by Bodie Thoene
“I just came from Austria.” Murphy held the money just out of reach. He had a captive audience. “Believe me, Hitler and the Nazis make Bloody Mary look like Snow White.”
“An’ what’s that to do with us?” The cabbie was indignant. “Even Napoleon didn’t cross the Channel, gov! An’ remember the Armada of Spain? Wrecked on the coast, they did!”
“Napoleon and Spain didn’t have airplanes. Something to think about.” Murphy laid the cash in the man’s palm and stepped out. “Just now I crossed the Channel in less time than it took this cab to drive me here. The Nazis have planes. England has pacifists.” Murphy smiled at the stunned face of the cabdriver. The man had no further comment.
Murphy stepped onto the curb and wearily ran a hand across his forehead. Tonight he would simply report what he had seen to the whole world, and then maybe men like the cabdriver would understand what all the grief was about.
Horns blared, and buses and automobiles rumbled past him. So many people, most of whom believed that England was beyond the threat of Austria’s tragedy!
Murphy shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked up at the towering buildings that housed the finest newspaper in the world. What would it take to convince them? A German bomb smashing into the editorial offices of the London Times?
“Murphy!” The impatient voice of Larry Strickland called to him from the door of the office. Strickland looked harried, as though he had not slept at all. His sleeves were rolled up, and his sparse crop of gray hair stood up in wisps on his head. He followed Murphy’s upward gaze with curiosity. “What are you looking at up there? The sky is clear. No rain. Get in here, you idiot! We got work to do!”
***
Walter held tightly to the hands of his sons as he guided them through the teeming throngs who had gathered on the Heldenplatz to welcome the Führer. He guessed that there were at least two hundred thousand people jammed into the square. The huge equestrian statues now carried extra riders on their backs as dozens of men and boys clambered upward to get a better view of the scene. This crowd was not only friendly toward the Reich invaders, they were ecstatic. But then, Walter had seen such receptions in Germany. He was well aware that Goebbels, as minister of propaganda, was in charge of providing enthusiastic crowds to shriek their approval of Hitler.
But the photographers who snapped pictures of this final desecration could not record the strong German accents of the cheering crowds. Nor could they capture the frightened faces of the millions of Austrians who stayed indoors today. It was Walter’s understanding of these Nazi charades that made him doubly dangerous to the new regime.
His understanding of other, more sinister policies had cost him his homeland; now he was certain it would ultimately cost him his life. His editorials had shouted indignantly against the increasing practice of forced sterilization. Those who were judged by Reich standards as less than perfect, either mentally or physically, were eliminated. Certain members of the church had joined in his outcry, and they too had been imprisoned.
Walter glanced up at the church steeples, where welcoming bells now clanged the arrival of Hitler. Swastika flags were unfurled from the uppermost windows. Cardinal Innitzer, the Catholic primate of Austria, had gone out with a message of greeting to meet the approaching Führer, and now the church bells chimed again and again as the procession moved from Schönbrunn Palace toward the Imperial Hotel!
Walter would find no refuge within the church for himself or his sons. A pattern of moral betrayal had already been established by the cardinal, and those among the clergy who resisted would certainly find themselves behind barbed wire before the month was out. Walter wanted to shake his fist at the clanging bells. They were the tolling of death—not just for Jews but also for little ones like Charles who could not meet the insane racial standard.
This morning Walter had listened to the text of the cardinal’s message:
“German thoughts and German feelings have never lacked in Austria. Austria’s Catholics will become the truest sons of the great Reich, into whose arms they have been brought back on this momentous day! Provided that the liberties of the church are guaranteed.”
It was a pact with Satan. Hitler was delighted with such patriotic words. He shook the cardinal’s hand warmly and promised.
Among the sea of hats, Wehrmacht uniforms, and black SS tunics, the prying eyes of the Gestapo were everywhere. Walter’s own eyes were never still as the trio inched their way through the crush. He was searching for the presence he had felt over the last few weeks in Vienna. He had sensed that he was being watched—not that he had ever seen more than a shadow following him back to the hotel. Most of the time he had been able to dismiss the experience as his own paranoia after his arrest in Germany. Now he was certain that the shadows had been more than his imagination. All his fragile illusions of safety had evaporated. He had gone to sleep as a refugee in Austria and when he had awakened, he was once again a fugitive from the Nazis.
The suitcase beneath his arm began to slip. As he stopped to adjust it and glanced upward to the base of a statue, he noticed that a Brownshirt—a man in a brown Storm Trooper’s uniform—was looking directly at him. Perhaps the sudden, terrifying chill of knowing showed itself in Walter’s face. Like a hunted animal, Walter had raised his nose to sniff the air and had caught sight of his pursuer. At the same second the hunter had smelled fear, and now he held Walter Kronenberger in his sights!
Walter looked wildly around for the quickest way of escape. He scanned back toward the man on the statue. The excitement of the hunt was on his face. He was climbing down carefully, so as not to lose his view of Walter.
