Vienna Prelude (30 page)

Otto stared at them all as sobs filled the house. He glanced briefly at the crucifix above the table, and then he pushed past Franz and went quickly up the stairs to pack his belongings.

***

It was to be a year before Murphy returned to Vienna. In all that time he hardly thought about Elisa Linder at all—at least not more than once an hour. The groaning world had turned its attention to the bloody civil war in Spain where the Spanish rebels of the Fascist General Franco fought against the coalition of leftist Republican and Loyalist government groups for control of the nation.

As Britain and the powers of the League of Nations declared their policy of nonintervention, the union of Hitler and Mussolini supplied men and equipment to Franco’s Fascist forces. For ten months, Murphy shuttled back and forth between the Italian and German troops of Franco’s army, then back again to the Republican forces who fought them. A million Spaniards died that year, and Murphy wondered if he hadn’t seen each one.

Men with hands tied behind their backs fell riddled with bullets in the streets of Madrid and Toledo. Women and children perished on the open roads, strafed by German fighter planes.

The entire war seemed to be a showcase for Mussolini’s Blackshirts and the mighty mechanized forces of Hitler’s Reich. The Spanish themselves died unadorned by medals or protected by armor plate and tank tracks. Dark-eyed children cried hungry in the streets of besieged Madrid, and Murphy wrote what he saw:

Murphy had counted the planes himself, and noted without amusement that the aircraft were German-made. On two of the planes he could distinctly make out the swastika beneath a fresh coat of paint. He mentioned this in the New York dispatch, but for some reason that information had been cut. Later he heard that his story had gone page four in the
New York Times
, lost amid the hoopla of the British coronation of King George VI. There it was again. The world cared more about what Princess Elizabeth and Margaret Rose did during the ceremony than about the real world:

Two weeks later, Murphy read the article that had beat him out for the front page:

With a sigh of resignation, Murphy had left the newspaper beside the open ditch that served as a latrine for Loyalist troops. He was certain they would know how best to put it to use.

It was five long, hot summer months before London and Paris found the courage to present an ultimatum to Italy and Germany to withdraw their “volunteer” forces from Franco’s Fascist troops. By then, Murphy had seen the inside of every stinking prison and field hospital on both sides of the line. The hospitals, he noted grimly, smelled as foul as the prisons. Both overflowed with rotting men, women, and children. Blood had fertilized the hard, rocky soil of Spain. A million dead. For what? For the proving of Fascist strength; for the forging of Germany and Italy in a deadly war game that was staged to show what they were capable of. The ultimatum given to Germany and Italy by France and Britain was answered with yet another insurgent attack. This time 270 German-made planes took to the skies above Toledo, Brunete, and Teruel. France and Britain had been slapped in the face, and they did nothing to respond.

In his last dispatch, Murphy shouted the words over a shortwave radio just before he boarded a small plane back to England. “The Republican government troops were unable to resist the attacks!” he shouted.

“Repeat that, Murphy!” a faraway voice crackled in reply.

For the third time, Murphy repeated the information, ending with the terrible news of resounding defeat. “An insurgent communique announced that government lines had collapsed under the offensive that hit
l
ike a bolt of lightning!
”

“Like what?”

“
A
bolt of lightning!
Put that in quotes, will you? I heard it from a German ‘volunteer’ Luftwaffe pilot! So much for ultimatums!” Now Murphy was simply yelling into the radio without the slightest concern whether he was being heard or not. None of this stuff could go into his story, even though every word of it was the truth. “What makes that screwball British prime minister think Hitler is going to give a hoot about these ridiculous British-French ultimatums now? Huh? They’re nuts!”

“What?”

“I said
they’re nuts!
And you can print that too!”

“We can’t . . . print that, Murphy!”

Angry at everyone, Murphy shouted louder. “Right! Yeah! Not enough human interest, right? A million dead women and kids . . . not enough. Well, how about this for the front page?” Bitterly he began to recite a lead to the copyman on the other end of the shortwave. “Try this:

How’s that?” Murphy said sarcastically.

“Great!” the copyman replied enthusiastically. “Really good human interest. People understand having supper interrupted.”

For a minute Murphy simply stood staring at the radio. Then, in one last gesture of disgust, he flicked the switch to the “off” position and stalked out onto the airfield to board his plane.

21

The Call of the Homeland

It was Christmas again in Vienna. The silent night of 1936 had stretched into the long, silent year of 1937 for Elisa. No word had ever come from her father, and after a few months they had even given up hope of hearing anything at all. Broken and aching, Anna had left the little mountain village of Kitzbühel for the anonymity of a little house in Prague that Theo had purchased two years earlier. Elisa had visited twice, but the undisguised loneliness of her mother’s expression made her want to hurry back to Vienna to her work and her life of busy solitude.

She had not heard from Franz again. John Murphy, she had heard, was somewhere in Spain. Thomas served his masters in Paris. As the months crept by without news of her father, Elisa somehow came to blame Thomas for Theo’s disappearance. The love she carried for him once again turned to hate and a consuming rage against what her friend had come to believe.

But sometimes in the dark of night the anger dissolved into a heavy ache of longing and desire. When the morning came, as it always did, she would look into the mirror and chide herself for being so foolish. Then she would immerse herself in the frantic schedule of rehearsal and performance and a social life that revolved around the other members of the orchestra.

