Vienna Prelude (12 page)

One morning in the kitchen Franz had asked his mother if she noticed anything different about the Linders. Frau Wattenbarger had nodded and answered in a whisper, “Frau Linder is worried, Franz. That much is plain.” Later, in the barn she had said, “Unless this fellow Hitler is stopped, there will be a million more wives and mothers who carry secrets and hide their fears from strangers. Yes, we may see many more faces like Anna Linder’s. Beautiful, and very, very sad.”

Frau Anna Linder was indeed very beautiful, Franz thought, observing the elegance with which she moved. And somehow her sadness made her seem even more attractive. She carried the grace of Vienna with her. Franz noticed that his father was rigidly proper and polite with her, as though he were addressing a baroness. Perhaps the woman truly was of the aristocracy. Many of the nobles had been driven from Germany by the regime of the obnoxious little paperhanger in the Chancellery.

Franz enjoyed letting his imagination play on the mysterious circumstances of their guests. And lately he had found himself almost obsessed with wondering about Elisa Linder, the daughter of whom Frau Linder spoke so often.

A musician in Vienna . . . she plays the violin with the symphony. . . . Is she beautiful? Why yes, yes. She is quite beautiful I think.

“And she knows everything!” Wilhelm had added. “Make her sleep in the barn, Frau Wattenbarger!”

Only this morning, Frau Linder had shown Franz a snapshot of Elisa. “Taken three years ago beside the Spree River.” she had said. Immediately she caught herself, but she saw in his eyes that he knew the picture had been taken in Berlin! Before she had said it, he
knew
! As though caught in a terrible secret, she quickly put away the photograph.

“Yes, she is a pretty girl,” Franz had said, and Frau Linder had scurried off to air the bedding or straighten the bedroom. Elisa Linder was pretty, Franz thought, but not really so remarkable. In the photograph she had squinted into the sun and seemed almost gangly in her appearance. The daughter was not nearly as beautiful as the mother.

Tonight, as Franz hitched up the mare for the ride into the village, he felt a sense of excitement. Frau Anna would ride with him, and together they would pick up her daughter and Herr Theo Linder. Franz was interested to see what kind of a man had so totally captured the heart of a woman like Frau Anna.

He pulled the sleigh around to the front door and held the mare steady as Anna emerged from the warmth of the farmhouse. For the first time since she had come here, there was a lightness, an excitement about her that made her seem no more than thirty. The lines of worry around her eyes were gone. She stepped out and inhaled deeply, as though savoring the clear air and anticipating her reunion with the man she loved.

Franz stared hard at her, and in spite of himself, he felt a stirring.
Yes, she is beautiful. Beautiful and young.
“You are happy, Frau Anna?” He looked away and pretended to adjust the bridle.

“Yes, Franz. It has been difficult to be here in such a beautiful place and have no one to share it with.”

He looked hard at her, afraid that she would see the thought that played in his mind. “Yes,” he responded as her smile faded. “I know what you mean.”

She appeared thoughtful, standing with her hand on the seat of the sleigh. “Very soon”—she seemed amused by his frank stare and now spoke to him as if he were a small boy—“
quite
soon, my husband and I will have our twenty-fifth anniversary. One gets accustomed to sharing beautiful things with someone after twenty-five years.”

Franz blushed in spite of himself. He leaned down absently as though he were checking the bit. “You must have married quite young,” he said. She
had
read his thoughts.

“Twenty.” She stepped into the sleigh with dignity.

He cleared his throat, now doubly embarrassed as he calculated her age. “I would have thought you married at nine or ten.” He laughed, and she laughed with him. “Your husband is lucky to have a wife so beautiful.” The compliment was sincere, and he wondered again about what sort of man could win such a prize.

Suddenly she sounded quite young as well. “You think so, Franz?” she asked eagerly. “I want to look as fresh as the mountains tonight.”

This was the first moment that Frau Anna had shown her heart in any way. Gone was the veil of secrecy. Franz could see that there was something in the love this woman had for her husband that somehow enhanced her beauty. “Good wine ages well,” Franz said quietly, and she laughed again as the sleigh started into motion with a jerk.

***

John Murphy did not sleep as the train clattered slowly across the dark countryside of Germany. Endless searches and unexplained delays had put the schedule back by several hours. Now he doubted that they would cross the border into Austria before daybreak.

