Vienna Prelude (10 page)

“Sort of.”

“Okay.” Murphy patted Timmons on the back and then got up to peer out the window again. The huge red banners flapped like waiting shrouds for Berlin and for the people of Germany—for all of Europe. “’Sort of,’” Murphy continued. “That’s all any of us understand about this place and this people and what’s happening here. Frankly, it scares me.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. His breath formed a faint mist on the windowpane. Car lights reflected the red of the Nazi flag until the streets and sidewalks seemed wet with fresh blood. Murphy shuddered involuntarily. “Why don’t they listen over there? Why don’t they believe it?”

“Nobody likes a Jeremiah,” Timmons responded with an innocence that displayed more than a glimmer of wisdom. “As long as it don’t affect them. Sure. They’ll lynch this Churchill guy and make up to Hitler—”

“Not bad for a sports writer,” droned someone from the floor behind the sofa.

Murphy let his breath out slowly, not wanting to respond to Timmons. Maybe the kid was right, but Murphy was hoping for another synopsis to the story. He glanced at his watch. “Okay you lugs. Get out. Get out of here, will you? I’ve got a train to catch, and you’re in my way.” He roused them and shoved them out the door like a sheepdog running his flock out of the pen. He had two hours, but those were hours he wanted to spend alone.

The reek of stale cigar and cigarette smoke was almost suffocating. He opened the window and breathed in the fresh cold air. As he leaned his head against the window frame, he hoped that he was wrong about what he told the kid. Tonight he hoped he had been playing Jeremiah, and that every fear he felt was imagined.

7

Departure

The appearance of the large, dignified Lindheim home on Whilhelmstrasse seemed almost startling to Elisa. The three-story stone house with wide balconies and broad gardens, hedges and lawns trimmed with care—what would become of it when they had gone? Why had it remained the same when everything else in Germany had been so irrevocably altered?

They did not speak as they climbed the front steps. Until the moment her father turned the switch to the light of the foyer, Elisa had not realized how beautiful her home was. Until then, it had not entered her mind that they were finally and truly leaving the place where she had spent her entire young life. The broad marble stairway that led to the bedrooms glistened in the light. The eight-foot-tall grandfather clock ticked steadily as it had for a hundred years among the Lindheim family. Its silver face shone down on them.

“Did I ever tell you,” Theo Lindheim asked quietly, “that my great-grandfather traded a matched pair of horses for the old clock? It was made by the Jewish clockmaker in Prague. Remember? My father always said it would last longer than any of us. . . . ” He tossed his hat onto the walnut sideboard and cocked his head toward the light of the crystal chandelier, as if he were a small child.

Elisa pretended not to notice the tears in his eyes. Leah had been right. Everything,
everything
was different now.

“Gather your things,” he said at last as he turned to walk to his study. “Take only what you will need—what you can carry easily.”

The inside of his study was lined with the finest volumes, many first-edition classics. Over a thousand books towered from floor to ceiling. Of all her father’s possessions, he had been most proud of his library. What, of all these precious friends, could he carry into exile with him tonight?

She stood back from the doorway, unwilling to intrude on what must surely be a painful parting from well-loved possessions. He flicked on the small brass reading lamp beside his comfortable red leather chair. For a moment he searched the dark oak shelves, skimming the titles. Then he reached up to touch the spines; sliding his fingers along until they hesitated, he stopped on the slim red leather-bound volume of Goethe’s
Faust.
Elisa shuddered at her father’s grim choice, just as she had trembled when he had read the terrible story of the man who had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for great power.

Theo stroked the cover, then slipped the book into his pocket. Elisa turned and hurried to cover the beautiful furniture in her mother’s music room. She did not let herself touch the white ivory keys of Anna Lindheim’s grand piano. Her mother had played her farewell of Schumann’s piano concerto only two nights before. Elisa had not understood the tears that had trickled down Anna’s cheeks that night. Now it was all clear. Too clear. She would carry the sound of her mother’s music away with her, and hope that somehow the walls of this great and happy house would remember only the songs and laughter of their family. No doubt, when the Nazis learned that they were not coming back, everything would be taken away, just as it had been with other Jewish families. No hands would ever again caress the ivory keys as Anna Lindheim’s had done.

Elisa did not turn on the lamp in her bedroom. Soft light from the hall filtered in and reflected on the tiny rosebuds of her wallpaper and the rich patina of the hand-carved bed and inlaid chest. The furniture had once belonged to her mother when she was a child. Elisa had often lain awake at night and traced the swirl of the walnut burls with her eyes as she imagined young Anna Koenig must have done. She found it comforting that her mother had said her bedtime prayers and dreamed sweet dreams within the safety of these same four corners.

Down quilts, a kiss on the forehead, and a wish for pleasant dreams . . .

A row of porcelain dolls gazed wide-eyed at Elisa from the shelf above the chest. Dressed in lace and silk, they represented many pleasant hours of her childhood. She would take one—only one, just as her father had chosen one book from his thousand. She would leave the rest. She sat slowly on the edge of the bed and stared back at the dolls.

Who would imagine it could be so hard to choose? I am a grown woman. I have long since stopped playing with dolls. A silly thing to agonize over. To pity the playthings that I will leave behind. They are only things. This is only a place. It is not me, really, or Mama or Papa or the boys
.

And yet it seemed that bits and pieces of her soul remained there within these walls and precious possessions.

Each doll had a name, and Elisa spoke each name in farewell. Perfect curls and unblinking eyes; velvet caps and tiny shoes; lips that still smiled as they had when she was seven years old, scolding her little coterie for some imagined offense. How could Elisa choose one over the other? In the end, she could not. She left them all behind.

