by Bodie Thoene
“Grüss Gott.” Timmons extended his hand with the traditional Austrian blessing.
Murphy left the car and did not look back. He was confident that his American passport and his press identity card would save him from the indignity of the strip-search and the probing fingers of the white-coated Nazi doctors who searched every possible orifice on the bodies of their unfortunate victims.
At the head of the line, a small, matronly woman rebelled as she was herded into the women’s line. “I won’t!” she shouted in French.
“Then you will not leave the Reich, madame!” a gruff, middle-aged German replied in broken French.
Tears came as she shook herself free from the grip of the large, thick-boned woman in a Nazi uniform. “What are they looking for?” she shouted at the other potential passengers, who averted their eyes and privately vowed that they would endure the ordeal and then find a place on an airplane heading anywhere away from this place.
The only Jews at the airfield now were those who held foreign passports. These people were treated with particular abuse. Murphy clenched his fists angrily and looked away as the Nazi guards shoved one woman to the ground after she proclaimed that she was an American citizen and therefore would not submit to such a search!
“You are a Jew! You think it matters how your passport is stamped? We can smell the stink of Jews! Get up!” The same huge blond Nazi matron took the American by her hair and lifted her to her feet. Rage dissolved into tears of protest. She shouted angry American obscenities as the Nazi woman shoved her into the examination room.
Now a brutal-looking officer with a scar across his cheek stepped out of the office. He crossed his arms and glared at the frightened, angry men and women in the lines.
“You see, such ridiculous protests only make it worse! We search for contraband—foreign currency, jewelry, and such—which some foolish people believe they might sneak past us and out of the Reich! Such thoughts are not only foolish, they are dangerous! If you have something that has been forbidden to take from the Reich, then you must report it now. Your jewels will be found—” he smiled—“no matter where you may have hidden them! I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, no one is exempt from examination. If contraband is discovered concealed on your person, you will be arrested and prosecuted.”
He clapped his hands together like a schoolmaster. “Therefore, I urge you, if you have anything to declare to the custom authorities, you should excuse yourself from the line and make your way to the public restroom to retrieve your hidden valuables. You will be given a receipt for your items and reimbursed in Reichsmarks.”
The man in front of Murphy muttered, “In Reichsmarks? What good are they? No other country in the world will exchange Reich currency for their own.”
Another man turned and said wryly, “It is a shame we cannot receive our Reichsmark bills before we go to the restroom. That is one good use for German currency.”
Several men laughed bitterly at the remark, and after the German officer retreated into his office, those men left one at a time for the restroom. Several women also excused themselves. No one doubted the threat of the Gestapo officer.
Murphy was sweating as he approached the wide table where luggage was being searched. He determined that he would simply close his eyes and endure the indignity of the search, just as he had done when he had his physical for the army. His only concern now was for the precious newspaper and the documents that could cost him years in a Gestapo prison—or worse.
“Next!” shouted a cranky little German behind the table.
Murphy hefted the small valise up and left the newspaper tucked beneath his arm as he displayed his passport and press identity. “American,” he said.
“Journalistin!” snapped the man. “And what will you say about our search of departing guests?” He had already begun to paw through Murphy’s valise.
“That the Reich is very thorough,” Murphy replied as the prickle of fear moved up his spine.
“Ja!” The man dumped the entire contents of the bag out; then with a straight razor he slit the lining of the bag. “An honest American,” he pronounced as he finished his meticulous examination. His beady eyes rested on the folded newspaper. “What is that?” he demanded, extending his hand.
“My souvenir of the Anschluss.” Murphy obligingly laid the newspaper in the man’s hand.
“Ja! Often foolish people fold up currency in such a souvenir!” He smiled, and Murphy noticed that his teeth were rotten, like his breath and his soul. This was truly the bottom rung of the Nazi ladder. He began to flip through the pages one by one.
“Rather a good picture of the Führer, I think.” Murphy heard his own voice as if it were very far away. “And look at the masses of people cheering him in the Heldenplatz. I doubt that anyone outside of the Reich has seen such a photograph. Maybe they won’t believe the victorious welcome to Austria unless they see it.”
The little man continued to scan the pages, chuckling here and there at particular photographs. The extra thickness of the pages seemed to scream at Murphy. How could we have thought he wouldn’t notice?
“Ja. A very good issue. I have saved a copy myself for history,” the man said triumphantly.
“May I put my things back in my bag?” Murphy asked politely.
“Ja, ja.” He closed the newspaper but continued to stare at the face of Hitler as Murphy crammed his clothes back into the valise.
“Would you mind if I packed my newspaper in the bag? I would hate to lose it in travel.”
The man frowned, looking intently at Murphy. He picked up the paper and tapped it against his hand, then thoughtfully laid it down on top of the disheveled clothing in the valise. “Ja,” he said. “It is a good thing for a man to remember such a day, I think.” He raised a hand. “Heil Hitler!” Then, with the same hand he pointed toward the men’s room. “You will go there and remove all your clothing. The doctor will come in and examine you shortly.” With that, he closed the bag and sealed it with the Gestapo seal.