At every whistle-stop along the way, men in uniform and officials in gray trench coats and high boots had gotten on and off the train. Murphy had watched each platform in dread that he might see Theo Lindheim and his daughter being led away in handcuffs. Somehow, his intervention in Berlin had given him a sense of responsibility. He was angry with himself that he couldn’t simply leave it alone now that they were on the train. This unreasonable anxiety for the welfare of total strangers was costing him a night’s sleep.

He reached up and switched off the light, then pulled his hat low over his eyes in an attempt to rest. Moments later he tossed his hat angrily onto the empty seat beside him and stared out the window into the darkness once again. Tiny villages and silent farmhouses slid by until at last the train slowed and rattled into Munich.

The inevitable Gestapo agents stood waiting on the platform just as they had on every platform in every village in the country.
Don’t these guys sleep?
Murphy wondered. He could hear them banging against the doors of compartments, shouting orders, and searching weary passengers.

“We have word there are smugglers onboard,” a harried voice called to a conductor. “Open by order of—”

Murphy rolled his eyes and jammed his hat down on his head as someone pounded on his door.

“Keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, pulling the door open and reaching for his papers with one practiced move.

He was met by a small man, remarkably like the Herr Müller who had harassed the Lindheims at the Berlin station.

“Your papers,
bitte.
” The man held out his hand in an almost effeminate manner.

“Does the Nazi government have some kind of factory or something? Turns out little Gestapo agents? You all look alike.” He spoke in English as he gave his papers to the man.

“I do not speak English, Herr Murphy.” The man scanned the forms. “American, I see. A reporter.” He exhaled loudly. “Your destination?”

“Berchtesgaden.”

The agent’s eyebrows went up slightly. “Oh? Official business?”

“You might say that. An appointment with Herr von Ribbentrop. Possibly a conversation with the Führer.” He could not resist the temptation to name-drop.

The man’s hands began to tremble. “
Ja
? The Führer?” He handed Murphy back his papers without further questions.

“Right. I was supposed to be there hours ago, but the train keeps getting delayed.” He frowned angrily at the sound of luggage being tossed out into the hall. “I’ll have a word with Herr Hitler about German trains, you can count on it.”

“We have orders to—” The man looked genuinely frightened.

“
Ja.
I know all about it. I have heard it all night.” More fists crashed against doors as he spoke. “You know, in Italy Mussolini has made all the trains run on time. Your Reich could take a lesson.” Murphy scowled and leaned close to the agent’s face. “So. What is your name?”

The Gestapo agent turned on his heel and stomped down the corridor, shouting at his comrades, “We have an important official on board! Finish up!”

Murphy stepped out into the corridor and stood against the doorjamb to watch the retreat. A tall officer bearing the jagged insignia of an SS officer hurried past, then stopped to stare back at Murphy. “And who do you think you are? Why are you watching?”

“I am the important American official,” Murphy said evenly. “I have an appointment with the Führer.”

The soldier’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; then he scurried away after the little Gestapo man. He stepped over a pile of clothes that had been dumped out of a suitcase into the corridor; with one final glance back at Murphy, he vanished into the next car. A moment later the train lurched once and rattled out of the vast Munich train station. Murphy could hear the sound of muffled sobs from the compartment across from his. He wondered if the voice was that of Elisa Lindheim. Without thinking, he raised his hand and knocked gently on the door.

A fat, bald man of about fifty answered. He stared angrily up at Murphy. “
Ja
?” he demanded, pulling his bathrobe tight around his bulging middle. A gray-haired woman with sagging cheeks and red swollen eyes sobbed behind him. She did not seem to notice Murphy.

Murphy blushed and stepped back. “Wrong . . . pardon me.
Bitte
!” He doffed his hat and struck off down the corridor, stopping only when he reached the clothes strewn in front of compartment 7A.
Delicate stuff. Lace underwear.
He had seen it all before.
My God, did they take her off the train?
He snatched his hat from his head and stood staring dumbly at the belongings of Elisa Lindheim. He knelt impulsively as though to gather them up, his sense of failure and responsibility heavy on his mind.
While I was playing the wise guy, they got her off the train.
Shaking his head, he picked up a handful of clothing. Just then, the door to 7A opened, and he was suddenly eye level with a gorgeous set of legs that curved gracefully upward into a blue satin dressing gown.

