Vienna Prelude (24 page)

“Where do you wish to go?” The driver was a rough-looking Hungarian who smelled of schnapps and slurred his words. But there were no other taxis; nor could Murphy hope that one might happen along.

“The Musikverein,” Murphy said gruffly, as though he knew what he was doing.

“There is nothing happening there tonight.” The driver laid his arm on the back of the seat and peered at Murphy. “What do you want to go there for?”

“I have a friend—” Murphy stopped, irritated that the driver expected an explanation. “Just take me there, will you?”

The driver shrugged a resigned reply and shook his head slightly as an indication that he had picked up a crazy man. Murphy stared glumly out the frosty windows as they passed slowly through the deserted city. He wished now that he had stayed in Berlin with Timmons and Johnson and Amanda and the rest of the gang. Then he would have ended the night full of schnapps, drowning his sorrows among familiar faces, at any rate. The loneliness was almost overwhelming as the wheels of the car rolled to a stop in front of the totally dark building of the Musikverein. Murphy sat silently and stared up at the large front doors. The driver cleared his throat impatiently and the meter clicked loudly.

“You are getting out here?” the cabbie asked.

“No.” Murphy heard the embarrassment in his own voice. “I, uh . . . my plane was late. I was supposed to meet someone here, but—take me to the Sacher Hotel.” He felt some relief in the lie. The cabbie warmed up to him after that and seemed pleased that his passenger was not such a fool after all.

“Ah, yes! The Sacher is a very fine hotel. You have stayed there?”

“Yes.” Murphy did not want to talk. He could not shake the gut-wrenching emptiness that had settled over him. What had he expected to find here on Christmas Eve? Elisa Lindheim with her arms open and waiting?

“You can get a good Christmas meal there. You know the Viennese; at noon on Christmas Eve, the ladies disappear from the streets and banish their husbands from the houses, yes?” He warmed to the subject and rattled on. Every word was a reminder of how alone Murphy felt tonight. “All day they cook, and then at dusk the men come home. You won’t find anyone out now but a few Jews and Socialists on their way to a meeting. All of Vienna is inside eating stuffed blue carp!” He laughed loudly and slapped the steering wheel as if he had told a joke.

“Why aren’t you home?” Murphy asked dully, still looking out the window as they passed the large domed structure of the Vienna State Opera House.

“My wife worked late. I work late. But I will have my carp! Yes. My wife’s mother is coming. God help me. And her brother too. I wish it could be just the two of us. And a little schnapps, if you know what I mean.” He laughed again and Murphy did not respond. He did not like the taxi driver and was relieved when the cab arrived at the stately Sacher Hotel, not far from the opera house. Without comment Murphy checked the meter and paid the driver, then stepped out of the car without waiting to be wished a Merry Christmas. Murphy was not in the mood to hear the greeting that was not so totally beyond possibility for him.
Rotten Christmas! Miserable holidays! Bah, humbug! Scrooge had the right idea
, he thought as he tramped disconsolately across the red floral carpet of the deserted hotel lobby.

A very Jewish-looking hotel clerk registered him, and Murphy could not help but speculate that this was an employee of Sacher’s who was probably kept well out of sight during normal daylight hours of operation. Anti-Semitism was not unheard of these days in Vienna either.

The soft clink of silverware against china told Murphy that at least Sacher’s famed restaurant was open for business tonight. He shoved his room key into his pocket and left his suitcase at the coatrack, then approached a polite but reserved headwaiter.

“Dining alone, sir?” There was an edge of pity, even disapproval, to the man’s voice.

Murphy nodded and followed the white starched shirt to the white starched linen-covered table. Crystal and silver glistened. A string quartet played Christmas melodies in the corner. Sacher’s was the most homelike of all the great Viennese hotels; maybe that is why Murphy had thought of it. But tonight he did not feel at home.

