by Bodie Thoene
“How much did Lindheim pay you? How much?”
All around the bookstalls the questions echoed back. How much? How much?
Herschel ran his fingers through his thick black hair. A voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You wish to know how much, boy?”
Herschel looked into the leathery face of an old bookseller wearing a shapeless beret on his head and a thin black string tie at the frayed collar of his yellowed shirt. “I don’t . . . ” Herschel frowned back.
“You don’t speak French?” the old bookseller asked gently.
“Oh yes, I speak French.” Herschel’s accent betrayed his Berlin upbringing.
“Good! Good! Then you also read French. We also have German books here.” He gestured to another table, more crowded than the others.
Herschel remained rooted, uncertain what to say. “Yes,” he said dumbly.
“Herr Hitler has burned the best German works, it seems,” the old bookseller said with a shrug. “So Germans come here to purchase what cannot be had there any longer. The best German books and their authors are all in France now, I think. As well as those who find Mein Kampf dull and ridiculous reading, yes?” He spoke loudly to the boy, no doubt to draw other browsers. “Now, how can I help you?”
Herschel glanced down at the table again, grateful for the words of the old man. Silently he contemplated the pamphlets. His eye finally fell on a yellowed little booklet with a photograph of the military prison of Cherche-Midi that had held such a strong fascination for him when he had come upon it two weeks earlier. He picked up the booklet and studied the picture. Men in uniform guarded a man being led beneath the arch of the prison. “This is Dreyfus!” Herschel said, recognizing the scene. “I knew I had seen it before!”
“So you are interested in the famous Dreyfus, are you?” The bookseller sounded triumphant. “Yes! And this is one of the original pamphlets. You can see the date. 1894. Yes, many people are interested in this story. Certainly. A rare booklet you hold!” A few more browsers stopped at the stall.
“Yes.” Herschel had almost forgotten his own misery as he examined the unhappy face of the prisoner. “I saw this prison. I saw where they took Captain Dreyfus! It has a strange name. ‘The Search for Noon.’ A very strange name, don’t you think?”
“Not so strange.” The bookseller was proud of his knowledge and ready to display it. A couple paused to listen. “It was a convent, you see. Louis XIV, the Sun King, helped to build it. The nuns used to provide food for the poor each day at noon. Early in the morning beggars would come and wait for the kettles of soup, and so the street and the building got their name—The Search for Noon.”
“But it is a prison now.” Herschel could not take his gaze away from the sad face of the man in the photograph.
“Converted, you might say, during the French Revolution when the jails were overcrowded.”
Browsers began to come to the bookseller with queries of “How much? How much?” The old man moved away from Herschel to make change and wrap purchases with stiff twine.
Herschel remained rooted before the table, scanning the details of the case of Captain Dreyfus, the French Jew accused of selling military secrets to the Germans. He felt foolish for not recognizing the prison immediately. He knew the history of the case quite well and must have seen the photograph a dozen times in the history books. Dreyfus had been stripped of rank, convicted, and imprisoned. The entire case against him had been manufactured and used as a springboard to arouse anti-Semitic hostilities among the French population. Twelve years after the imprisonment of Dreyfus, he was proven innocent and set free. But his case had divided the nation into two angry camps.
Herschel stared at the pamphlet. When this was printed, of course, the issue would not be decided for many years yet. The boy wondered how long it would take for Germany to decide the final case for those who were falsely imprisoned there now.
The bookseller turned his attention back to Herschel at last. “This case of Captain Dreyfus interests you, yes?” He seemed quite pleased with the business their conversation had brought to him. “And yet I do not hear you ask, ‘How much?’”
Herschel replaced the booklet. “I do not have a single franc, sir,” he said apologetically.
The bookseller looked thoughtful. He scratched the gray hair beneath the beret. “Then I shall lend it to you,” he replied at last.
“I must leave France soon.”
“Yes? America? Palestine? You have a visa?”
“No.” Herschel frowned. “I could not get a work permit. They say I must go back to Germany.”
The bookseller drew back in astonishment. “Oui? Back there? Where they burn books and still believe that poor Captain Dreyfus is guilty and should be hanged? And only because he is guilty of being a Jew, at that!” He seemed indignant. “Who says you must return to such a place?”
“The French ministry of––”
“Clerks!” He spat on the ground. “How are they to know if you stay or go?”
“I must have a permit to work––”
“Who says this?”
“Everyone!”
“Not everyone, I think.” He glanced at a woman who stood struggling with a particularly high stack of purchases. In an enthusiastic and sympathetic voice the old bookseller said, “Madame! How far must you carry these things?”
“The Rue Royale.” She grimaced at the thought.
“No, madame!” he protested. “When you purchase here, we also provide a service. For a few francs more, my boy here will carry your packages for you!”
She seemed relieved. “How much?” she asked as Herschel took the heavy bundle from her.
25
Shattering the Innocent
Bright fields of golden poppies swept upward from the shoreline into the mountains of the California coastal range. Murphy had never been to California, and to see it in spring from the high vantage point of the Craine airplane was almost intoxicating. For the first time since he had left Elisa in Prague, he found himself wishing he could one day bring her here.
