied the nose of Wells, winning the fight but losing the seat to Prague anyway. She waved cheerily and brought steaming cups of coffee to share.
“I thought you would already be in Prague, Johnny!” She sat beside him.
“Me too. Fog.” He held up his ticket. “Let’s just say I was the first in line. I thought you weren’t supposed to go to Prague.”
“That’s what I thought. Seems Editorial has come to its senses.” She gazed somberly at him. There was no hint of amusement left in her voice. “Every last Wehrmacht soldier in the Reich is being moved east. The Germans are not attempting to hide the fact, other than giving the explanation that they are simply staging dress rehearsal in case the Czechs attack. Something is up. More is up than anyone is admitting, but too much for even the conservative Times to ignore. Looks as if you may have a chance to introduce me to your wife, Johnny.”
He frowned at the scruffy, anxious crowd of reporters. “War. I’ve learned to see it coming by the buzzards who fly in for the pickings.”
“You’re a fairly prominent buzzard yourself, Johnny.” Amanda was smiling again. “We don’t make the news, you know. We just write it.”
***
It was not yet noon when Thomas von Kleistmann strolled into the stall of the Dead Man, looking haggard and worn. Vulnerable, Herschel thought with surprise as his hand moved instinctively toward his hidden weapon.
Herschel tried not to gawk. How had Hans known so precisely that von Kleistmann would come here today? Throughout the morning, Herschel had assumed that he would have to find the Nazi at the German Embassy and shoot him there. Somehow, it had all been made easy. Here, beneath the canvas awning of the Dead Man, there were no swastika flags or glaring SS guards to intimidate him.
Herschel shielded his eyes against the brightness of the sun and looked toward the sky. Perhaps it was the guiding of Providence that had delivered his enemy into his hands. “Rue du Cherche-Midi,” Herschel muttered, remembering the street and the prison that had held the French Jew Dreyfus. “The Search for Noon.” Somehow that memory stirred Herschel’s courage once again. Other Jews had suffered. No doubt he would be arrested for the killing of this Nazi, but he would recall the others who had languished behind bars and thick walls. He would be brave as he followed such footsteps.
“Did you enjoy your trip to the countryside, Major von Kleistmann?” asked Le Morthomme pleasantly.
“I tasted some excellent wines. . . .”
“And did you have a woman to share your wine with?” The old bookseller grinned.
Herschel remembered Thomas with his arm around Elisa back in Vienna. How small she had seemed beside him, and how easily he had crushed her heart!
“Women in the country? There are enough to go around in Paris. And what can compare with a woman from Paris, Le Morthomme?”
“Well, then, did you find any good books to read?”
Thomas spread his empty hands wide. “I have come home empty-handed, I’m afraid. Have you any new volumes just arrived that I might buy?”
The old bookseller laughed apologetically. “There is nothing new under the sun, as they say! Nothing you might care about. Nothing at all, I’m afraid.”
Thomas frowned and stood silently over a table that sagged beneath the weight of hundreds of books. He absently thumbed through one and then another, finally sighing heavily and looking up at the Dead Man. “Well, then.”
He was going to leave! Herschel knew it! He could tell by the way the tall German gazed beyond the bookstall. Herschel searched frantically for a way to keep him here. He must not leave until the appointed hour. He must die at noon, along with all the others who were destined to perish today in this statement against Nazi brutality!
Herschel touched his gun; then, almost panicked at the thought of losing his quarry, he called, “Nothing new? There are several new volumes since you were last here! And many old among the new that you have not read!”
Herschel’s words and bravado seemed to surprise Thomas. He turned and with a curious smile he said, “So the Dead Man is making a bookseller out of you.”
Herschel nodded and licked his lips nervously. Sweat poured from him. It was still so long before the hour! Hans had said that every target must fall at the same moment.
“Yes, he may sell books, but he still has something to learn about the reading preferences of my customers.” The old bookseller seemed to dismiss Herschel with those words, but still the young man persisted.
“Have you looked at this table?” Herschel stepped aside, but Thomas had already returned his attention to the old man.
“There is nothing to be done. Nothing but to wait,” Thomas said in a low voice.
The Dead Man put a leathery hand on Thomas’ arm. “You must be careful, then.”
Herschel stared at the old man with amazement. Of what was he warning the German? Had Le Morthomme guessed Herschel’s purpose? Had he seen the gun or heard the whispered words?
Thomas nodded. “Thank you,” he said, as though he were leaving.
The sun was high. The bells of Notre Dame had not yet chimed the hour of noon, but Herschel could not wait for the other unnamed assassins across the Continent to take their aim on some inhuman Nazi target.