Attentive, proper waiters hurried through the dining room, serving foreign dignitaries and visitors who must certainly not be from Vienna, or they would not have been out on such a night. Black coats. Black ties. Shining black shoes. Music. The musicians were playing “Silent Night”; the hymn was almost an Austrian national anthem. Murphy followed the words of the melody and still found no comfort. “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright . . . ”

He thought about his mother and father in faraway Pennsylvania. Then, almost unable to bear the ache, he stared at the musicians. They were all men. Murphy wondered if any of them knew Elisa. He wondered if he should ask them. All through salmon cake with roe, consommé, and turbot with shrimp sauce, he imagined finding her alone at her apartment, taking her into his arms, and telling her . . .

“Telling her?” he muttered at last.

Tell her what? Your father is dead, I think. Probably cracked up in the Alps. Here was his final letter. By the way, Merry Christmas. You want to go out for a drink?

The absurdity of his flight to Vienna on Christmas Eve suddenly became even more painfully clear. The quartet played the bright chorus of “Good King Wenceslas” as Murphy raised his hand to summon a passing waiter.

“Ready for a Sachertorte now, sir?”

“Right. I’ll take it to my room.”

The waiter looked concerned. “Was everything to your liking?”

“Fine.” Murphy did not admit that he had not tasted much of the meal.

“No coffee?” The waiter seemed astonished that a patron could leave the table without sampling the Viennese coffee.

“In my room.”

“Anything else?” The waiter looked hurt.

“
Ja.
” Murphy nodded in resignation. “A quart of brandy if you’ve got it.”

“In your room also?”

“
Ja
,” Murphy replied solemnly. He would not ask the musicians if they knew Elisa. Now he was almost afraid they would say yes.

“It is a shame to be alone on Christmas, sir,” the waiter offered sympathetically.

“Yeah,” he replied in English. “Me and Scrooge, huh? Me and the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

The waiter smiled at him in a puzzled way, then bowed slightly and hurried off to the kitchen.

Murphy wiped his mouth, then tossed the napkin onto the table in a gesture of disgust. He leaned back in his chair and gazed around at the cozy opulence of Sacher’s dining room and thought about the reception at the British Embassy. Apparently someone in England was already playing Scrooge to Austria’s Tiny Tim.

Bah, humbug to Austria. Is that it? Then it’s the Ghost of Christmas Future I should worry about tonight.

He was sure that Austria’s future was most certainly the depressing topic of conversation at the press party in Berlin. Glancing down at the briefcase containing Theo’s farewell, Murphy decided he would make it his personal business that Elisa’s future would be safe. He would warn her. Regardless of what happened, she and her family would have to leave Vienna. Tonight he was surrounded by Jewish musicians, Jewish desk clerks, probably even Jewish waiters. He could not warn them what the future might hold for Austria. Did they know already? Did they suspect?

Tonight the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come marched in a goosestep and raised a hand to salute “Heil Hitler!” Tonight the ghost wore a swastika on his armband instead of the simple red-and-white colors of Austria. And yet, on this silent night, the horrible specter seemed all but invisible in Vienna. Murphy could only wonder if he was the sole person at Sacher’s who could hear the anthem of Hitler’s hordes echoing distantly from beyond the mountains.

***

On this Christmas Eve in Kitzbühel, it was easy to see how the song had been written in the Alps of Austria: “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright . . . ”

Snow clung precariously to fragile tree branches. A whisper would send white clumps tumbling to the ground. But there were no whispers—only silence. A spray of stars lit the sky from one jagged Alpine peak to the other, glistening and holy in their radiance like the host of angels who sang good news to the shepherds outside Bethlehem.

But the shepherds had been afraid, Elisa knew. They had fallen to the ground and trembled in fear. And the lyrics of “Stille Nacht” failed her tonight. She could find no calm within her soul. There was no peace in the beauty, no hope in the brightness of the stars.

Elisa glanced at the face of her mother and knew that she felt the same ache. Silent days had passed. Together they had traveled twice to the Tyroler Haus in Innsbruck and inquired if any word had come from Theo in Berlin. The narrow mail slot was empty, and now, tonight, hope of some miraculous reunion had died.

Anna’s hands trembled as she opened the door to the bedroom. She fixed a smile on her face; she would not let the boys see her unhappiness.
“
Your father is not feeling well,”
she had told them.
“
He is not up to the journey.”
The deception was somehow merciful. Elisa knew that her mother was not able to face the grief and worry of Wilhelm and Dieter. At this moment it was all she could do to force herself to lift her chin and descend the narrow steps into the Stube.

