by Bodie Thoene
Thomas knew a dozen among his closest friends who spoke in quiet disapproving tones about Hitler. “Yes. There are many.”
“Then there is some hope for us. Some hope for Germany and perhaps for the world. We have much to do, and you must be a part of it.”
Thomas knew that his involvement in the previous attempt to warn the British already entangled him in a web of conspiracy that would cost him his life if Himmler’s Gestapo caught wind of it. “I already am a part of it, Admiral,” he replied softly. “But what else is there to do now? This is—” he gestured out the window toward the swastika flag that waved over Vienna—“already accomplished.”
Canaris grunted distastefully. Colonel Oster picked lint from his trousers, then added wryly, “A wise man, our darling Führer is. He chose to invade Austria on a weekend when all the English gentlemen have left London for their country estates. If you think back, von Kleistmann, the Führer always makes his most audacious political moves on the weekend when the English Parliament is not in session.”
Canaris smiled and shook his head. “The difference between Hitler and Prime Minister Chamberlain?” He winked at Oster.
“Exactly,” Oster replied.
Puzzled, Thomas looked from Canaris to Oster. He was missing the joke.
“The difference between Hitler and Chamberlain,” Oster explained, “is that Chamberlain takes a weekend in the country, while Hitler takes a country in the weekend.”
Thomas shook his head incredulously at the nerve displayed by this officer of the Reich. No one he knew would dare display such open disrespect for the Führer. But in spite of himself, he laughed. Then he sobered, suddenly aware of the serious truth behind Oster’s wordplay.
The joke was not only funny; it was entirely correct. Every open treaty violation had occurred on a weekend. By the time Parliament returned to London on Monday morning, the act had already been accomplished. There was some genius in Hitler’s diabolical methods. In 1936, German troops marched into the demilitarized Rhineland on a Saturday. Everyone believed that the mighty French army would have routed the Germans immediately if only the British government had showed their support. But the British government had been dispersed throughout England’s countryside at the time, and when Parliament returned to session on Monday morning, forty-eight hours had passed since the violation of the treaty. German military occupation of the Rhineland was a fact. No one lifted a finger, and now the only thing that separated the French territory from German forces was the Maginot Line.
What had happened in 1936 had now been repeated in 1938. Yes, there truly was a method to Hitler’s madness. Now that the buffer state of Austria had been absorbed into the Reich, only the defenses that the Czech government had built in the mountainous countryside of the Sudeten territory stood between Hitler and Czechoslovakia. The progression seemed remarkably clear to Thomas as he sat in the office of Admiral Canaris. Could the British and the French not see where Hitler’s next target would be? Were they blind? Or were they as insanely naïve as Hitler was evil?
Thomas thought all this within a matter of seconds. He exhaled slowly, then raised his eyes to meet the piercing gaze of Canaris. “You already know what is next, don’t you?” Thomas asked him.
Canaris lowered his chin once in solemn reply. “The Sudeten territory of Czechoslovakia. Ultimately Hitler intends to march into Prague.” He glanced toward Oster. “Hitler will lead Germany to war. And if war, then destruction. He must be stopped.”
Oster laid out the details of the Nazi plan to take over the Sudeten territory from the nation of Czechoslovakia. “We have an Austrian working for us who has penetrated the Nazi Party here in Vienna. He has been one of us for quite some time. From him we learned of Hitler’s plot to assassinate his own ambassador in Austria and then blame a Jew so that he would have an excuse to march into Vienna. We warned von Papen through connections in the Western powers, and that particular plot did not go through.”
All Oster’s wit seemed to disappear now. “As it turns out, Hitler did not have to have his Austrian ambassador assassinated. He accomplished his purpose another way. But Czechoslovakia is another matter.” Oster lit another cigarette and inhaled the smoke thoughtfully before continuing. “Already we have made contact with our Austrian, who has worked shoulder to shoulder with the worst of the Nazi terrorists here. Secret orders have already come from the top that those ‘clandestine heros of the Reich,’ as Hitler and Himmler call their thugs, must now begin their work in Sudetenland in earnest. They are to create incidents––” Oster waved his hand as if to say that these men had been given freedom to use their imagination in the creation of terror in the Sudetenland. “I am sure that it will follow a familiar pattern. Those who are racially German will be murdered and the Czechs will be accused. Riots will occur. Hitler will rage that he is marching to rescue his Volksdeutsche from the evil Untermenchen.”
Untermenchen, literally meaning “subhuman,” had become a common term used by Hitler and his master race for those who were not Aryan. Hitler hated the Slavic peoples almost as much as he hated the Jews, Thomas knew. In his tirades he called them a pygmy race and vowed to put them in their place.
“And what do we do to stop it?” Thomas spread his hands in helplessness.
Oster and Canaris exchanged looks. “Even I am being watched by Himmler’s Gestapo,” Canaris said. “Our two intelligence organizations are rivals, as you know. Himmler would seek any way to discredit me with Hitler––”
“If that were to happen,” Oster interrupted, “then certainly an admiral’s position would be filled by a more enthusiastic member of Hitler’s following.”