“Oh—it’s you again!” Elisa exclaimed, and for an instant Murphy thought she would slam the door on his face.

“I recognized your stuff.” He thrust the clothes into her arms and stepped back, feeling guilty somehow.

“Every Gestapo agent in Germany recognizes my things.” She was angry, but not at him. “They seem to be drawn to women’s lingerie.” She stooped to gather her belongings, and he bent to help her. “
No!
Please!” Now she was the one embarrassed. “I can do this myself.” Her voice cracked slightly as though she might cry.

“Not great representatives of the male race, are they?” He tried to sound sympathetic but instead stammered in his clumsy effort to comfort. “I . . . uh . . . hope you are all right, Miss Lindheim.”

She did not reply or even look up at him. Her soft golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders and hid her face from him as she piled her clothes back into the open suitcase behind her.

“Where is your father?” he asked after a painful silence.

She continued to work mutely.

“Miss Lindheim?” His question was more gentle, probing her for a reply. A sense of dread crept over him once again. “Where is Herr Lindheim?”

At that her shoulders sagged and she ran a hand through her hair. She remained motionless on the floor until at last she looked up with a tear-stained face. “They took him.” The words were barely audible.

“Took him?” He knelt beside her. “Why? What did they say? Why?”

“Questions.” She wiped her eyes with a nightgown. “That’s all they said.
Questions!
”

***

It was nearly 2 AM For an hour Murphy sat across from Elisa and listened as she recited the events that had led to her father’s arrest.

Murphy felt guilty. Guilty for not paying better attention during the last inspection, and equally guilty because in spite of himself he could not help noticing the slim, delicate beauty of the woman who seemed to trust him so completely. He could not help but wonder if he would have been so eager to reach across and touch her hand if she had been homely and ragged.

“They said”—she paused and groped for words—“they told him they had to ask him about some contributions he had made to a Zionist organization.”

“He is a Zionist?”

Elisa shook her head. “I don’t know.” She spread her hands helplessly. “I
don’t
know! In these times . . . lately . . . there have been so many people who have come to him for help. Mother said the stream was endless.”

“Why didn’t he leave sooner?”

Elisa leveled her gaze at him as though the question was insulting. “He is a loyal German, Herr Murphy.”

Murphy averted his eyes. “Of course. I wasn’t questioning that. He’s just the sort of man the Nazis hate most. Last week I read a policy release from the SS. They are more favorably inclined toward Zionists than toward assimilated Jews. Himmler suggests that Jews be allowed to emigrate to Palestine, because then all the trouble will be in one spot.” He looked at her for a reaction. Her face was set and no emotion showed in her eyes. “He says that the Germans will be sure to catch up with the Zionists in Palestine.”

“My father is not particularly political, Herr Murphy. He simply remained silent and helped as best he could.”

Murphy found himself staring at the graceful curve of her neck and the red mark on her jawline. She raised her hand self-consciously to touch it. “That is all I know. I have been in Vienna—in Austria—for nearly three years. I am only home on holidays, and each time I come back it is worse. Much worse. It is not Germany anymore.”

“And Austria?”

“When Hitler sent his Nazi gangsters to murder Chancellor Dollfuss in Vienna, I was near enough to hear the shots. That was two years ago, Herr Murphy. Surely you know that the Austrian government of Chancellor Schuschnigg is anti-Nazi. Austria and Italy have a treaty against German aggression. We have nothing to fear in Austria.”

“There are plenty of Nazis in Austria, Fraülein.”

“Yes. In prison with the assassins of Dollfuss.”

“There are still plenty of anti-Semites running around. Nazi or not.” The woman was obviously a political infant. She had no idea of the undercurrents rippling just beneath the surface in Austria. As for the pact with Italy, Murphy did not explain to her the purpose of his visit to Hitler’s mountain retreat in Berchtesgaden. The reporter had little doubt that Mussolini was soon to strike some bargain with Hitler that would pose a grave threat to Italy’s treaty with Austria. And hundreds of Nazis in Vienna had been given amnesty after Hitler had guaranteed that Germany would not interfere with Austrian government. This agreement between Hitler and Schuschnigg was already being violated.