Prague Counterpoint

by Bodie Thoene

  Such bitter thoughts would cost Murphy his job if he expressed them, he knew. Craine did not want his employees to come into his presence with any ideas of their own. Like Cary Grant and Clark Gable with their empty suitcases, those called to San Sebastian were expected to come with empty minds waiting to be filled by the thoughts and opinions that he demanded they adopt as their own. After three days of simmering quietly in the Casa del Sol, Murphy was no longer certain that he could pretend to agree with anything Craine said. For the first time, it occurred to Murphy that maybe Craine kept people waiting to throw them off balance, to make them fear for their jobs and silently practice speeches of submission. “Avoid politics; follow his lead; talk about animals,” Larry Strickland had warned him.

  A plane roared over the roof of the bungalow, and Murphy closed his eyes as he thought of other planes in Germany, in Spain, and now over Austria. Suddenly there was only one kind of animal that Murphy wanted to talk about with Craine—the black-shirted goosestepping king, the strutting Heil-Hitlering kind of animal!

  Murphy almost laughed out loud. If Craine had left him in isolation this long to make him more compliant, he had made a mistake. Murphy felt anything but docile right now. He had promises to keep in Vienna, and if Craine was too busy to see him, Murphy determined that he would simply find his own way back to Europe. If he was not allowed to see Craine by morning, he would leave; he would go back to find Leah and Shimon, and then on to Elisa in Prague.

  A soft knock announced the entrance of the butler who served the guests of Casa del Sol. He bowed slightly and said regally, “You must dress for dinner tonight, Mr. Murphy. Your dinner jacket. Mr. Craine wishes you to join him and a few other guests in the refectory tonight at eight.”

  So here it is at last! The summons to the Presence. Dinner at eight. Of course. Murphy smiled and nodded as the butler proceeded to lay out the elegant dinner jacket and draw the bath. Solitary confinement was about to end.

  27

  The Barter

  Charles had been right in his assessment of what Leah needed to clear her mind. Although she had stopped playing, the music still seemed to fill the room, lifting them up to a soaring freedom over the rooftops and spires of Vienna, and beyond.

  Charles touched the rich, glowing wood of the precious instrument; then he looked searchingly at Leah. The peace and confidence had returned to her face.

  “Yes, Charles.” She spoke for the first time all morning. “It is a magic carpet, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. His eyes smiled with relief. Aunt Leah was somehow well.

  “That is what my father said when he bought me Vitorio. He said, ‘Other children are earthbound, but you, little Leah, will soar like a bird with the help of Vitorio! High above the Grunenwald! Float above the Danube, then on and on until you hover between the highest peaks of the Alps!’” She laughed with delight as Charles flapped his arms and rose from his knees to sail around the room with Louis close behind him.

  “What? What will we do, Aunt Leah?” Louis asked breathlessly as they finally landed before the cello.

  “My father must have been a prophet.” Leah stroked the fine instrument gently as if it were a much-loved family member. “Do you know what a prophet is?”

  The two heads shook in unison. This was a word they had not heard before.

  “Well,” Leah said, laying her hand softly on the smooth wood of Vitorio, “it is someone who can see the future.”

  The boys exchanged wondrous glances. “Could he see us now?” Louis asked.

  Leah pondered the question. No, there was no Jewish father in all of Europe who could have seen this terrible darkness for his children. “I think not,” Leah answered carefully. “But if he had been able to foretell these circumstances, I know what he would have me do.” Now she spoke to herself, not to the little ones who tried to follow her words. She looked from the cello into the faces of the children who needed her so desperately. “Vitorio will indeed carry us far away from here, as my father said.” She smiled. “Vitorio is our magic carpet, Charles and Louis!”

  Imaginations leaped to life. Would they ride the cello in loops and swirls in the sky like a giant eagle? “We will have to be very careful of the German bombers!” Louis giggled as the drone of German planes rumbled over the apartment. Such roaring had not stopped since the morning the Germans had come to Vienna.

  “No,” Leah said, allowing her eyes to focus on the vibrating light fixture in the ceiling. “We will fly away another way. And we will have to leave Vitorio behind, I’m afraid.” The boys both groaned in loud protest. “He will not mind.” Leah put the instrument into its case. Then, before she closed the lid she looked lovingly at what had been her most precious possession. “It does not matter.” She spoke to the strings and wood and glowing red varnish that had reflected her soul since childhood. “I will take the music with me.” The strings hummed softly as she brushed her fingers across them and closed the lid in a final, irrevocable decision.

  ***

  Leah had no instructions for Louis and Charles as she prepared to leave the apartment. If she did not return, their fate would no doubt be linked to hers. But she would not think of not returning to them. She must come back!

  “Quiet now, like little mice.” She put a finger to her lips. “Remember the big, fat cat, Herr Hugel, prowls around downstairs!”

  “Charles is always quiet,” Louis reminded her. “I will also be quiet,” he promised with his eyes wide at the thought of Herr Hugel, whose laughter often drifted up the stairs.

