Prague Counterpoint

by Bodie Thoene

  “Who?” A guard shook her by the front of her blouse, tearing buttons. “Who is trying to kill—”

  “Nazis!” Elisa was crying. This was not what she had expected. She thought she could simply tell them, and—

  “What Nazis?” The guard shook her again as if to jar the information out of her.

  “They’re . . . please! Go warn Beneš! Go now!” She could hear the music of the final act beginning.

  “He is in his private box! He is surrounded by guards!”

  “Don’t you see—?” She was pleading. “They are going to kill him. There are men waiting. In the streets . . . they will kill you too. Dear God! I have come from Vienna! To warn you . . . the Gestapo!”

  The voice of the huge guard was lost to her now as beyond the golden staircase music kindled the flames that would soon devour both the young heroine and the president of the nation!

  “Get an officer!” Murphy demanded. “Can’t you understand? They are going to kill Beneš! Now!”

  A frantic-looking group of six white-gloved officers descended the grand staircase to witness the mad couple pinned against the wall of the lobby. They whispered among themselves as they strode toward Elisa. Outside the doors of the theatre, there were other whispers. Angry voices. Hostile eyes glaring across the square at the smashed Packard.

  It was all true! Just as Otto had said! Tonight the president would be killed. By morning Prague would disappear into the Nazi inferno, just as now the flames leaped high around the Jewish bride onstage. The ending had been written in Berlin, tacitly approved in London! Now it was being performed here in Prague tonight!

  “Please!” she cried again. “I must see President Beneš at once! I have to tell him.”

  The officers exchanged nervous glances. “How do we know that you do not intend to harm President Beneš?”

  The staircase sweeping up to the second tier of private boxes was adorned with the proud Czech flag. President Beneš had walked up that staircase only a short time ago. They would carry him down, unless . . .

  “Let me go! You are hurting me!” Elisa cried breathlessly.

  “Let her go,” commanded the officer in charge. “Now, what is this all about?”

  “You don’t understand!” Elisa tried to push past the man who blocked her way. “There is an assassin in there!”

  “I suppose you are trying to tell me that Hitler will kill the president in retaliation of the performance tonight?” He laughed and glanced at Murphy, who struggled to get up.

  In that instant of inattention, Elisa found her courage. She bolted around the stiffly dressed middle-aged men, scrambling across the slick marble floor toward the staircase. Shouts pursued her as she bounded up the stairs two at a time.

  The doors to the private boxes were numbered along the corridor. Elisa dashed down the red carpet toward the far end, where the entrance to the presidential box was. Ahead of her stood yet another small coterie of officers. Behind her came the cry, “Stop her! She’s trying to get to the president!”

  At his warning soldiers drew revolvers and sabers in alarm and moved toward her. On the stage the flames leaped high, reaching toward the young, beautiful heroine. Her song rose and fell in grief.

  The weight of a body slammed into Elisa, knocking her to the floor. Her own cry was lost in the wails of the earthly hell now depicted on the stage below them.

  Elisa’s cheek smashed hard on the door of the presidential box. Hands reached out to grasp her. So close! She could hear the music swell. In an instant would come the roll of the tympani.

  ***

  Sporer held the gun inside his jacket. The Communist Jew had also drawn his weapon. Flames soared higher onstage. Beneš leaned forward, conveniently engrossed in the play. He was a perfect target. Perfect.

  Sporer pulled back the hammer, aiming through the fabric of his coat. The Jewish Communist looked up—an obvious gesture. Too obvious. He sat on the edge of his seat and stared at Beneš.

  The tympani player raised his arms, and the mournful song of the dying heroine grew louder. A moment more—

  In the back of the theatre the doors to the lobby burst open. A grisly apparition staggered forward. His suit was torn, his nose dripping blood. He waved his arms wildly and shouted. His dialect was imperfect, foreign, but his meaning was clear.

  “They’re going to kill Beneš!” Murphy screamed above the music! “Beneš!”

  The president stared down at Murphy as the Jewish assassin stood and fired wildly. Beneš ducked as an officer to his right was felled with a bullet to the arm.

  The shrieks of the audience drowned out every other sound. Sporer stood, knocking over his chair. There had been no chance. He waited a moment longer, hoping that Beneš would raise his head. The door to the presidential box opened for an instant, and in that instant Sporer saw her! Elisa! The woman who had been in Otto’s office! On impulse he aimed and fired, sending a bullet crashing into the wall an inch from the woman’s head. Fresh screams erupted, and the door slammed tight.

  “There!” Someone pointed up at Sporer. “He has a gun! That man up there!”

  Men and women fell to the floor, covering their heads as Sporer fired again into the crowd. He jumped onto the edge of the box and grabbed at the curtain, swinging downward as the fabric tore from his weight.

  As he fell heavily onto the stage, Murphy ran down the aisle, jumping over prostrate bodies, clambering toward the steps as Sporer fought to regain his wind.