“Father?” Louis tugged his sleeve. “Where are we?”
Walter bent down and handed the case to Charles. Then he said urgently to Louis, “Where are we going, Louis?”
“Don’t you know, Father?” The child was puzzled.
“Yes. I know. But you must say it! Tell me, Son! Where are we going?”
The bells clanged insanely. Walter glanced up to see the Storm Trooper fighting his way toward them.
“To the Musikverein,” Louis repeated, and Charles nodded in agreement.
“Good!” He embraced his sons. A last embrace. Too quick. Over too soon. The hunter had not seen the boys. “Remember, I love you!” he cried. “Now go!” With that, he turned his back on their startled, terrified expressions and began his own desperate struggle to escape through the mass of human flesh that held him back.
The little suitcase clattered to the ground. The crowd swallowed Walter and held back the Nazi who pursued him. “Father!” Louis cried loudly. “Father!”
Charles clasped Louis by the arm and placed a hand firmly over his brother’s mouth. His eyes were full of grim understanding. They could not follow. They must not!
The two young boys stood only waist high to those around them. The world had become boots and dresses and crushed flowers on the cobbles beneath their feet.
“Halt!” shouted the soldier in pursuit of Walter. “Stop him! Stop that man!”
Louis stood paralyzed with fright. The color had left his cheeks. He could not remember the name he had spoken only a moment before. Only the word Father! shrieked in his consciousness now.
Charles stared at his brother in concern and then very deliberately picked up the suitcase and shoved it toward Louis. He needed help, the gesture seemed to say. He could not carry it alone.
“But where are we going?” Louis asked, tears streaming down his face. “Charles, where are we? Where is Father, Charles?”
Charles answered with an angry frown and a jerk of his head. Obediently, Louis grasped the handle of the case and helped Charles lug it toward an empty patch of grass beside a foundation. Then, with a nod, Charles indicated that they would pause here for a moment. He cupped his hand and scooped out some cool water. Hadn’t Father told them to wash their faces after a good cry? Charles wiped the cool liquid on Louis’ face and then splashed a handful across his own, caref
ul not to dampen the scarf that concealed his mouth.
He stood on tiptoe and tried to see some glimpse of his father, but there was only a sea of adults. Civilians. Soldiers. Most with the armbands bearing the crooked cross that his father hated so fiercely.
***
The Czech farmland stretched out in a verdant carpet before Elisa. Cattle grazed peacefully, and the scent of newly turned earth and budding orchards was sweet in the air. On any other Sunday this would have been a day for a picnic and an afternoon of dozing in the gentle sunlight.
A long line of Czech army troop lorries lumbered slowly on the road ahead of Elisa. They, too, were headed toward the frontier separating Austria from Czechoslovakia. On the opposite side of the road, the land was crammed with the thousands of miserable refugees who somehow had made it through the Nazi blockades to cross the border. Men and women clung to their meager possessions as they staggered wearily toward the interior. Those who were more fortunate rode the running boards of automobiles that were already jammed to capacity with people and luggage. Horns blared, shattering the bucolic silence of the farmland. Faces were locked in grim expressions of dazed disbelief.
Elisa desperately attempted to search those thousands of faces for Leah. For Shimon. Perhaps they were among these lucky few who escaped the first wave of Nazi terror. Please, God.
She did not resent the slowness of the army vehicles. Time and again they stalled on the road before the oncoming flood of human misery. Dozens trekked past her. Then hundreds. Their haunted expressions became one familiar face to her, but Leah was not among them. Dear Leah. Sister. Friend. Why had she not come to the apartment last night? Then they would have all been together in Prague today, safe and free. Please, God.
Still some miles from the border, transport trucks and lorries began to peel off from the main highway onto twisting dirt roads. A dozen remained ahead of Elisa. The stream of refugees became thinner now. Just as there would be no more planes, no more trains, so there would be no more hapless refugees crossing the frontier on foot.
Frank, curious stares greeted Elisa at the checkpoint. The few border guards of last night had been reinforced by dozens of Czech soldiers, each of whom carried a rifle or a submachine gun. The wooden crossbar was now surrounded by a barricade of grisly barbed wire, and sharp metal tank traps protruded from the road beyond at hundred-yard intervals.
“Where did she come from?” demanded a officer in charge. “How did she get this far forward?”
“Just followed the convoy in, I suppose,” sniffed a soldier uneasily.
The truckload of soldiers who had smiled and waved at her throughout the long journey now disembarked with cheerful cries of “Good luck!” and “Look me up after we beat the German army!” Winks and grins and friendly waves were countered by the stern disapproval of the officer who approached Elisa’s window.
“What do you think you are doing here?” he asked indignantly.
“I . . . am trying to get back to Vienna.” Elisa bluffed bravely. She acted oblivious to the turmoil around them.
“Impossible!” He jerked his head to where yet another roll of wire was being uncoiled across the pavement.
Elisa haughtily displayed her American passport. “My husband is in Vienna. I am to join him there.”