The word enthusiastic might have been replaced by brutal or fanatical. Thomas understood what was being said all the same. Canaris must not be implicated in any plot if Himmler somehow discovered that there was a hard core of anti-Nazis among the military.
What neither Oster nor Canaris had explained was clearly understood by Thomas. “Admiral Canaris,” Thomas said hoarsely, “you are not expendable. If Hitler is indeed to march Germany into war, there must be some sane men left to fight against him in another way.”
Oster smiled slightly at Thomas’ understanding of the precarious situation. “I am a major only,” Thomas added, his words coming with difficulty. “It is easier to lose a major than an admiral, I think. What is it that duty requires of me, Herr Admiral?”
Canaris studied Thomas intensely. “Treason,” he answered quietly. “A violation of your blood oath to Hitler. Perhaps you will earn the hatred of the German people who will blindly follow this madman into hell. If you are discovered, certainly you will lose your life in a most horrible way. And if they extract our names from you by torture, we will deny you, Thomas von Kleistmann! You will die forsaken by your nation and your comrades!”
Thomas looked away from the steely gray eyes of the admiral. Outside in the square, the bloodred banner of the Reich snapped in the wind. The room was filled with a heavy silence. The sounds of trams and taxi horns penetrated the window. There was life outside this office and away from the penetrating gaze of Oster and Canaris. Thomas could stand up and walk away from this moment and live as every other Wehrmacht officer and soldier. If he chose, he could simply close his mind to what was happening until the events carried him away, along with all who looked the other way. So many were helpless against the tyranny, Thomas knew. But if he was willing to deny himself and his honor, perhaps he might be able to do something!
“So much for duty,” he replied at last. “And what does treason require of me?”
For the next hour, detailed instructions were given to Thomas verbally. Nothing was to be written down. There must be no trace of the treason against Hitler. From this moment on, Thomas would have no contact with either Canaris or Oster until his success was assured. And if there was no success and Czechoslovakia fell to Nazi Germany on the date the Führer had set for his next conquest, then this day and this meeting and all that would follow in the precarious days a
head must be obliterated forever from mind and heart and history. Thomas himself, in that case, would also have to be eliminated.
Thomas left the offices of Admiral Canaris like a man who had heard he was dying of terminal cancer. Every detail of the scene before him stood out in vivid relief. A steady wind was blowing and the Reich flag strained against the ropes on the flagpole. The sky was bright and clear above him, and in the distance high white clouds billowed up on the horizon. He breathed in the scent of newly budding trees and the flowers that had begun to bloom in the public parks and gardens of the city.
There was some relief at least in facing the fact that his failure would require his death. He had nothing left to lose, and somehow this terrible fact was a great release to him. A new spark of determination burned within him.
Arms raised in salute as he passed the black-shirted SS guards. But even as Thomas mouthed the words “Heil Hitler,” he smiled in his heart and secretly uttered the name “Emil.”
***
As Canaris and Oster had instructed him, Thomas went from their meeting directly to Fiori’s Bookstore on Vienna’s Kartnerstrasse. Now he stood outside the obscure little shop and held a book tightly in his hands. Traffic whizzed by, and the thin fragile pages rustled in the wind.
Thomas skimmed the words, as one does after purchasing a new book. He could not find the message that was concealed there. It was just a book. Ordinary in every way. He closed it and slipped it back into the brown paper wrapper, then into the pocket of his tunic.
Fiori’s Bookstore was only a few blocks from Elisa’s flat, Thomas knew, but he would not go there. Not today. Maybe never again. He would not begin this desperate campaign by involving her. In his pocket he carried duty. Treason. Perhaps his death warrant. No, he would not involve Elisa.
Glancing at his watch, he hailed a taxi. Alpern Airport would be swarming with Gestapo, but they would not search Thomas. He was safe for now, even with treason in his pocket. There was just enough time to catch the afternoon flight to Paris. Just enough time to pass his information to the bookseller on the Seine and then, if all went well, to Winston Churchill before morning.
***
“Go on, Elisa,” Anna urged, turning to search her wardrobe for an appropriate dress for her daughter to wear to the concert at Prague’s National Theatre tonight. “Wilhelm and Dieter and I have had the tickets for two months.” She smiled over her shoulder and pulled out a blue silk evening dress. “Beethoven’s Fifth, and George Schleist conducting! Something nice for a change, Elisa! You will be able to sit in the audience and listen.”
Elisa could hardly find the enthusiasm to smile let alone think about attending a concert tonight. Schleist had been a guest conductor with the Vienna Philharmonic only a week before Rudy Dorbransky had been murdered. At the rehearsal, the conductor had interrupted the orchestra again and again, asking that a certain passage be repeated. At last Rudy had bowed slightly and replied, “If you interrupt us once more, we shall play it as you conduct!” The pointed insult had brought a chorus of half-suppressed snickers from the orchestra, and that night throughout the entire performance Elisa had forced herself to frown seriously and avoid Leah’s amused gaze from the other side of the stage. Afterward they had dissolved into tears of laughter when Rudy had quipped, “I don’t know what he was conducting, but I think we played Beethoven’s Fifth quite well!”