  The heat of the flames burned on, although the actors had fled and were crouched in terror backstage. Murphy took the stairs in one leap and fell upon Sporer before he could pull himself erect. Sporer lifted the gun, firing again. The flame burned Murphy’s cheek.

  With the shout of a madman, Murphy grabbed Sporer’s hair and lifted his head, smashing it against the stage. Sporer kicked and screamed. The gun flew from his hand into the flames that had been ignited to end a Jewish life. Again and again Murphy bashed Sporer’s head against the boards until at last Sporer lay still beneath him.

  ***

  It was nearly midnight as Otto’s car began the final ascent up the steep and narrow road toward the Wattenbarger farmhouse. Over the radio, the Mendelssohn Symphony No. 5 played. The Reformation Symphony, Leah thought as Elisa came to mind. “A mighty fortress,” she said aloud.

  Otto looked at her curiously. “I guess that station is from Geneva. That is one advantage to living here. We were always closer to the Swiss than the Germans. It helps if you want to hear the truth over the radio.”

  “Do you think she made it?” Leah asked.

  “I think that President Beneš still lives,” Otto answered. “Somehow. He still lives. He will call Führer’s bluff, and by morning Hitler will be declaring that this is all much ado about nothing! He will say that he has been slandered! He never intended to invade anyone!”

  “You think so?” Leah was suddenly full of hope. The fresh mountain air filled her lungs. She looked out the window and toward the great canopy of glistening stars that swept from peak to peak.

  “By now we would have heard otherwise if the Wehrmacht had invaded. If Beneš were dead, we would have known it hours ago.”

  “Good.” She draped her coat over Louis, who snored loudly in the backseat. “And now what will you do?”

  The ruts in the road deepened. For a moment Otto did not answer. Then he pointed to the lights of a large farmhouse perched on a rise that sloped down to a broad meadow. Panes of glass made golden squares, illuminating the hillside with a brilliance that blended in with the stars. “There is my home,” he said simply. The statement was his answer.

  The front door opened and the plump figure of a farmwife emerged and was joined by a tall, lean man with a drooping mustache. They stood silhouetted in the doorframe. The woman placed her hands on her hips as she rose on her toes to see whose car might be coming up their road. “Your mother and father?” Leah asked.

  Otto nodded. He seemed unable to speak. “I’m
coming home,” he whispered. “Home!”

  ***

  Murphy’s love letter lay open on the pillow. Clean sheets. Quilts turned back.

  Elisa’s eyes held Murphy in a tender embrace until he felt a little drunk with the nearness of her. “I didn’t know you knew how to spell Vivaldi,” she whispered.

  He reached up to touch her cheek. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

  “Yet.” She pressed her lips willingly to his, savoring his touch. She kept her lips against his cheek as she repeated the words that he had written to her, “‘All I can think about is you. Like the music of Vivaldi, you fill all the seasons of my thoughts.’”

  He pulled her closer and kissed her again. “There has not been an hour since I saw you last that I have not turned around, hoping somehow you would be there.”

  She smiled and laid her cheek against his broad shoulder. “I’m here now, Murphy.” She sighed. “For all seasons. If you want me, I’m here.”

  ***

  The cello case stood propped in the corner of the bedroom like a tall sentry on guard. Anna had tucked Charles into the warm soft bed hours before. It was a nice bed. It belonged to Anna’s little boy who was now grownup and off somewhere flying an airplane to stop the Nazis. Anna had told Charles all of this so he would not worry. “Everything will be all right,” she had said. Hitler would not come here to Prague like he had come to Vienna.

  A warm spring wind had come up, and now it ruffled the curtains, bringing in the scent of flowers and newly budded trees. Charles lay very still and wondered if he would be able to run in a meadow, like Leah had said. Or maybe climb a tree.

  This thought made him miss Louis very much. And then he missed his father and his mother too. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine them in a meadow of tall green grass. Silently he prayed that God would watch over them, that angels would play music for them just as Aunt Leah had played Vitorio when he had been sad.

  He opened his eyes again and was glad that Vitorio was with him. For a while he lay beneath the downy coverlet and just looked at the case. As he climbed out of bed and tiptoed to Vitorio’s case, he could hear the muffled laughter of Elisa through the wall.

  He unlatched the catches and swung back the lid; then carefully he pulled back the silk scarf that covered the glowing red wood of the precious instrument. He would leave the case open just for tonight; whenever he felt lonely he would open his eyes, and there would be his old friend Vitorio watching him from the corner.

  This thought made him feel better, even happy now. He tucked the blanket up under his chin and settled into the deep feather bed. He closed his eyes, and his heart smiled. There was the melody. Yes. He heard it clearly now as the gentle fingers of the wind strummed the strings of Vitorio.

  Charles sighed with contentment and thought of green meadows as the angels played his lullaby and a soft, sweet voice sang him to sleep.

