Vienna Prelude (15 page)

Reluctantly, Murphy had to agree with him. That night as he hastily scribbled the story on the train back to Berlin, he realized that
blitzkrieg
would not strike fear in the hearts of his readers; it was nothing more than a foreign word that would probably be cut by his American editor.

10

Family Divided

Frau Marta and Herr Karl were kind people. Sometimes while the boys roared over a game of Watten, Elisa would catch Frau Marta casting a concerned glance toward Anna. The eyes of the farmwife always seemed to hold the gentle assurance that she knew much more than she would say. Yet never did she pry for even the slightest bit of information. Elisa appreciated the privacy they were given to grieve without intrusion. Somehow the illusion that everything was fine seemed important to her mother as the days passed.

“Theo will love this place,” Anna often said. And though it became more obvious each day that Theo was not coming, Frau Marta always joined in the terrible playacting with enthusiasm.

“When your husband Theo comes we shall have a celebration! I will make him a cake! What kind of cake does Herr Theo like best?” The questions never probed deeper than what sort of food Theo liked and whether he enjoyed skiing.

Franz looked at Elisa with the same sad eyes as his mother, but whenever Elisa glanced toward him, he quickly turned away. She wondered what he was feeling. He hardly spoke a word to her and walked the opposite direction if he saw her coming across the farmyard. And yet he held her in his eyes. She had seen it, and it confused her.

Herr Karl had taken her down to the basement workshop and showed her Franz’s delicate wood carvings. Purest innocence was captured in the face of the Madonna—innocence and deep sadness. And the figure of Joseph did not look at the tiny infant Jesus but gazed with love and tenderness at Mary as she held the child.

Elisa had never seen such beauty cut from hard, unfeeling wood. And when she spoke to Franz of her response, he had shrugged and turned away, as though he could not accept her judgment of his work. He was a strange man. Boisterous and rough with the boys, he wrestled and skied and hiked for miles through the snow with them each day. But he had barely uttered a word to Elisa since he had driven her home from the train station the first early morning of her arrival.

Otto, the oldest of the sons, was hardly around at all. Except for meals, he worked in the barn and slept in the cabin across the pasture. Most nights he left for Kitzbühel early after supper and did not return until late.

But tonight the wind roared fiercely from the north, and a stark white veil of snow powdered the ground. Everyone stayed in the Stube, the living room of the main house. Hot spiced cider and plates of cookies disappeared as the boys played Watten, betting pocketknives and compasses. Gretchen watched Wilhelm with wide doelike eyes as Anna and Frau Marta washed the dishes. Otto read for a while and then retreated into the basement workshop as though he could not tolerate the noise any longer.

Elisa wrapped a blanket around herself and sat beside the fire, pretending to read. Franz was clearly winning the card game when Frau Marta emerged from the tiny kitchen and clapped her hands for attention. Anna stood at her right shoulder, smiling at Elisa as though she had a secret.

“Attention!
Attention
, everyone!” called Frau Marta. “Franz and Karl! You stop cheating those poor boys!” Everyone laughed. Elisa noticed how sad her mother’s smile seemed.
She is thinking of Papa. Of our house in Berlin at Christmas. Parties and laughter. Music. Gone. All gone.

“What is it, Mama?” asked Herr Karl, gathering the cards.

“Tonight we are going to have a Christmas concert!
Ja!
Our Elisa is going to play for us! Play the
violin
!
And, Papa, you can get your accordion too if you like,
ja
?”

Everyone applauded and whooped. Elisa did not feel like playing, but she bowed to the wishes of the company.
We will do our best to carry on. Even without you, Papa, we will do our best.
She was certain that Anna had suggested the performance entirely for that purpose.
Keep up the show. Everything is fine. All will turn out well.
But Elisa had stopped believing it.

Elisa had not opened the case of the Guarnerius since the night she had played the last time for her father in Berlin. She removed the silk scarf that covered the instrument and felt her heart swell with the ache of missing him, missing home the way it used to be. Here she could play whatever she wished. But she would play the same delicate melody she had played for Theo. She would play for him, wherever he was, and hope that somehow he heard her.