  “Not just quiet,” Leah warned, “but also very still. If you must walk, then walk on your tiptoes! He will be listening after I leave!”

  They understood perfectly the danger inherent in the fat man who seemed so harmless and brainless. Leah had often warned them of the power that belonged to such petty and evil men now. He was the kind who would seek to better himself by tearing the life out of others. He had sold his humanity for a minuscule kingdom, and if he still had a conscience, it must now be stroked by the approval of his superiors. Approval would be gained by some small bit of information or, more glorious yet, by the discovery of some secret within the walls of the apartment building. Louis and Charles were Leah’s secret.

  She embraced them and kissed each boy lightly on the cheek. Then bravely, she hefted the violoncello and left the apartment, securely locking the door from the outside. Twice before,Leah had suspected Hugel of sniffing around the hallway. She had intimidated him beautifully on the first morning of his arrival. He was a sneak but lacked courage, Leah knew. At least Leah hoped this was the case.

  At the top of the landing she paused, gathering courage. The world outside the walls of the apartment was now terrifyin. To walk among the enemy as if she were one of them required a bravado she was unsure that she could find. She softly hummed a few notes of the Bach suite. She would let her music be her courage. It must carry her today!

  Carefully she walked down the steps. The violoncello felt awkward and heavy. It seemed like a lifetime since she had been out of the little flat.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Herr Hugel opened the door and greeted her with a respectful, giggling exuberance. He rubbed his hands together. He looked at the cello and his eyebrows arched. “Ah yes! The musician of apartment 2-B.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Leah answered crisply, not slowing her pace.

  “Heil Hitler!” He stepped in front of her. Smiling with stubby, crooked yellow teeth, he stood fawning and grinning as he blocked her path. He towered over her. Leah had not noticed that he was tall as well as immense. He must have weighed three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, she guessed. There was no room for her to go around him.

  “Herr Hugel, I have a rehearsal now. I have no time for talking, bitte?” She stepped to one side, hoping that her curtness would remove him from in front of the door.

  “Ahhhh. Yes! I can sometimes hear soft music from your flat. Sometimes voices.” Subtleness was not characteristic of Herr Hug
el.

  “My radio, no doubt.” Leah quietly determined that for as long as they remained in the apartment, they would whisper from now on. She nearly stamped her foot with impatience. “If you don’t mind . . . ”

  He blinked at her as though trying to understand what he might mind. “The radio? Why, no! I don’t mind at all! Good, strong German music! Wagner, they say it is.” He tried to sound knowledgeable. “None of that Jewish drivel.”

  “Yes. Well.” Leah let the remark slip by. “I have a bit of good, strong German music to rehearse now, Herr Hugel!” She smiled.

  The repetition of his words flattered him. He laughed again, wanting to talk longer with her, as though being seen with a musician somehow bestowed some knowledge or glory or talent on him. “We must talk again!” He gave a silly, ignorant laugh, the laugh of a man who sees only his own circumstance and not the pain of the toppled world around him.

  Leah brushed past him. “Yes, we must!”

  Again he laughed.

  Leah guessed the man was imagining himself being seen in conversation with the musician from 2-B who plays for the highest German officials in Vienna.

  ***

  Through the slit in the curtain, Charles watched Leah and her cello wind through the crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk below until she rounded the corner and slipped out of sight. How often had he watched his father do the same? Always he wondered if Father would come back. The last time he had not. Maybe this kind and gentle woman would not come back to them either.

  The thought had only just torn through him when he heard the heavy tread of Herr Hugel on the stairs. The fat man’s wheezing breath proceeded him in asthmatic warning that he was coming here to violate the safety of this apartment.

  Louis, who was quietly practicing his letters at the table, froze. His face was a mask of fear. Eyes grew wide and his gaze locked with Charles’. “Charles?” he whispered, his pencil poised above the paper.

  Charles stared at the door as Herr Hugel’s wheezing turned into a violent and angry cough just outside in the hallway. He cleared his throat, spitting over the rail.

  “He’s coming here!” Louis mouthed as the jingle of keys rang loudly.

  There was not a moment longer to hesitate. Charles ran to the side of his terrified brother and pulled him quickly toward the bedroom. Where could they hide? Leah had not told them what to do in such a circumstance. They had not imagined that Herr Hugel might have a key. Who could foresee that the fat man was simply waiting below for Leah to leave?

  “The closet?” Louis started to move toward the door. Charles pulled him back. Herr Hugel would surely search in the closet and if he was to discover them there, he would call the Gestapo!

  A key scraped into the lock. The doorknob rattled, and Herr Hugel swore quietly as he pulled the key out and tried another.

  Curtains hung down to the floor. Would the fat man look there? Or behind the chair?

  There was only a few inches of clearance beneath the bed, but it was enough for Louis and Charles to squeeze their small bodies between the footboard and the floor.