“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” The words held a thousand memories of other times when indeed there seemed to be an unshakable calmness over the world in this night.

Eager smiles, shining eyes, and blazing hearth surrounded them with distant echoes.
Music and laughter. Snow falling softly onto the gentle earth. A whispered secret and knowing glances. Scents of cakes and pastries filling the great Lindheim house on Wilhelmstrasse. The midnight chiming of the tall old clock.

But then she remembered
her father’s words the night they were to board the train:
“Did I ever tell you that my great-grandfather traded a matched paid of horses for the old clock?... I wish I could carry it away in my pocket. Wish I could carry away your mother’s piano too . . . Glad you play the violin, Elisa dear. It is small enough to carry out of Germany.
”

But the house on Wilhelmstrasse—the blazing lights, the clock, the sound of the piano filling every corner of the parlor . . . none of that mattered anymore. There was only one thing missing on this silent night.

“When do you think Papa can come?” Dieter asked, disappointment thick in his voice. “Herr Karl has taught me some carving, and I made a camel for Papa.”

“Not bad,” teased Wilhelm, holding up the lopsided beast. “Like something I saw once at the zoo in Berlin. They call it a giraffe.”

Dieter did not laugh. He took the carving from his brother and tucked it into his pocket without comment.

Franz glared at Wilhelm and thumped Dieter on the back. “You have the makings of an artist, Dieter. Mother still has my first camels. You see?” He pointed toward a rudely carved crèche that was given a place of honor beneath the Christmas tree. “Yours is better than mine.” Franz reached into Dieter’s pocket and lifted out the camel; then he carefully placed it in the center of the little wooden scene.

“What? Four camels for the wise men?” Dieter asked.

“They brought an extra. In case one went lame,” Herr Karl said. “That is why they were wise!”

“They must have been German,” Otto added somewhat gruffly. “Sensible wise men.”

Everyone laughed as they donned their coats and scarves, and Otto grinned—one of the few smiles Elisa had seen from him in all the time they had been in Kitzbühel. It softened his features and made him seem handsome.

Anna walked slightly ahead of the group as they arrived at the little church in the village. Elisa could not help but think how small and alone her mother seemed without Theo. He had towered over her, but at the same time he had seemed a shadow of strength and protection for her.

Tonight Franz walked at Elisa’s side. He did not hold her hand, but Elisa could feel the gentle brown eyes that moved from her to Anna and then to the boys with concern. Somehow he knew the strength they needed just to face the recital of the old familiar story without the presence of Theo.
Was there anything more important to the people of these mountains?
Maybe there was nothing so important anywhere on the earth.

In his carving, Franz had captured the love that Joseph had for Mary. Elisa had been reminded of it when Frau Marta had unwrapped the new Christmas crèche.
The eyes of Joseph, seeing only Mary. Loving her. Wanting to protect her. Yes. Franz knows about love.

Now Franz looked at Elisa the same way. He held her with his eyes, caressing her face with a glance the way Elisa once dreamed Thomas might do. But Franz was not Thomas. Just as there could be no one else for Anna but Theo, tonight Elisa felt the despair of being loved, yet being unable to return that love. Even with Franz beside her, Elisa was alone. Even the kisses of this strong and gentle man had not erased the memory of other lips on hers.

Theo remained in Germany by force. Thomas remained by choice. Elisa could not think which was the greater pain. Her private anguish was compounded by the fact that the man she loved was now part of the terrible force that kept her father from his family. She hated Thomas for that, and yet still loved him for what they had once been together. Had he ever looked at her the way Joseph looked at Mary? The way Franz looked at her now as they knelt together on the red velvet cushions?

She murmured the words of the liturgy. Still she felt Franz’s eyes holding her face in the flickering candlelight; he was so hopeful, so compassionate for their plight on this unhappy night.

Why can’t I love someone like him, God?
she agonized.
Must Thomas always stand between me and a really kind and simple man? Does it have to be so complicated to love? Look at him, kneeling there. He is praying for Papa. Praying for me. Has my heart died in me? Am I made of wood, more unfeeling than the carved figures in the crèche?