Beneath such a seal, beneath the smile of Hitler and his teeming admirers, the Kronenberger document would be safe for the moment. With that thought in mind, Murphy hardly noticed the rough hands of the Nazi doctor. When he was pronounced free of contraband and allowed to board the plane for Paris, he even managed to say thank you.
***
Below the plane, the lights of Paris sparkled like diamonds on the black velvet of a Cartier showcase. Beacons atop the Eiffel Tower warned off aircraft, while floodlights illumined the Arc de Triomphe.
Strangely, Murphy had expected sighs of relief from his fellow passengers as the plane banked to the right and circled the city in an approach for landing. But there was only silence among them. Those who were Jewish and had somehow bribed their way to freedom from the Nazis seemed unwilling to believe that they were safe until the wheels of the Lufthansa aircraft touched the field. Murphy understood their apprehension. With the Kronenberger document tucked away, he would not feel at ease until he placed it on the desk of the INS news director in Paris. Until then, he could not shake the feeling that this German pilot might change his mind about landing on French soil and turn the aircraft back to the Reich.
Only after the metal steps had been wheeled into place and the pitiful mix of refugees and foreigners inhaled their first sweet breath of Paris did the façades of control finally crack. Women and men alike wept openly. They were free in France now, mainly because they held passports for nations other than Germany or Austria. But what of those whom they had left behind?
Murphy exhaled loudly and walked around half a dozen men who embraced one another and exclaimed in choked cries, “Vive la France! Vive Liberte!” If they had not understood the meaning of the phrase before, tonight they embraced their freedom like drowning men who had been pulled to safety from a riptide.
Walter Kronenberger had not been so lucky. His sons, wherever they were, would probably perish as well. But perhaps, Murphy thought, these words of traged
y and warning might make a difference to others faced with the same brutal choices. The joyous weeping of Murphy’s fellow passengers followed him into the terminal building. He could share their relief but not their joy. He, too, had left people behind. He had failed Elisa. Leah and Shimon Feldstein were as much beyond his reach as ever.
Unable to smile, Murphy hailed a cab. The news director would not be in the office at this late hour but for what Murphy had it was worth dragging him out of bed.
“Number 2, Rue Balny d’Avricourt,” Murphy instructed the taxi driver. Even saying the address was difficult for Murphy. Suddenly he realized that he had not spoken at all for hours. The thoughts of what he had seen and what he now carried with him had driven words from him.
***
Murphy awakened Leonard Duprey, chief of the Paris INS office, from a sound sleep. His welcome was anything but cordial. Still, Murphy hoped Duprey would warm up a bit after reading the Kronenberger document. The newspaper that hid the story beneath Hitler’s photograph was carefully opened with Duprey’s own straight razor. Now the disgruntled editor sat in his striped robe behind a cluttered desk. He scanned the material without the enthusiasm Murphy, Skies, and Timmons had hoped for.
The downturned mouth of Duprey twitched a little at the corner as he finished reading the last dramatic paragraph. Other than that, there was nothing on his face to show that he considered the story worth his loss of sleep. He quietly let the last page drop to his desk as he sat back and scowled at Murphy.
“This couldn’t have waited until morning?” he growled.
“I’m leaving for the States at six,” Murphy explained for the second time.
Duprey tapped his finger impatiently on Kronenberger’s story. “Well, I can tell you right now that you have wasted your time and my sleep with this.”
Hardly able to believe the response, Murphy leaned forward in his chair. “Wasted?” After everything they had gone through to smuggle this document out—not to mention the fact that Kronenberger had died trying to reach the Western powers with this story—it seemed impossible that Duprey could be so brutally uninterested!
“Wasted!” Duprey snapped.
“Mr. Craine himself sent a wire that he wanted a good story from Vienna. Here it is!”
“Old news, Mr. Murphy. We covered the war against the churches last year and the year before. What has this got to do with the Anschluss? Old news. Kronenberger was dead long before he hit the floor of the INS office in Vienna. People just don’t care anymore about this stuff.” He tapped his throat with a forefinger. “Readership has had this sort of persecution story up to here, and you know it. Craine would scream so loud we could hear him from California if I sent this over the wires.”
Murphy was stunned and angry. This was not what he had expected; but then, Duprey had not seen the patched office wall at the INS, the holes from bullets that had passed through a man’s body. Skies and Timmons and the rest had not been able to tell what it had been like watching Kronenberger riddled with holes before their eyes. “This has everything to do with the takeover of Austria, and you know it!”
“Tell it to Craine!” Duprey said with a disgusted wave.
“What happened in Germany is happening now in Austria! It is happening in Vienna to guys like Kronenberger, who just want their kids to be safe.”
Duprey was smiling in a tight-lipped way. “I can walk out on the streets of Paris and gather ten thousand stories like this! The whole city is full of refugees, and every one of them has a sad tale! Have you walked through a sidewalk café in Paris lately, Mr. Murphy? You think this is news? The second language in France now is German, spoken by German-Jews and social misfits.”
“Misfits?”
