by Bodie Thoene
Churchill’s lower lip protruded farther as his bulldog features locked into a scowl. “We have made certain covenants with the small nations of the world. And now I fear that the League of Nations has become no more than a lovely, whitewashed sepulcher. There must be a vision here, or indeed Hitler will rule the world; and piece by piece he will work his way across the Channel. Together the nations of the world might face down such a terrible force as you have described. We must arm ourselves and stand by our Covenant!” He leaned forward, his gaze fierce with determination. “Tell your generals that this I promise: I will cry it from the housetops. Never before has the choice of such blessings or curses been so plainly, vividly, even brutally offered to mankind. The choice is open, and the dreadful balance trembles!”
***
The cab had pulled into the estate of Winston Churchill just as the tall, handsome young German stepped from the front door. Murphy recognized him instantly—it was the same man who had emerged from the hotel room of Churchill and Anthony Eden in Cannes just before Eden had been forced to resign from his post of foreign minister.
Today, as then, the dark-haired young man tugged his hat brim low on his brow and averted his face from Murphy’s view. He walked briskly down the drive to where another taxi waited, its driver fast asleep, his head lolled back against the seat. Suddenly he sat upright as the German quickly opened the door and slipped into the backseat.
The same chilling sense of foreboding that Murphy had felt in Cannes now filled him again. In France, the man had carried himself with a distinct military bearing. Although apprehension had been evident in his manner, he had seemed almost defiant as he had passed Murphy in the hall. Today, his every move communicated fear. Murphy continued to sit in the taxi as the first cab sputtered reluctantly to life. For a moment, Murphy considered following him until he saw the bulldog scowl of Winston Churchill as he waited at the front step.
***
Churchill carried a small paper bag of bread crumbs to feed his ducks. His estate was covered with ponds and waterfalls that Churchill himself had constructed stone by stone.
Cigar smoke rose over his head as the two men walked the expansive grounds. Murphy could not help but compare the statesman to a chugging locomotive.
“Quite an excellent broadcast,” Murphy said, noticing that they never were out of sight of an extremely large bald man who resembled a wrestler.
“Just the sort of thing that might make someone angry.” Churchill followed Murphy’s gaze to the large fellow. “He is my bodyguard, Mr. Murphy. You might have noticed with a study of history that wars and international incidents usually begin with the assassination of someone who is the opponent of an aggressor. I am an opponent of Herr Hitler; however, I would regret it if my untimely demise might spark an incident.”
“You are worried that you might be a target?”
Churchill chewed his cigar stub thoughtfully. “A rather large target.” He smiled, then strolled onto a wooden footbridge that creaked beneath his weight.
Murphy followed him and watched silently as at least twenty ducks quacked at the sight of Churchill and swam excitedly toward him as he opened the bag of crumbs and tossed a handful over the rail. “Who was the man that left just ahead of me?” Murphy ventured.
Churchill looked up sharply. “A dead man, if his presence here is ever found out,” he warned.
“He was with you and Mr. Eden at Cannes. A German––”
“A brave man,” Churchill interjected. “And there are many among the German people. Such men have conscience, and by the risk of their own lives they become the conscience of others who are not so noble or brave. Here is a fellow who understands the difference between right and wrong, between aggressor and victim.”
“Between his own country and the Czechs?”
Churchill gave a brief nod. “I’m afraid that those of us who are true believers are like these few ducks here. We quack and bob on stormy waters. And no one pays attention.” He offered the bag to Murphy, who took a handful of bread crumbs and tossed them into the feathered mob.
“I have to believe that someone is listening. The speech you made to Parliament—”
“No doubt there are a few other frightened ducks out there. A few.” He pointed to a large black-and-brown duck that chased the others away from their feast. “That is an interesting creature, Mr. Murphy. You will notice that it does not matter how much he gobbles; he always wants what every other duck on the pond has. He often gets what he wants too. That is why the others are not quite as big as this one. Why, they swim away when they see him coming. They squawk and make quite a racket while Herr Big Duck steals their food. But you see?” He tossed in another handful of crumbs. “While he steals, they do nothing more to defend themselves. He takes from one, and another grabs what he can and swims away.” There was bitter amusement in Churchill’s eyes. “Together, they could keep him out of their center. A covenant of fowls against the bully.” He sighed and leaned against the rail. “Our prime minister would do well to stock his own pond with ducks. He might learn something about Herr Hitler.”
Murphy nodded and frowned as the large duck attacked a very small mallard with only one crumb in its beak. “Maybe you should send Chamberlain a few of yours.”
Churchill turned away from the scene. “The German High Command has sent warning after warning. I’m afraid this last one was turned away by a ministry secretary. I intend to send the PM a cooked goose when the time is right, but this feathered bully—” he jerked his head toward the big duck—“I intend to carve up on my own table.”