He leaned against the glass of the cockpit as the pilot banked the plane slightly to soar over a mountain covered with blue lupines. Earth and sky and the sparkling Pacific Ocean blended together in a thousand hues of blue. The lacy line of surf crashing against the cliffs was the only sign of movement below them. Everything else in the picture seemed content simply to bask in sunlit beauty. And Murphy felt content simply to gaze at it all in silent wonder. He almost forgot about the pilot until the man spoke loudly over the drone of the engine.
“Beautiful, ain’t it?” he said. Murphy nodded. “’Course you just come from the Alps,” the pilot continued. “Guess that’s more beautiful.”
Murphy shook his head but did not take his eyes away from the rocky shoreline for an instant. “Different. Pretty, too––” He waved his hand as if to demonstrate. “But different. Not so gentle as these mountains, and there’s no ocean. Lots of high rocky points. Like the Rocky Mountains.” His breath frosted on the windowpane. “My wife is from there. I mean, close to the Alps. But I’ll bet she’d like this. Bet she’d like to see it.” Murphy said the words softly, but still they surprised him. Except for his conversation with the conductor at the Musikverein, he had not mentioned Elisa to anyone since the party at Strickland’s in London. And then he had talked only of getting “unhitched.” Now in the face of such beauty, he could not think of anything but sharing this sight with her.
“You got a wife?” The pilot was also surprised. A couple of days cross-country in a small airplane, usually about everything there was to know about a guy was discovered in the first few hours. “Didn’t think you was the type!”
“Neither did I,” Murphy mumbled. “Just full of surprises, I guess.” He did not want to pursue the subject. A sudden ache coursed through him at the thought of Elisa. There was no guarantee that he would ever again share anything with her. She had shared her music with him, and now he wanted to show her the world
. A beautiful world, without swastikas and strutting German soldiers. Someplace like this, where they could just live and forget about all that other stuff.
Hardly anyone in the States really thought about Hitler and the Nazis much. Old man Craine filled the editorial pages of every one of his newspapers with his own comforting prophecy that there would be no war. The leaders of Europe were too smart for a war, and the United States, at any rate, would never become involved no matter what happened. Looking down on Craine’s domain, it was easy to see how he could believe all that. From here, even Murphy could almost believe it. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, the terrible events of Austria would indeed seem remote and insignificant right now.
The pilot tugged the sleeve of the borrowed Craine coveralls that Murphy wore. “Don’t worry about clothes,” he said, completely changing the subject. “The Chief knows you left in an awful hurry. Strickland wired him from London that you didn’t bring nuthin’ with you. The Chief liked that. He liked it that you didn’t even pack. Anyways, don’t worry about it, Murphy. San Sebastian has a basement as big as Macy’s Department Store, and it’s full of racks and racks of clothes. You go pick what you need, there’s a tailor who alters it right there, and then you get to take the stuff home.” He seemed proud of his intimate knowledge of the great man’s castle. He leaned a little closer and confided, “I fly them movie-star types up all the time, you know? Clark Gable and Cary Grant always come with empty suitcases.” He laughed at Murphy’s amazed expression, then banked out to sea and began a slow wide turn back toward the mountains.
“When will we be there?” Murphy yelled over the engine.
With a wide grin and a nod toward the nose of the plane, the pilot tipped his hat. “Take a look!” He laughed.
Straight ahead, on a pinnacle of a mountain overlooking the ocean, loomed an enormous castle. Two turrets flanked a high, steeply pitched roof. Smaller buildings surrounding the castle seemed dwarfed by comparison, but Murphy could tell that these buildings were also enormous. Sparkling aqua waters of a giant swimming pool were surrounded by Roman statues, and a waterfall tumbled down into the pool and then flowed on to a fountain before the main entrance of the castle. Farther down the road was a small zoo. Murphy could clearly make out lions and several different kinds of large jungle cats lounging on rocks in the sun. A small herd of antelope, startled by the sound of the engine, stampeded across the face of a lesser hill. Cattle and buffalo grazed side by side on the grounds. A tall giraffe nibbled at the leaves of a tree at the bottom of a hill not far from the landing strip.
The place was Shangri-La. Camelot. A mythical kingdom that could not exist in reality. Murphy had heard all the stories about the Chief and his eccentric lifestyle. He had heard of the old man’s devotion to his young mistress, of the flocks of Hollywood elite who vied for a treasured invitation to the place. Winston Churchill had been here once, Murphy knew. But that had been nearly ten years before, when Churchill believed that all the nations of the world must disarm for the cause of peace. Ten years ago, before Hitler began the massive rearmament of Germany. Murphy doubted if Churchill would be invited back to San Sebastian now. Although Craine professed to like him, one old lion to another, they no longer saw eye to eye on the issues at hand in the real world. San Sebastian was not the real world.