The firelight glowed on the faces of her little audience. Gretchen’s hair shone like copper, and Elisa noticed that it matched the highlights of Franz’s beard. All the Wattenbarger children had warm brown eyes that looked at her expectantly as she tuned the strings as if she was about to give them a fine and cherished gift. Elisa covered the chin rest of the instrument with a soft handkerchief and raised it to her shoulder as though she stood before a royal audience in Vienna. Then she smiled, a curious smile at Franz, and he blushed and looked quickly away.

She lifted the bow and began to play the bright, happy melody that Mozart had written as a young man in Salzburg. The violin came alive in her hands. She let the music flow from her soul into the sighing wood, then up and out like leaves swirling in an autumn wind—swirling, dancing, singing, as the trees swayed in the last rays of sunlight. Elisa herself swayed as the music took her far away from lonely thoughts and fears that had pursued her through each day. Had heaven opened now and soothed her heart with a song from the throne of God? All the things she felt but could not say came tumbling out, note on note in a voice that reached up like a prayer and a hope.

This is me, God! Elisa. I once saw You in all the world. But the world is dark now, Lord. Full of darkness. Close Your eyes for a moment, God, and let me sing to You. Let me remember that You are here. Here in the notes. Smiling down as I play for You. Just this moment, God, let me sing to You. And maybe in the song, I will forget whether I am singing to You, or You are singing to me.

When the last note swirled and echoed in the rafters, Elisa opened her eyes to the spellbound faces of her little audience. The music hung in the air after she lowered the bow, and then Herr Karl clapped his large hands together and stomped his feet on the stone floor in unbridled approval.

“More! More!” he shouted, and the other joined in. She bowed slightly and laughed with genuine delight for the first time since she had arrived.

Only Franz did not look at her. He sat very quietly staring at his boots. His lack of interest hurt her for only a moment. Then she shrugged slightly and raised the violin again to play the sonatas of Mozart and Beethoven—music that had not even been written when the Guarnerius was carved three hundred years earlier. She closed her eyes again and let the melodies carry her away. Only this time when she finished and opened them again, Franz had slipped quietly out of the room.

***

“Refugees, most certainly from Germany. Do you hear the accent of the boys?” said Otto as Franz sank down onto the cot in the tiny little hut. “The Linders are not Communist. Too rich, I think. German Bolsheviks are dirty, ragged creatures, always wanting to divide up what everyone owns and distribute it—”

“That sounds more like the Nazis, if you ask me.” Franz did not like his brother’s accusing tone. He was tired and not ready for an analysis of the Linders. “But from what I hear, the Nazis don’t divide what they steal.”

“The Nazi Party says it takes only from the enemies of the state . . . from the Jewish industrialists who have grown rich at the expense and suffering of the German people.”

Franz stared at him. Often since Otto had returned from Germany he had discussed the National Socialist rhetoric as though he might believe it. Franz sighed. “It is cold in here,” he said quietly. “Throw another log on the fire, will you?”

Otto gave a short, bitter laugh. It was evident he wanted to talk, wanted to argue about the real matters of the world, and Franz would have none of it. Otto stirred the coals of the fire and tossed a small chunk of wood onto the grate. Then he tried again to stir Franz, only this time he used a different poker. “The girl . . . what is her name?”

“Elisa.”

“
Ja.
Beautiful, don’t you think?”

“All right, I suppose.” Franz rolled over and faced the wall as the flames flared up. The heat warmed his back. The echoes of her music warmed his soul, building a fire that he resisted. He could not think of her—not now.

“Not a Bolshevik!” Otto offered.

“You said that.”

“Probably elitists. Maybe her father is a rich Jew.” Otto laughed. “You can tell by the cut of their clothes. The way they carry themselves. Better than everyone, they think. Better than a poor Austrian family.” He jabbed the wood a little harder. “She would not look twice at the likes of us. Farmers. Dairymen.”

“Fine. I haven’t looked at her either.” Franz sounded bored, but he felt his insides churn as Otto spoke. It was not the words themselves that provoked him, but the way Otto seemed determined to argue. And the truth was, Franz had thought of little else but her.