  Again the rattle of the doorknob echoed in the apartment. Charles closed his eyes. He could feel his heart pounding fiercely against the floor as the latch caught and the front door crashed open. Now the labored breath of the fat man flooded the room. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he stepped forward.

  Charles held tightly to the hand of Louis. Charles looked at his brother. Tears brimmed in Louis’ eyes. “It is a game,” Charles wanted to reassure Louis. “Pretend we are playing hide-and-seek.” Charles slowly raised a finger to his broken mouth, a signal for silence. Louis simply stared at him as the footsteps of Herr Hugel approached the kitchen. The boys could hear the clatter of cups in the sink, the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing as Herr Hugel searched every inch of the apartment. For what? For them?

  ***

  Leah did not dare carry the violoncello to a legitimate instrument shop for fear she would be recognized. This obscure little pawnshop had seemed the logical choice with its display of instruments in the window and the little shopkeeper who seemed as dusty as the cluttered shelves in his shop.

  Now, as the beautiful old Pedronelli cello lay before him on the counter, Leah regretted that she had come here at all.

  “It is quite old,” she explained. “And very valuable.”

  “So they all say, madame,” he said as he rubbed his bald head and smiled doubtfully. “I have a dozen like it in the back room. All in better shape than this one, I assure you, madame.”

  “But the quality of this cello is unsurpassed, and––”

  “Every musician trying to leave Vienna has said the same. There is an abundance of such items on the market. No one will buy it for the price you are asking, madame! I cannot make a profit! I sell to students, poor students who come here because they cannot afford to walk through the door of an instrument shop. So they come here. What do you expect? I cannot make a profit! You could take it elsewhere, and you would not get better than what I offer you. I tell you, this is nothing but wood and strings to me, and such wood as this is being unloaded all over Vienna these days.”

  “But what you offer is not a tiny fraction of what it is worth!” Leah protested. She considered gathering the cello up and trying another shop, but no doubt the vile little man before her was correct. The value of an instrument in Vienna was practically nothing.

  “If you need good solid Reichsmarks, madame, I offer you what I can. You have told me you sell this for a friend. You cannot play it yourself. So how am I to know that it does not squawk and screech like a cat with his tail in the gears?” He widened his eyes and plucked a string. “Wood and strings. I pay you just what I might get if a poor student might happen to wish to buy it in the next year or so. Take it or leave it.”

  The instrument was like a revered old friend to Leah. Somehow its sale now seemed like a betrayal. It had delighted thousands of concertgoers in Vienna, and now it was to gather dust in some obscure little shop until a penniless student happened upon it. “It is a treasure,” she defended desperately.

  The pawnbroker plucked another string. “And who can prove such a claim? No doubt the friend you sell this for is a Jew, yes, madame?” He inclined his head and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “So if this is of such great quality, tell your friend to come in and play it for me himself.”

  Leah’s mouth suddenly became dry. For a moment she imagined Gestapo officers waiting behind the faded green velvet curtain that led to the back room of the shop. Did the little man know who she was in spite of her lie? Was he playing some game with her, daring her to prove herself, tempting her to reveal her own skill and condemn herself through the beauty of her music? She could sit on a street corner in Vienna among a hundred other musicians and stop traffic if she dared to play this “mere woods and strings.”

  “I . . . I . . . told you,” she stammered, “my friend is not a Jew. He is ill. Very ill and in need of a doctor’s attention. A hospital. Medicine.” The lie sounded unconvincing even to her ears.

  The pawnbroker did not attempt to conceal a smirk of disbelief. “Tell your . . . friend, whoever he may be . . . whatever his condition, that every shop in Vienna will say the same. This is nothing but wood and strings. It is of no value to me whatsoever unless I can resell it for profit. Which I doubt. And it is of no value to your sick friend unless he can turn it into a boat and float away from the Reich on the Danube. Perhaps he can play the “Blue Danube Waltz” as he paddles? Or perhaps your sick Jewish friend would do better to refuse the money and keep his cello”—the smirk became a grin—“for a coffin.”

  Leah felt her face flush with anger and humiliation. She slammed the lid on the cello and fumbled with the lock. “I will go elsewhere!”

  The pawnbroker continued to smile confidently. “Then I should perhaps call the Gestapo and tell them there is a woman trying to sell a very valuable cello for some Jew in hiding?” He whined the question.
“You will not walk a dozen yards from my door before you are arrested, madame.”

  Leah stared at the cello. What had she done? How foolish she was to imagine she could get a fair price for the priceless instrument! Now the pawnbroker was counting out a pittance of its value. The student bow she owned was worth more than she was being paid for the entire instrument. He shoved the meager stack of bills across the counter to her.

  Vitorio had been her friend. Her living. But now there was no life for her here, and other lives were in danger. The violoncello is only an object, she told herself as she continued to stare at the case. Here before her was enough cash for two one-way tickets to the Tyrol, and her own round-trip fare to Kitzbühel and back to Vienna. The cello for train fare, safety for the children of Walter Kronenberger.