So why, Murphy wondered again as the plane touched down, was he summoned to the court of Arthur Adam Craine? John Murphy was little more than the smallest cog in the giant Craine publishing machine. His own opinions about the future of Europe differed sharply from those of the Chief. He had kept his opinions largely to himself since the sharp reprimand had come from New York, but certainly his anger at the rape of Austria must have been evident in his voice during the broadcast. Murphy didn’t like the Nazis; surely the old man must know that. He seemed to know everything about nearly everybody. That’s how he always managed to get his way, some said.
Why me? Murphy wondered again as he shook hands with the pilot and then climbed into the sleek black limousine that would carry him up to the castle of San Sebastian. Signs beside the twisting road read: All Animals Have Right of Way. Murphy remembered Strickland’s advice clearly: “The Chief loves animals. Talk about animals. Avoid politics!” But surely A. A. Craine had not brought a small-time correspondent halfway around the world to talk about his private zoo, Murphy reasoned. They would talk politics, undoubtedly. The trick was for Murphy to nod in agreement when he did not, could not, and never would agree with the handing over of Europe piecemeal to the Nazis.
***
The German sentry in the foyer went away, but John Murphy did not come again to Elisa’s apartment. Daily, Leah watched through the slit in the curtains, hoping for some glimpse of the tall, easygoing American. A dozen times a day, she caught sight of the bulky form of Herr Hugel as he lugged out the garbage or stood outside chatting with anyone unfortunate enough to get caught by his garrulous, self-centered conversation. His gurgling laughter punctuated his speech and penetrated the glass of the window where Leah watched. He was an obese, mindless watchdog whom the Gestapo had chained to the post by flattering him into thinking that he was important.
It must be the same all over Vienna, Leah thought wearily as Herr Hugel shouted a greeting to the apartment manager of the next building. That man, too, had an unkempt, greasy appearance and swaggered behind his Nazi Party badge.
Seeing Murphy that time had almost made Leah’s isolation worse. The telephone had been disconnected within hours of her arrival here. She was unsure whom she would have called anyway. Had the maestro at the Musikverein even noticed her absence? Had he cared enough to inquire about the disappearance of her and Shimon?
No one had come to Elisa’s apartment to check on her—no one but the very cautious John Murphy. Why did he not return?
News from the Greater Reich Ministry of Propaganda blared night and day over the radio. Often the music was interrupted by a burst of horns and a military march, and then the voice of Goebbels or Hess or Hitler would spit its venom out over the airwaves.
“Today a nest of Jewish Communists was rooted out of their hiding place in the Seventh District. . . .”
“This morning at dawn three female spies were beheaded for their involvement in foreign . . . ”
“We will yet see an end to the vile plots of these Jews who seek to rob the German race of our . . . ”
“Seventeen smugglers of foreign contraband were captured at the border of the South Tyrol. They will be imprisoned for . . . ”
“The efforts of England and France to interfere with the family business of the Reich are laughable. . . .”
“Today in a plebiscite of all Austrians of voting age, our Führer won the overwhelming approval of 99.75 percent of the voters! Heil Hitler!”
Occasionally, late at night, Leah fiddled with the knob of the radio and managed to draw in stations from Switzerland. Once she heard a broadcast from Prague and imagined Elisa listening to it. That only made the loneliness more acute. The next night she tried again to pick up the Czech station, but instead, the voice of Hitler growled at her, promising to eliminate from the Reich all Jews and those who opposed the elevation of the Germans to their proper sphere. This was the stuff that nightmares were made of. Leah was living a nightmare now.
The pain of not knowing Shimon’s fate was almost unbearable. If it had not been for the quiet perception of little Charles, Leah was quite certain she would simply have given up and walked out onto the streets in hopes of being arrested like Shimon had been. What was the purpose of staying alive, after all? If the responsibility for these children had not been forced upon her, she would have gladly let go.
But here was hope. Charles lugged the cello case over to her and laid it on the floor at her feet. He could not speak, but his eyes begged her to play, begged her to teach him how he too might make the glowing wood of Vitorio sing.
For hours each day, Leah lost herself in teaching the child how to play the cello. Louis play
ed with dominos on the floor while Charles absorbed each lesson with hunger that startled even Leah. “Let me speak and sing and pray with this voice of wood and string!” he seemed to say. “Teach me, Aunt Leah, so that I might make this voice of beauty my own!”
Charles’ hunger to learn made them both forget others’ hungers and fears. Perhaps Elisa would come to help them. Perhaps she would never come. In the meantime, Leah made sure that little Charles learned to play the notes of the Bach Suites one by one.
***
Within the offices of the German Ministry of Propaganda, every foreign newspaper and magazine was carefully scrutinized for any item pertaining to the Reich and the Führer. Those matters that were considered important enough were translated and placed on the desk of Doktor Goebbels, ministry of propaganda. Then the spidery little man would analyze such items further and make decisions about how the terrible foreign attacks must be countered.
This morning, secretaries raised their heads as a great roaring erupted from the office of Herr Doktor Goebbels. The roaring was expected; a whispered warning had been issued by the young woman who had translated the story about Walter Kronenberger and his defective offspring. Liberty Magazine was the guilty publication in this case. That particular magazine often was guilty of printing anti-Nazi stories for the appalled American public to read.