“Ha!” Otto tossed another log onto the grate, and a shower of sparks rose up the chimney. “I
saw
you look at her! Yes. You noticed. You were looking at her the way you size up a fine heifer.” He paused and pronounced each word with a caustic clip. “The way you used to look at Katrine.”

Franz sat up and whirled to face Otto. “Katrine was the only good thing about you, Otto.” His anger matched that of his brother’s now. “And she is gone.”

“Why don’t you admit that you are glad she’s dead!” Otto shouted, all pretense of control vanished.

“You are a crazy man!”

“I saw! I saw all of it. The way she teased you. She touched my face, then looked at you to see how you reacted!” Otto was sweating now. The little room was bright with the flames in the fireplace and stifling with the fierce heat. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “And I
hated
you for it.
Hated you!
Now this new woman comes, and you are watching again. Like you watched Katrine. You think I don’t see?”

“Life here has been terrible since you came back!” Franz did not address Otto’s accusation. “Rages and moods! Why don’t you leave? Leave us in peace! Hire someone to write Mama a letter once a month to say you are well even if you are dead! I don’t care!” He lay back down and turned away from Otto. There was no winning in an argument with his brother. The only safety was in silence.

“I did not like the life of a refugee,” Otto said dully. “I do not like this. Now.” He glanced around the room. “Living in this hut with
you
because my bed is taken up by refugees.”

“So go stay in Kitzbühel!” Franz snapped. “Or maybe I will.”

“Then who would shovel the manure?” Otto’s voice was taunting again. “And who would keep these new women satisfied? The way you satisfied Katrine when I was not around, eh?”

Franz swore loudly and jumped up, hurtling himself at Otto. With a cry the two brothers toppled back over a chair and fell onto the hard plank floor. Franz struck with his right fist, smashing Otto’s nose with the first blow. Blood spurted, drenching his hands as he slammed Otto’s head back on the planks again and again. Only seconds passed until he noticed that Otto was limp, accepting the brutal punishment without resisting. Otto’s face was covered with his own blood, but Franz could see his expression was still triumphant, his eyes blazing, as Franz let him go and drew back. Otto had pushed him to this violence, and in that was some sort of perverse victory.

“You are a fool!” Franz hissed. “I never touched Katrine. And she only saw
you
, Otto. Never me. If I killed you now, it would be for her honor. She was in your bed. Not mine. And yet you say such a thing—” He stood up. His bloody fist was still clenched.

Otto stared up at Franz, still certain that he had spoken some terrible truth. A slight smile played on Otto’s lips.

.“You should be the one in the churchyard, not her!” Franz shouted again. “And if you had accused her of . . . of any unfaithfulness while she lived, I
would
have killed you for the sake of her honor!”

Otto laughed at him and ran the back of his hand across his bloody nose. “An interesting response from a man who claims he never loved her!”

Franz narrowed his eyes, trying to remember the man that Otto had once been.

I
s this my brother?

“I never said I didn’t love her. But she was yours, Otto. I would have killed any man in the village who said otherwise. And if you speak her name again in such disgrace, I will kill you as well.” Franz glared down at Otto to be certain that his brother believed him. Then he grabbed his hat and coat and left the cabin, slamming the door and leaving the madness of the accusation behind him.

***

Franz did not know where to go once he had stepped out of the cabin. It was cold, and the clouds of the storm still hovered over the black peaks to the north. His hands were sticky with Otto’s blood. He did not dare go into the house and risk being seen by his mother.

Frustrated, he stood for a moment in front of the cabin. Maybe it had been worth a beating for Otto to get him out of the hut for the night.

He sighed, angry at himself for taking the bait, angry at Otto for the madness that had come over him. Then he tramped across the snow-covered field toward the dark barn. He had spent many nights sleeping in the warm straw. He would do it again tonight.

When he entered the barn, Franz was met by the glow of a lantern hanging from a post. He mentally chastised young Helmut, who had no doubt left it burning after the evening feeding. The soft bellow of a cow greeted him as he stepped into the warmth. Then as the door swung shut, he saw a startled Elisa Linder perching on the rails above the stall of the new calf.