“Yes, misfits! Like your Herr Kronenberger and his brood! Is it any of our business if the Germans are weeding out those who are not quite up to standard? We’d all be better off if we thought about it. Hitler wasn’t going to murder these people, you know! Only stop reproduction of the same kind of weaklings.” Duprey leaned so far back in his deep leather chair that Murphy thought the man might fall over. His voice was patronizing; his face seemed to portray the reasonableness of his arguments. “Like culling a litter of puppies, if you will.”
Murphy stood now and angrily began to gather up the precious document. “Two kids aren’t puppies. They’re kids!”
“We printed the whole struggle when it happened in Germany.” Duprey was becoming defensive. “The issue is dead.”
“The issue is murdered! Executed! Or in Dachau along with every parish priest and Protestant pastor who spoke out!”
“Old news!” Duprey repeated. “And Mr. Craine himself would be the first to say so. If this is the story you brought the Craine syndicate from Austria, I can tell you right now that the Chief will not be pleased! You’ll never publish this in a Craine paper. You’re a couple of years too late.”
Murphy did not reply. He was already groping blindly for the door. He had not expected such lack of concern from Duprey. Stepping squarely on the photograph of Hitler, Murphy fled the apathy of one of the most influential news editors in Europe.
It was not until he was outside in the quiet street that a thousand sensible replies entered his mind. If we had covered Hitler’s war against the church and thousands of families like the Kronenbergers with more enthusiasm, then Paris would not be full of refugees, and Vienna would not be full of Wehrmacht troops!
But the argument had come to him too late. He stared up at the window of Duprey’s study as the light winked out. The editor, no doubt, had returned to his bed and drifted off to a peaceful sleep once again.
23
Traveling Alone
Since John Murphy had left Prague, there had been no word from him. Elisa had barely spoken of him in that time. She avoided the sympathetic looks of her mother and found ways each day to be alone.
Her thoughts were filled with frightening images of Vienna and the friends she had left behind. Each evening when the radio blared the news of the latest political events in the new Greater Reich, Elisa felt physically ill. It was so much like what had happened in Berlin, only so much more fierce in its suddenness. Like some terrible Day of Judgment, the destruction had come upon them before they knew what was happening. And now she trembled for the fate of Leah. For Shimon. For the others in the orchestra who had been family to her these last few years. Mixed up with all of that was the slow-burning impatience with Murphy. Why hadn’t he contacted her? Why had he left without even a word of good-bye? Was he back in Vienna yet?
Elisa was sure that her impatience would soon erupt into an angry determination to do something—anything—if she did not hear soon. The news broadcasts were frightening enough, and rumors in the vast Prague marketplace told of long desperate lines of hopeful refugees trying to cross the Czech border. Those few who were lucky enough to get out of Austria brought horrible stories of thousands being arrested by the Gestapo every day. Were Shimon and Leah among them?
Her dreams had become a reflection of the fear she felt. Each night she climbed into bed alone and still found herself wishing that Murphy were there beside her. Clean sheets, the quilt turned back. She wished for strong arms to hold her close and gentle hands to stroke her hair and tell her this was all just a bad dream. But when, at last, she tumbled into an uneasy sleep, the dreams that came were savage reminders of reality. . . .
From row ten, aisle seat, Murphy sat and watched her as she played the golden violin that once belonged to Rudy Dorbransky. Leah sat across from her on a stage so vast that surely she could not hear the music.
Then the men in black shirts entered the hall and bullets sprayed the stage! Rudy lay broken and bleeding at her feet. As he raised his hands toward the violin, his beautiful fingers were consumed in fire and smoke that licked the hem of Elisa’s gown.
She called for Murphy, but his seat was vacant now.
As the flames from Rudy’s body leaped higher, the Blackshirts dragged Leah away. . . .
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Always the nightmare was the same. Elisa woke herself with a soundless scream and then lay for hours in the sweat-drenched bed until morning brought her back again to some pretense of normal life. She walked numbly through trips to the market and the bakery. She helped with the dishes and read quietly to Theo. But when Anna tuned in concerts on the radio, she left the room, left the house. Was there any music that did not now remind her of her friend? They had laughed and joked through every rehearsal and talked about music long into the night over cups of strong coffee. No, she could not listen to music. Not now. Every score became a well-rehearsed script. She could not hear the notes any longer. She was left with visions of Leah and of her dear Vienna.
Somewhere in the vast city of Prague were men and women who, like Elisa, had been involved in the organization that provided passports for refugee children of Germany. But where were they? The past weeks of solitary worry had left Elisa aware of just how well covered the tracks of the clandestine group were. Always before, Leah had told Elisa where she must go and what words she should speak to identify herself as the courier. The time and place had been different on each occasion. Elisa had never even been certain what she carried across the border into Germany in the violin case. Now, without Leah’s instructions, Elisa was totally cut off. For six days she had wandered through the city, visiting each of the meeting places in turn. The Charles Bridge. The Orloj clock in Old Town Square. A certain tower at the university. Three times she had gone to the enormous Prague train terminal and walked through the crowded lobby and along the endless platform where trains hissed and fumed while passengers emptied into the safety of Czechoslovakia from Germany.