“You have gained some reputation as a prophet, Mr. Churchill. When do you see the next step against the Czechs taking place?”
Churchill grunted and snatched his cigar from his mouth. “I am no prophet, and the British government knows when and why Hitler will move as well as I do.” He paused. “The German population in the Sudetenland are having their elections this coming weekend. If there is trouble—and Hitler is expert at manufacturing trouble—then we may well see the German army march against the Czechs within the week.”
Murphy followed Churchill from the footbridge to a stone bench beside a smaller pond. “That soon?”
With a level gaze, Churchill replied, “I am aware that you have acquired a wife, who is now in Prague. Young man, if I were you—if I were a young journalist—I would not be talking to the Jeremiah who is warning of invasion of Czechoslovakia. The story will not be here by the end of the week. The fate of the nation of Czechoslovakia is squarely in Prague now. That is where you will find your story. We have abandoned her, I am afraid. We have forsaken our part in the covenant of nations and forgotten that right is right and there truly is a difference between victim and aggressor, no matter how Herr Hitler and his propaganda machine may portray the situation.”
The great man’s cigar was cold now. He searched his pockets for a match but found none. Murphy was already wondering if he could catch a plane to Prague tonight. Beyond that, he must find a way to get Elisa and her family to safety.
“Yes, young man,” Churchill drawled, “if I were you, I would catch the next flight to Prague.”
45
The Prague Plan
Herschel now carried the gun with him everywhere. When the call to his duty came from Hans, he did not want to waste even one second running after his weapon. Again and again he rehearsed the scene in his mind. He would call the name of von Kleistmann. He would pull out his gun, and as the bullets tore through the German’s body, he would shout his purpose for all to hear.
The sun was hot today in the bookseller’s stalls. Still Herschel wore a bulky sweater to conceal his gun. Customers discussed the news from London. Chamberlain had offered no hope. Churchill had offered brave words to a world of cowards! Only the muzzle of a loaded gun would speak to these Nazi butchers, Herschel was convinced. And the cowardice of the world did not matter. He would show them; he would show them all!
He stacked a box full of
used books that would be carted back to the small dreary shop of Le Morthomme tonight. His thoughts were far from business. He prayed for Hans to come with the word!
He did not notice anyone until he felt a light tap on his back. He turned to face the radiant gaze of Hans. A smile curled up one corner of his mouth.
“When?” Herschel asked.
“Tomorrow,” Hans replied softly. “Be ready at noon.”
***
“Bis dahin,” said Otto quietly as the sound of Sporer’s footsteps receded down the corridor. “It has come to that!”
Indeed, the plans of the Führer were faultless in their conception. Tomorrow night, as the president of Czechoslovakia showed his support for the Jewish population of his nation, he would be assassinated by a Jew. Albert Sporer would be waiting in the dark shadows of the streets of Prague. He would be watching for the moment when he could sound the cry and gather his young Nazi sympathizers to attack the dismayed playgoers and riot in the square.
And more than one man, certainly, would die tomorrow night. The life of President Beneš was not the only life that would end in the planned slaughter. The violence that had shaken the Sudetenland would infect the rest of the county, giving Hitler the perfect excuse to march his divisions across the border to “restore order” in Czechoslovakia. Indeed, the Führer had planned his strategy well. Hitler had used the tool of propaganda to conceal the fact that he was the evil force behind the uprisings. He had stupefied the leaders of Britain and France into believing that appeasement and apathy were the road to peace.
Otto slammed his fist hard on the desktop. The frustration he felt was mixed with anger that Hitler’s plan was guaranteed success now that Chamberlain had stated his position. There was nothing to stop it now. Otto had sent his warming that the upheaval would culminate soon. Elisa had carried the book to Paris, and from there it had gone to London. Why had the British government not heeded the warning? Men and women had risked their lives to stop the momentum that Hitler gained with every success.
Why would the English not hear the words? Stand firm against this evil! Do not give an inch to threats and broken promises! No one had listened to the warning, it seemed. No one but Winston Churchill and a handful of men who were out of favor.
Otto cradled his aching head in his hands. There was no time to send another courier to Paris and then on to London. What good would that do, anyway? It was obviously of little concern to Chamberlain if the president of Czechoslovakia dropped dead from the bullet of a Jewish gun or a Nazi gun. No matter that the idea was conceived in the mind of the madman who led Europe relentlessly on toward destruction!
“God,” he whispered, feeling cut off from all hope, “what am I to do? What can I do now to stop this?” Up until this time, Otto had been only a whisper, sending warnings and information on to those in power who might be able to do something with the information! Now Sporer was ready to drive back toward the border to tap the first domino in a chain that would end the freedom of millions of Czechs. Otto knew that a whisper of warning was not enough to stop it. If President Beneš was assassinated, the abduction of Czechoslovakia into Hitler’s Reich was a certainty.