He opened his mouth and cried, “Wait!”
But Thomas did not wait. He turned to leave, passing between overloaded tables.
Herschel fumbled to pull the weapon from his waistband. “Von Kleistmann!” he screamed. “Do you not remember Elisa?”
Thomas stopped midstride. He turned as Herschel cocked the gun and held it up with trembling arms. “How do you know—?” Thomas began. He froze as his eyes caught the glint of the sun on the metal of the barrel.
“Cherche-Midi!” Herschel shouted the name of the prison; then his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.
Le Morthomme raised his hands in dismay. “No!” His cry was stopped by the first bullet from Herschel’s gun as the old man threw himself forward in front of the barrel.
Herschel’s eyes widened with horror as the Dead Man’s mouth opened and closed in angry surprise as blood oozed from behind his gaping teeth.
Thomas rushed forward, snatching the smoking gun from Herschel’s hand at the same instant he caught the crumbling body of the Dead Man.
As shouts echoed from all corners of the book market, Herschel backed away. His hand was like a claw, as if he still held the weapon. Cries of anguish pierced the air around him. On the ground, the Nazi, von Kleistmann, worked to stop the flow of blood as he shouted for someone to find a doctor.
“Le Morthomme! Someone has shot Le Morthomme!” Several took up the cry, and the bells of Notre Dame joined in tolling the terrible hour!
Herschel shook his head, then turned to push past the frantic crowd that rushed in. When he reached the banks of the Seine, he began to run. He ran all the way to Rue du Cherche-Midi, past the thick stone walls of the prison where the persecuted hero Dreyfus had languished. The boy did not stop running until he collapsed in the dark attic room, where dreams of glory had illuminated his soul like the noon sun.
***
“
To the side! Pull to the side of the road, bitte!” The inspecting officer in the sidecar of the army motorcycle shouted to Elisa over the droning of the engines ahead and behind her.
Elisa obeyed and turned the wheel sharply, rolling to the shoulder of the road. Immediately a transport lunged forward to take her place. Her hands were shaking as she gathered the papers. The officer sauntered slowly up to the car door. He peered in at Charles, who sat quietly beside Elisa with his hands folded in his lap.
“Guten Tag, Officer! What is all this?” Elisa tried to sound pleasantly curious.
“Military exercise. To see how ready we might be in case of attack.” He answered as he must have answered every inquiry through the long and difficult morning. “You will step out of the car, please.”
Elisa continued to maintain a look of pleasant compliance. “As you wish.”
“Him too,” said the officer, jerking a thumb toward Charles.
The child started to move. “Just a minute, darling.” Elisa stopped Charles as he began to cough.
“I said, he will step out of the vehicle also.” The officer would tolerate no argument.
Elisa handed him the envelope with the official seal of the Gestapo. Let him argue with Otto. With the state police. Not with her.
His eyes widened slightly as he removed the letter from the envelope and began to read. “Tuberculosis?” He stepped back involuntarily. “Quite. He may remain where he is seated, Frau . . . Murphy?” He pronounced the name with difficulty.
Elisa gained courage. “Is there any way we can get around this? As you can see—” the exhaust caused Charles to cough harder—“the boy needs attention. I would not have brought him out in this if I had realized.”
The officer read over the document again, then glanced up at the passing vehicles. “Perhaps, Frau Murphy . . . ” He rubbed his cheek in thought.
Another motorcycle rattled up beside his, and a young Nazi messenger in a coat and dirty goggles called out to him, “Word from Vienna!”
“One moment, Frau Murphy.” The officer walked to the messenger. “What is it?”
“They want you to be on the lookout for two boys. Two women and a man. Something to do with those Kronenberger twins we’ve been watching for.”
Elisa’s heart was thumping as the officer nodded. The expression of boredom on the face of Charles did not change. Surely the child had heard his name mentioned, yet he did not react.
“I haven’t seen them.” The officer gestured toward where Elisa stood by the open door of her automobile. “But I’ve got a problem here. Sick child. Tuberculosis. Going to the sanitorium at Marienbad.” He waved the Gestapo stationery. “All the truck fumes can’t be good for him. Let him follow you up to the front of the line, will you, Schmidt? Sixteen miles, eh?”
The messenger nodded and lifted his goggles for a second look at the beautiful blond beside the American car. He grinned at her. “Sure! A pleasant duty, compared to this.”
The officer looked relieved. He waved the paper toward Elisa. “Schmidt will have you to the border in no time!”
“Danke schön!” Elisa waved.
“Heil Hitler!” said the officer with relief as he handed her the papers.