She lifted the edge of her white lace curtains and looked down on the wide street below the house. A block away two men stood beside a black Mercedes, clearly watching the Lindheim house. Elisa was relieved that she had not turned on the light. Fear rushed over her; suddenly she no longer regretted what they must leave behind.

“Papa?” she called softly as she heard Theo’s footsteps on the stairs.

He joined her at the window. “They have been watching us for weeks,” he whispered hoarsely. “That is why we can take nothing with us. Nothing but skis and clothing for a holiday.” He let the curtain fall. “We must not even let them see a tear. Not a hint of regret. We are going to Austria to ski. Do you understand?”

Elisa bit her lip and swallowed hard. She nodded, privately embarrassed that she had wasted even a moment of sadness over furniture and playthings from her childhood. “Yes, Papa.”

“Go on, then. Gather your things. I will watch a moment more.”

A moment more,
thought Elisa, turning the irony of his words over and over again in her mind. Since 1933, her father had watched and waited. He had watched as the Ten German Commandments became the laws of Nuremburg:

He had watched as his rights as a citizen were stripped:

Only once, in the long recitation of new racial laws, had Elisa seen her father smile. In September of 1935, a swastika flag had been ripped off the SS
Bremen
in New York Harbor. Hitler had used the incident to prohibit Jews in Germany from displaying the Nazi flag. On hearing of the prohibition, Theo had laughed out loud and raised his glass in a toast. “To Deutchsland,” he had said. “Heil Deutschland!” The Nazi flag had never flown at Lindheim’s, and now he was certain it never would.

These days a man could claim no other kingdom, creed, or brotherhood except the doctrine of the Nazi Party. Catholics, Protestants, and even Freemasons were denied their German citizenship unless they pledged alliance to the Nazi Party above their personal convictions. Fear and brutality had become the staff by which Germany was ruled. Now there was nothing left to wait for except the dreaded sound of hobnailed boots on the stairway. And even those who vowed loyalty and remained behind as citizens and members of the party were ultimately denied all rights of citizenship. Somehow in this bargain with the devil, they lost everything, just as Faust had sold his soul.

Elisa finished covering the furniture and returned to the upstairs bedroom where her father sat quietly on the edge of the bed. “Papa,” she said quietly, “everything is ready. I am ready now.”

He nodded and turned to her. His face was haunted with grief. He gazed down to where the violin case sat beside the door. “One more thing, child,” he said. “We should leave our home with music, yes?”

Elisa unlocked the case and pulled the blue silk scarf from the instrument. The wood of the Guarnerius glowed in the soft light from the stairs. “What, Papa?” She lifted the instrument to her chin.

“Something happy, I think.” He lifted his head. “Mozart. No one plays the first concerto like you can.”

“Mozart?” She faltered, lowering the bow.

He had already opened the window slightly for the benefit of the watchers. “Yes, Elisa. It has been so long since you have played Mozart in this house.”

It was a final, defiant gesture—one Elisa could not fully understand, and yet she obeyed. She closed her eyes and began to play. The strong voice of Rudy’s precious violin reached every corner of the old house and floated out through the open window to where the men waited for some transgression of new German law. She swayed with the sweet clear melody, playing for her father and the old house, and—for the last time—for Berlin.

Her eyes still closed, she felt a wash of cold air on her face as her father opened the window even wider. She was no longer afraid. Somehow the music had carried her fears away. When she finished and opened her eyes, her father was smiling. He stood with his back to the window. “Do you think they even imagine what they are losing, dear Elisa?”

She returned his smile and replaced the violin in the case. “Musicians. Doctors. Professors. No, Papa. They will only search us and make certain we carry away nothing in our pockets.”

He shut the window. “You may still play Mozart openly in Austria. They will not be able to take that away from us.”

Suddenly she wanted to cry. Reaching out her arms to her father, she held tightly to him like a little girl afraid of the dark. “No, Papa,” she whispered. “We take our souls with us. They cannot have our souls.”

***

Theo had paid all the household accounts for a full two months in advance. It would give them time, he reasoned, before the Gestapo figured out that they were not coming back.

Elisa talked excitedly about snow conditions and the coming holidays as they loaded the car. It was as though the two men were not across the street, watching every move. The truth was that Elisa would have wept openly when the key turned in the door the final time had it not been for the presence of the Gestapo.

The drive to the train station was only a matter of minutes, but the obvious glare of headlights behind them made it seem much longer.
Why are we being followed if we are not also going to be arrested?
Elisa wondered. Was it simply that the hounds had been sent to nip at their heels and make certain that Lindheim the Jew was really leaving? Every law that had been passed over the last two years had driven Jews by the thousands into exile, forcing them to leave their life savings and businesses behind. They were luckier than the thousands who now languished in the concentration camps for “political” crimes. Release of loved ones from the camp was often a matter of paying ransom in the form of fines to officials of the SS and Gestapo, and arrests were often repeated within a matter of days.

When men like Pastor Jacobi and Pastor Niemöller spoke out against such practices, they too were detained and harassed and threatened. The Nazi Reich had declared war against the church in Germany. Those churchmen who were stripped of their rights as clergymen were slowly being replaced by those who preached what the government commanded. A man like Jacobi would never abandon his flock of his own free will, Elisa knew, and it was simply a matter of time before he would also be absorbed into the slowly grinding wheels of the concentration camps.

Carting luggage and skis, Theo Lindheim and his daughter made their way through the great arched portals of the Berlin train depot. Huge engines hissed and thrummed impatiently at the loading platforms. Her father had been right: At every pillar stood an official of the SS or the Gestapo. The two men who had followed them from the house were simply immersed in the tide of uniformed men who flooded the station. It seemed to Elisa that there were more officials than passengers in the cavernous waiting room. She fixed a smile on her lips, although inside she was icy with apprehension.