The officer glanced at the seal on the passport. “Maybe yesterday you could have joined him. But you are too late!” he barked. “We are expecting an invasion of the German Wehrmacht. Haven’t you heard? They have taken Austria. France and Britain may yet declare war.” He sounded hopeful. “War! And beyond that barricade is the front line!”
Elisa followed his outstretched arm as he pointed toward rolling farmland and a few farmhouses. A tiny village glistened in the sunlight. The onion dome of a church was clearly visible on the Austrian side of the border.
She smiled, attempting to humor him. “Certainly Germany and Czechoslovakia can wait ten minutes until I cross the frontier.”
He was not amused. “You will have to go back.” He straightened up. His jaw was set, his eyes were angry at her foolishness. “You should not have gotten this far in the first place.”
“What about all those people you let through?” She pointed toward a few stragglers that trailed by.
In answer, he handed her a pair of field glasses. “See for yourself.” He shrugged and stepped aside for her to peer toward the Austrian checkpoints.
A lump rose in Elisa’s throat. Her stomach churned at the sight of thousands of civilians milling on the far side of the barricade. Leah and Shimon might be among them. Bayonets gleamed on German rifles. The scene of last night’s horror returned to her.
The officer took the glasses. “You see,” he said. “Many thousands did not make it. These are a handful. And now you must turn around and go back. If your husband is American, he can leave Austria when he likes, no doubt. But you will not cross the frontier today!”
Did the officer see the weight of disappointment settle on Elisa’s features? His voice softened with sympathy. “I am sorry. Perhaps it will not be long before everything is straightened out. We can hope, ja? But here are the facts before your own eyes.”
The rumble of yet another troop lorry pressed in behind the Packard. Elisa could see the grill of the truck grinning hideously in her rearview mirror. The horn blared at her civilian vehicle. She nodded and eased her car out of the line and onto the side of the road. She was unable to help anyone, and the knowledge of that helplessness made her lower her head and weep for fear of what must be happening in her beloved Vienna. Once again she stood overlooking the white walls and barbed wire of a giant Dachau. “God!” she cried aloud, “why are You silent?”
There was no answer. She had not expected one. A soft tapping sounded on her window and she looked up to see the eager face of a young man peering in at her. She unrolled her window and wiped her tears.
“Are you all right, Fraülein?” the young man asked. His hat was pushed back on his head. His wife and three children stood in a small chorus behind him, peering at Elisa. They all looked haggard, exhausted, and hungry. “Have you come out of Austria?”
Elisa nodded, resenting the intrusion.
“So have we.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “You have an automobile, Fraülein.” He examined the length of the Packard. “Not much luggage.” His wife was clutching her children hopefully. “Are you going somewhere?”
It did not seem to matter where. The little family wanted a ride. Any place was better than this place. The very sight of Austria terrorized them. Would she take them away? Prague? Yes, Prague was quite far away from the Nazis, far away from the shouted slogans and the upraised fists that had pursued them from their home. Prague would be safe.
9
Radio News
Like the clatter of a thousand sets of giant false teeth, the newsroom typewriters chewed up the Austrian story and spit it out onto the paper with a triumphant clang at the end of each line. The noise was deafening. Telephones and teletypes competed with shouting reporters in the racket. Correspondents from numerous countries sat hunched over their machines as they translated the British reaction to the Nazi takeover for their own newspapers.
No one even looked up as Murphy followed Strickland past the paper-littered desks and overflowing wastebaskets. Any other day Murphy would have been greeted by his bullpen cronies, but not today. The world had gone nuts and, as always, the lunacy seemed to be channeled onto the fifty desks of the INS newsroom. Not even the most dedicated chain-smoker dared to light a cigarette in the midst of such chaos. One tiny spark, and all of Fleet Street would go up in flames.
Strickland shouted over the din. “A couple guys made it out! Bill Jordan and his wife got out of Vienna on the last plane to Paris. He says you stole his Packard from him!”
“I bought it. It’s in Prague!” Murphy laughed, relieved that the couple had made it out safely.
“Amanda Taylor flew in from Berlin a couple of hours ago! London Times is loaning her to
us for the broadcast! What a broad!” Strickland meant the remark as a compliment to Amanda. She was, indeed, “one of the guys,” which was quite an accomplishment for a woman.
Murphy was pleased at the thought of seeing the leggy brunette again. He had not been in touch with her since he had left Berlin the year before to cover the Spanish Civil War.
Amanda was, as the guys in the newsroom called her, “a gutsy dame, if ever there was one.” She had quite a head on her shoulders, and everything from there down was arranged in a pretty terrific package as well. Amanda Taylor had never been timid about using her feminine attributes to get a story. Big brown eyes and an hourglass figure often accomplished the toughest assignment in thirty minutes, while the most skilled male foreign correspondent failed miserably. Her gender and good looks gave her an enormous advantage over the rest of the newsmen, but no one seemed to resent her. Amanda had always been generous. After she scooped them all, she never failed to share her information.