There was no time left; only a few grains of sand remained in the hourglass. Word must be sent to Prague immediately, to President Beneš himself.
Otto calculated his chance of making it through Czech territory and then into the presence of Beneš. He spoke Czech only haltingly. His German appearance and accent would stop him at the first barricade.
“Who, then? Whom can I send?” He rose and stood before the window. Beyond the wide square, the dome of the Vienna State Opera House was clearly visible. The Musikverein was not far from there. Beneš would die during the performance of Die Judin at the National Theatre. Otto mentally rehearsed the details as he watched the swastika flag flap above the dome of the opera house. Soon it would also fly above the National Theatre in Prague . . . soon!
***
The letter from John Murphy in London lay on the closed top of Anna’s grand piano.
Her hand folded in her lap, Anna gazed at the return address. Savoy Hotel, London, England. Since its arrival in the morning post, Anna could think of nothing else. The terrifying question returned to her again and again. Why had Murphy sent Elisa a letter here in Prague? Wasn’t she supposed to be with him now, safely at the side of her husband?
Anna leaned forward on the piano bench and touched the corner of the letter. Was Elisa coming home? Had Murphy sent her back to Prague for some reason? Or—Anna closed her eyes at the frightening thought—was it possible that Elisa had never reached him in the first place?
No doubt the answer lay within the envelope. If Elisa did not come home by morning, Anna decided, she would open it. In the meantime dread hung heavy over her.
She glimpsed her own reflection in the mirror above the china hutch. A thousand times when Theo had been in prison, Anna had seen that same look on her face. There was something, something in the wind! Something sinister walked the narrow lanes of Old City Prague, and like the fog that rose from the river, it drifted just beyond the threshold of explanation.
Anna shuddered as she felt the cold breath of evil brush by.
***
Murphy threw his clothes into his bag and called the front desk of the Savoy.
“I’m checking out,” he said. “Could you tally my account and grab me a cab?”
He was feeling good. Better than he had a right to, he figured, since it looked as if the sky was definitely falling on Europe. But all he could think about was Elisa; before the night was over, he would be sitting in the same room with her again. Whatever else happened, they could see it through as long as they were together. He wanted to tell her everything he had written. He wanted to see the expression in her eyes. He wanted to find out once and for all if he had a chance with her.
This afternoon he had filed his story and wired Trump that he was heading for Prague. Trump had sent a reply that nothing at all was happening in Prague. Paris was the place, and London. The order had been given: Stay Put! Maybe Trump had figured out that Murphy had other reasons for going; hadn’t Murphy mentioned a wife in Prague?
It didn’t matter, Murphy decided. He wadded up the telegram and pitched it into the garbage, then made his plane reservations. Amanda had said it: Somebody ought to be there in case something happened. Murphy was convinced that even if nothing happened on the political scene, he was going to make something happen with Elisa. He was going home. Going to Prague. Going to be with her again.
***
“Maybe if I go back to Prague.” Elisa and Leah had discussed the possibilities for hours.
“Papers from Czechoslovakia aren’t worth anything now, Elisa. Listen to the radio. Every day Hitler blasts the Czechs. They are only one step higher than Jews in his book,” Leah said. “That would be an improvement for me, but I would not want to add that burden to the boys.”
“French passports,” Elisa commented. “That was my first inclination, and I still think it is the best. I shouldn’t have left Paris without them.” She looked toward the violin case. “If Otto can’t help, then I’ll try Thomas again.” She smiled sadly. “If I knew where Murphy was, maybe . . . ”
Leah snapped her fingers. “What about the fellow at the American Embassy? The one who married you and Murphy?”
“I was already there. Scotch was the man’s name. Got transferred to Argentina last month. Seems the Nazis didn’t think much of his traffic in American documents. He’s lucky he didn’t end up . . . ”
“Like Shimon,” Leah finished. She rose wearily. It was a habit now to look out the window, to peek out at the busy street below and long for freedom. “Well, then—” she sighed—“I suppose a Czech nationality is better than being Jewish. And for the boys, it’s better than having no country at all.” She touched the edge of the curtain slightly. “There goes Hugel.” She shook her head. “Pride of the Reich. Guardian of my freedom. We closed our eyes and woke up
to the world of the Troll King. And everyone—everyone—who has lived by the laws of humanity is in some sort of prison. It is a crime to say, ‘To thine own self be true.’ They have made truth a crime. Now we live the law of trolls. Like Hugel, ‘To thine own self be enough! To thine own self be everything!’”
She fell silent and watched as Hugel ambled down the street. “So, here I am. I cannot even be true to myself.” Leah turned around and spread her hands in a playful gesture. “Not only will I deny that I’m a Jew, I will dress in a nun’s habit if it gets me out of here! And I would happily make my Shimon a priest to buy him freedom.”