That same night Murphy had been there. Row ten, aisle seat—in his rented dinner jacket, totally oblivious to the undercurrent of hysterical laughter that had threatened to break out onstage. Yes, Elisa remembered Murphy’s gaze on her. Twice she had glanced up, and he had made her forget everything else.
Somehow the happiness of such a memory seemed far too painful to bring up now. Rudy was dead. Leah was lost somewhere within the iron fist of the Greater Reich. And Murphy had simply vanished without a word of farewell.
Still, Anna had purchased the tickets months ago, and perhaps an evening out would be a diversion. “I know why you want me to go.” Elisa touched the blue silk of the gown. “You and Papa want to be alone.” She was only partly teasing.
Anna lowered her chin slightly and replied with uncharacteristic coyness, “Something like that.”
Anna was young once again and seemed almost oblivious to the harsh reality of what was taking place in Austria. Theo was home. Her children were safe. Was there anything else that mattered? Elisa could see that it still had not entered Anna’s mind that soon enough Elisa must return to Vienna. She would never be content simply to attend the Prague concert hall as a spectator. No. A performance awaited her in Austria, and she would return with or without Murphy.
Elisa held the dress up and gazed in the mirror. Her blue eyes were bright with her secret. “If that is the case, Mother,” Elisa replied, “then I suppose I should go.”
16
Private Battles
The concert at the National Theatre was indeed painful for Elisa. It was not the wobbly horns or the lack of precision in the first violin section that bothered her, but rather the thousand memories that flooded her heart. Notes written on a page and then brought to life in wood and strings and reeds and brass—all that remained the same. Only the faces of the musicians were different. Even the instruments outlived the artist who caressed them so gently, just as the Guarnerius violin had outlived Rudy. And Elisa imagined that the violin would outlive her as well.
The applause faded as the lights of the auditorium came up. Elisa moved slowly through the crush of the crowd in search of fresh air and freedom from the emotions that pressed so heavily on her.
Tall and remarkably handsome, Wilhelm took his sister’s arm. “Would you like to go back and have a word with Conductor Schleist?” he asked.
Elisa managed a smile of disapproval. “Was he here tonight?”
Wilhelm and Dieter both laughed heartily at her remark. “They say that Schleist is all they have left to conduct in the Reich,” Wilhelm said in a low voice as they passed a group of German-speaking concertgoers. “The music has gotten so bad there that this is the real reason so many people are trying to get out!”
Elisa giggled in spite of herself and hugged his arm. Wilhelm had grown to look so much like Theo over the last year, and had acquired quite a wit as well. Young Dieter seemed more quiet and sensitive, and bore a resemblance to Anna. Elisa was proud of them both for the way they had helped Anna through the last year of uncertainty. They had, it seemed, become men overnight.
“Anyone for coffee?” Dieter asked cheerfully, not willing to let go of the evening.
“Or perhaps something stronger to help us forget the music!” Wilhelm agreed.
“You’re not that grown-up,” Elisa chided. “But coffee? Yes. Where shall we go?”
They stood together on the steps of the theatre as the crowd surged around them. Across the square the lights of Café Slavia beckoned brightly. Here the Czechs would enjoy their after-theatre coffee and drinks. “We can go to the Slavia if you will not speak German, Elisa. They will throw us out if you speak German in there. Only Slavs allowed!” Wilhelm held her hand in his protectively.
“We could go to the Café Continental on the Graben,” volunteered Dieter.
“There one must only speak German,” Wilhelm warned. He frowned. “I am afraid I don’t want to go there, either.” He made a fist. “All I need to hear is one comment about the lovely Führer and the peaceful Anschluss, and I might . . . ” He shook his fist playfully.
“My big strong brothers,” Elisa said, pushing the fist down to Wilhelm’s side. “And where do we fit? Not with the Czechs and not with the Germans anymore, certainly. Maybe we should just take a walk so nobody bashes any heads, ja? We have already heard the murder of Ludwig von Beethoven tonight, and I don’t think I am up to any more violence!”
Ignoring the numerous green taxis of Prague, the three walked arm in arm down the dark, narrow streets of the Old City. They spoke but a few words to one another, and yet in unspoken agreement they
moved toward the Charles Bridge.
The soft ripple of the Moldau River sounded against the pilings. A thousand votive candles flickered at the feet of the statue of St. Nepomuk. Elisa had been here with Leah, then with Murphy. Now she leaned against the rail between her brothers and gazed into the dark waters below.
Long, peaceful minutes of silence were shared by the three until at last Wilhelm spoke. “I am glad Papa has come home.” There was more than just relief in his words; there was release. “We have lived in Prague for over a year. I am eighteen now. The same age as Papa when he learned to fly.”
The words were a rock thrown into a glassy pond. Elisa looked at him sharply. “What are you saying?” she asked, even though his meaning had been clear enough.
“I am joining the air corps next week.”
“But, Wilhelm, your schooling! The university!”
“There are things that seem more urgent. We have made this place our home, Elisa. The Czechs have welcomed us. They do not have the hatred of Jews as the Germans do. And now Austria has fallen. Our new home is surrounded on three sides by the Reich. And on the other side is Poland, and Russia beyond!” He was staring intently into the darkness.