She returned his salute, praying that he would not see her fingers shaking as she took the documents from him. “And good luck,” she added, revving the engine and pulling out behind the sputtering motorcycle on the far side of the creeping convoy.
***
Three miles from the border of Czechoslovakia, the convoy disappeared, peeling off to the right and left along the dusty farm roads.
There, they would wait for word. Prague in shambles. Wehrmacht called upon to restore order. Then they would march across the border. They would follow the same road along which Elisa now fled. They would cross the Sudetenland and continue on to Prague, where Albert Sporer prepared a place for them. They would rumble into the streets of Prague and drape their banners on the Hradcany Castle and the National Theatre! They would break down the doors of everyone who resisted. They would find Theo again. They would find Charles and all of this . . . all of this . . . would have been for nothing.
Who could stand against an army like this? Who could resist such force? The British and the French were quaking at the thought of it. President Beneš, who vowed his nation would fight alone if they must, would be dead by tonight if the plan of Sporer was accomplished. Unless . . . unless . . .
The Nazi messenger on the motorcycle pulled to the side of the road as the Czech border station came into view. Elisa slowed long enough to thank him.
“My pleasure.” He waved. “Maybe I’ll look you up in Marienbad tomorrow.” “But that’s Czech territory,” Elisa teased.
“Today it is.” He laughed, but he was not joking. “Who knows about tomorrow?”
Elisa felt little relief as she approached the barricade and stopped. Czech customs officials walked somberly out to greet her. The road behind her was deserted, but they could see the clouds of dust. They knew what lay beneath the cloud.
Even crossing the border she did not feel safe. Otto had warned her. There were Nazis everywhere inside the Czech border now. Like worms in an apple, they had eaten away the core of the nation. Even Elisa could feel no safety.
It would be hours before she reached Prague. If she arrived too late for President Beneš and the Czech nation, then it would be too late for Theo. For Charles. For a million others . . .
49
Die Judin
The oncoming traffic of troop lorries and armored divisions moving eastward seemed endless. Wehrmacht troops, stationed in the passes of the Alps near the Wattenbarger farm, were being transferred to the frontier surrounding the country of Czechoslovakia.
A hundred times that day Otto was forced to pull to the side of the road to let German officers pass the long procession at a quicker pace. The head of the Nazi serpent was already in place to strike through the heart of the Sudetenland. Now the tail writhed toward that same destination.
It was dusk before Otto looked upon the high peaks of his native Tyrol. They finally passed the end of the troop movement. A few broken-down transports were stalled at various locations beside the road, but that was all. The sight of the endless army had frightened Leah. It also confirmed that every word Otto had spoken was true.
Otto said little throughout the long journey from Vienna. The strain of exhaustion showed on his face. He turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial in hopes of hearing some news from Paris.
German polkas and folk music faded in and out as they drove between the craggy peaks. Lights of tiny villages winked on. Otto listened, but there was no news from Paris. The raging voice of Hitler did not shriek about the death of an honored Nazi at the hands of some young Jew. Hess and Goebbels did not interrupt the music with the latest report of the rage of the nation over the act of the Jewish beast! Music played on insanely. Something had gone wonderfully wrong in Paris. The military attaché was not dead. There was no unemployed Jew to be captured and extradited to receive justice in the Reich!
Otto was almost smiling now as the last rays of sunlight faded over the Alps. Was it the fresh, clean air? His nearness to home? Or the uninterrupted music, the lack of news?
After an hour of pleasant silence, he looked at Leah. “They have nothing to report. No crime against the Reich. Something went wrong in Paris today. Thank God. Thank God.”
***
Something had gone wrong in Paris. Albert Sporer turned off the radio and faced the dozen men who would lead the bands of demonstrators tonight.
Sporer shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing will go wrong for us. Even if the Jew should miss, we have a backup gunman in the box just opposite Beneš’ box.” He was smiling now. Beneš would indeed die like his hero Lincoln—only his death would not mark the end of war but the beginning. “It seems fitting he should perish during a performance of Die Judin, does it not? When the tympani sounds and the flames rise to devour the young Jewi
sh bride.”
The image sparked his imagination as he mentally rehearsed the scene. “The Jew will fire first. He is a young fool, quaking in his shoes at what he is about to do.” Sporer removed his black dinner ket from the closet of the cramped room as he spoke. “But if he misses, someone else will not miss. When the flames devour the Jewess, when the tympani rolls, then Beneš will die.”
***
Still ninety miles from Prague, the tire on the Packard blew, sending Elisa to a swerving halt beside the narrow road. It was almost six o’clock in the evening. In two hours Die Judin would be starting at the National Theatre! Two hours, and it might all be over for Beneš—and all over for the Czech nation as well!