An uneasiness had settled gradually over her dear Vienna in the last few months. Signs had begun to appear in the shopwindows along the Ring like those she had seen on Unter den Linden in Berlin in 1933:
Juden verboten!
Even though her papers said she was a Czech of German heritage, Elisa did not go to those places. Months earlier, when the great airship
Hindenburg
had crashed in flames in Lakehurst, New Jersey, she and Leah had gone to watch the newsreel at the cinema. Leah had been stopped at the door and refused entry because she was a Jew. Elisa had nearly slapped the arrogant little doorman, but instead she had told him to go back to Germany in no uncertain terms. Then she had taken Leah and Shimon out for a lovely meal at Sacher’s, and they had drowned their sorrows with a bottle of delightful white wine from the Wachau, a place just beyond the Vienna Woods.

“Remember Johann Strauss.” Elisa had raised her glass to toast the Jewish composer.

“Right now I am thinking about Theodore Hertzl and his dream of Zionism and a Jewish state, if you don’t mind,” Leah remarked dryly. Then she confided that she and big Shimon had plans to move to Palestine as soon as they had enough money.

At those words, Elisa felt such a sense of emptiness, such loneliness, that the rest of her conversation had been difficult and forced that night.

Other members of the orchestra were drifting off—some to America, some to France, and a few to Palestine and the hard life it offered. Leah dreamed that one day she would be there, and now she shared that hope with Shimon Feldstein. They would be married two weeks after the New Year, and had plans to spend their next Passover in Jerusalem as husband and wife.

Elisa tried not to resent this crazy plan of her friend. She tried not to envy the fact that Leah had fallen helplessly in love with the brawny, stoic tympani player.

Do they have tympanis in Jerusalem? Or even an orchestra? What will you do to make a living? You are a cellist, Leah, not a farmer! Are you crazy? Is there life anywhere but here in Vienna?

Elisa wanted to say all these things, but she did not. After all, her own life was such an empty mess—what right did she have to shoot down Leah’s bright dreams in flames, just as the
Hindenburg
had burned?

Be silent. Smile and listen politely.
Only once did she run trembling with fear to Leah.

On the front page of the
Berliner Zeitung
was a photograph of the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem standing beside Hitler. The British had demanded he leave Palestine because of his leading role in instigating the riots there. The caption read: “Haj Amin el Husseini vows with Führer’s help to banish Jews from the Holy City forever.” When Elisa insisted Leah and Shimon must not go to such a place, they had simply stared at her as though she spoke in a foreign language.

“You cannot understand, dear Elisa. We are Jews, and that is our homeland.”

Elisa, although she was half Jewish, could not understand. Leah was right about that. But she did know what it was to be a target of Hitler. She had seen it destroy her family, the very life of her own father.

“Austria is safe,” she insisted. “Chancellor Schuschnigg has pacts with Italy and England and France. Hitler cannot come here! It is not possible. The whole world would rise up against the Nazis!”

Taking her hand gently in his own, Shimon pointed to a shop across the street with an ugly sign in the window:
Juden verboten!
“They are here already, Elisa,” he said gently, even sadly. “Hitler sends more Nazis across the border each day. They come in leather pants and thick brown shoes like peasants, but they fool no one. Even Chancellor Schuschnigg is frightened. And have you not seen that the palace of Baron von Rothschild is empty? The baron is a Jew. He now lives in Prague, not Vienna.”

Elisa stared at the floor. “My mother is in Prague,” she whispered. “My family.” She had never told them about her father, and for this moment, she was relieved that Anna and the boys had taken refuge in Prague. Shimon’s words sent a blade of fear through her heart. “My father says that Czechoslovakia is like Switzerland,” Elisa volunteered cautiously. “The constitution is like in America. Why don’t you go there to live? There are orchestras there. The German Theatre and the Czech National Theatre—much more cultured than the wilderness of Palestine!”

Shimon and Leah laughed at her suggestion, and Elisa had pretended she was not serious. But she was serious. The thought of losing Leah’s friendship made her reel. Quietly, in the secrecy of her heart, she prayed that their immigration visas would not be granted. But Leah taught Elisa the words
Aliya Bet
—illegal immigration. And only yesterday Leah told her that it didn’t really matter if she and Shimon were granted permission. They were going to Jerusalem, and the matter was settled.

Lately, a steady stream of German refugee children had passed through Leah’s apartment. All were bound for Palestine, whether they had been granted the necessary papers of permission or not.

Children who came from Germany with nothing suddenly had passports and visas to France where they would board ships in Marseilles bound for Palestine. Elisa had seen a passport once when a child had shown it to her proudly. Leah scolded the little girl, then looked at Elisa almost apologetically. “Dangerous, but something that must be done. I trust that you will not mention it.”

Elisa nodded. She knew all about forged papers. They were expensive and hard to come by. German-Jewish children came with nothing; they left with identities. Purchased how? By whom? With what money? Elisa did not really want to know. She knew too much already. If it was indeed true that Nazis were infiltrating Austria’s police and government as Shimon insisted, then this sort of activity could be life-threatening. Elisa remembered quite well the unexplained disappearances of people in Germany who were involved in such operations. Couldn’t Leah and Shimon be content with their own safety? Why did they involve themselves so deeply?

The thought made her frown. For the first time in months she thought of Murphy. She too might be rotting away in some German camp right now if it hadn’t been for his willingness to get involved. Of course, the fact that he was an American newsman almost guaranteed that no one would slap him in irons. He had not risked his own safety, as Leah and Shimon were now doing.

***

There was a reason Murphy had been called to London. There was business here. A visit at the International News Service offices, a stop at the BBC. He had a few interviews set up with members of Parliament who were diametrically opposed to one another on matters of what must be done about the Germans, what must be done about the Italians, what must be done about Spain and Austria. Actually, only a handful believed anything must be done at all. The rest, along with the citizens who now walked along the London sidewalks, were numb and uninterested. After all, the issues at hand did not affect the price of curtains or a new tea tray or the comfort of one’s shoes.