  Digging Deeper into

  PRAGUE COUNTERPOINT

  What would it be like if the country you live in changed radically in one day? March 12, 1938, was indeed a dark day for Austria. In one day the face of the nation was stripped away and discarded as though it had never been. And all because of the strategic planning of Adolf Hitler, the man without a soul, and the people who chose to go along with, or avert their eyes from, his devious, satanic schemes.

  Men and women who had been Austrians the previous day stared at the new red-and-black swastika flags unfurled from every window and at the devastation all around them. Jewish shops were destroyed, priceless statues were defaced, and neighbors’ houses stood empty. The Jews of Austria, and those who tried to defend them, had been thrust overnight into a living hell. Only a few would escape to safety; most would lose their lives. Yet a few brave souls, such as Leah Feldstein and Elisa Murphy, chose to risk everything to rescue orphans from the evil clutches of the Third Reich. In that courageous choice, they became part of a miracle.

  And that takes us to you, dear reader. We prayed for you as we wrote this book and continue to pray as we receive your letters and hear your soul cries. No doubt you, like Leah and Elisa, have gone through times when everything around you seems dark. No doubt you have myriad life questions of your own. But are there ways in which you have been—or can be—part of a miracle too? Following are some questions designed to take you deeper into the answers to these questions. You may wish to delve into them on your own or share them with a friend or a discussion group.

  We hope Prague Counterpoint will encourage you in your search for answers to your daily dilemmas and life situations. But most of all, we pray that you will “discover the Truth through fiction.” For we are convinced that if you seek diligently, you will find the One who holds all the answers to the universe (1 Chronicles 28:9).

  Bodie & Brock Thoene

  Seek . . .

  Prologue

  1. Imagine you are being driven from your home—the same home where your parents and grandparents have lived. It’s likely you’ll never return in your lifetime. What are you thinking? What emotions are you experiencing?

  2. What items remind you of joyful times (as the violoncello reminds Yacov)? Why?

  Chapters 1–3

  3. If today was the last day of your life, what would you do? What plans would you make? How would you rearrange your day?

  4. “Charles had grown wise through his pain—wise and tender” (p. 2). Would others say this of you? Why or why not?

  5. “Those too young to remember Germany in war needed to be reminded” (p. 17). Do you think it’s a good idea to teach the present generation of children about past wars? Why or why not? (Translated into English, a sign at Dachau concentration camp today reads, “What we don’t remember will happen again.” Do you agree? Why or why not?)

  Chapters 4–6

  6. “It would be kinder to let this life end before it begins” (p. 23). Have you ever wondered if it would be more merciful to let someone—whether a child or an adult—die? In what situation?

  7. “One night I went to a hill outside Dachau. I stood for a long time and thought of the stories Papa had told me about this place. Men killed for no reason other than the fact that they thought differently than someone else. Maybe that’s why Papa chose to buy a house so near . . . so near to where the old stories happened” (Elisa, p. 32). What stories from history or your past have helped shape who you are today?

  8. “Some truly courageous men . . . live and breathe and hope and pray in the valley of this terrible shadow of death. You must believe that those men exist” (Theo, p. 34). What examples do you see of courageous men and women today who stand strong in the midst of evil?

  Chapters 7–10

  9. “If Louis forgot this moment, Charles would remember for both of them. His young eyes were filled with the sorrow of understanding that was far beyond his years” (p. 51). Have you experienced this kind of understanding at a young age (whether through the death of a loved one, betrayal, abandonment, abuse, etc.)? Describe the situation and what changed in your thinking . . . your world.

  10. Do you think we should care about political events in another country today?

  11. Imagine you are one of the refugees walking toward the Czech border (see p. 57). You carry a few meager possessions. As you approach this potential gate to freedom, what are your thoughts? your emotions? If you had one minute of worldwide television time to ask for help for yourself and your fellow travelers, what would you say?

  Chapters 11–13

  12. “She wanted to cry out loud with the worry she felt, but circumstances made it impossible for her to act out her own emotions. Against her will, she now had the feelings of these two children to consider. She was forced to remain strong when it would have been the height of self-indulgence to cry and rage against what was happening” (Leah, p. 81). In what situation(s)—past or present—have you needed to consider others’ feelings and circumstances above your own? Why? Did you “remain strong”? If so, how?

/>   13. “Elisa studied [her father] thoughtfully, as if she were meeting a true hero for the first time” (p. 85). Whom do you consider to be a “true hero”? Why?

  14. Do you agree with Theo (see p. 86, and also pages 108-109, 161-163) that there is a connection between a person’s views of sterilization, abortion, and religion? Why or why not?

  15. “There was nothing she could do. No way to help. Her personal life was out of her control. The events of the world were beyond her comprehension. ‘What use am I here?’ she cried softly. ‘God, I am so useless!’” (p. 92). But yet Elisa’s father called her “an instrument in the hands of God.” All of us feel useless at times. In what situation(s) have you felt this way? How did you respond?