Prague Counterpoint

Images of those she loved came clearly to her mind: Murphy in his rented suit. Row ten, aisle seat. And Leah, laughing at her from across the stage. Shimon, on duty at the kettledrums. And those children. Nameless faces who seemed to be looking at her expectantly for help.

  “An instrument in the hands of God,” her father had called Elisa. But tonight, like the Guarnerius, she was locked silently away. Waiting. Waiting to be played. As quickly as the thought came to her, it was followed by another. Even locked away and unused, the Guarnerius had been used. A messenger. A courier in my hands. Across the enemy borders and checkpoints, it had carried messages and passports to safety.

  She bowed her head, and with her fingers working the lapis ring around and around, she obeyed the lesson her father learned in Dachau. One by one she held those she loved before God in prayer, and one by one, she laid them in the hands of one who loved them far more than even she could imagine.

  ***

  Someone had propped Leah’s head on a jacket. “Fraülein?” the worried voice of a young soldier called as he gently patted her hand. “Fraülein, are you all right?”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. Something had happened. Now the unhappy face of a German soldier peered worriedly down at her. Suddenly she remembered the face, the hands, the voice of Shimon as he had been carried beyond her reach in a matter of seconds. She moaned softly and closed her eyes. She must not show her grief to this soldier!

  Small hands grasped hers then, and she opened her eyes again to see little Charles hovering over her. He lifted her fingers to his cheek. He had seen it all! He had seen Shimon reach out to her from the truck and he understood! He had seen such things before. Now he knelt beside her and stroked her face as someone lovingly had stroked his when he was ill. And in a moment of childish wisdom he put his fingertip to the scarf of his mouth and then touched her lips as if to offer her his silence.

  “Fraülein, you have fainted!” The young soldier was joined by two more. Black spit-shined boots formed a ring around them. “You would like us to call a doctor?”

  Leah grasped Charles’ hand and struggled to sit up. She must be strong! She must not let them see! “I . . . am sorry,” she muttered.

  The soldier sighed with relief. “It is hours after curfew, Fraülein!” He sat back on his heels. “What are you doing out tonight, anyway?”

  “Curfew?” she asked. “I didn’t know. I . . . I . . . ,” she stammered, hoping to find some explanation.

  “Are you ill? What are you doing out after curfew? We have orders to shoot looters and any who would . . . ”

  Leah felt nausea well up in her. “We are not . . . we . . . today in the crowd we . . . I was trying to get home when suddenly I felt . . . faint.” She stopped and looked toward the Musikverein. “I took my nephews there to wait and we . . . fell asleep.”

  “Then you should have stayed until morning. There is a curfew. Everyone is arrested for curfew violation.”

  At that, Leah began to cry. The tears were not for their predicament, but for Shimon. The last of the troop lorries lumbered by and disappeared around the corner, leaving them alone on the quiet street. “I didn’t know,” she said softly. “How could I have known?”

  “Do you need a doctor, Fraülein?” A tall soldier in a captain’s uniform squatted down beside the young corporal who now chastised her for breaking the curfew.

  “I just want to go home,” she cried, and Charles slipped his arm protectively around her shoulders.

  “Can’t we go home?” Louis wailed unhappily.

  “Fraülein, you have just fainted in the street,” the captain insisted. “Are you able?” The concern was genuine.

  Leah prayed they would not ask to see her identification papers. “I am not ill,” she said in a rush. “Only . . . I am expecting, you see, and . . . ”

  “Ah yes!” The captain seemed suddenly relieved. “Of course, the excitement today would cause you to––” He was interrupted by a tall slim man who stepped up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I am Otto Wattenbarger, Captain. Perhaps you have heard my name?”

  Leah knew the man was from the Tyrol before he had uttered half a dozen words since his accent was Austrian. She recognized him as one of the men who had been in the Judenplatz with Sporer this morning.

  The startled captain clicked his heels respectfully. “She has fainted, Herr Wattenbarger.”

  “She is out after curfew.” The tone of the Austrian was as arrogant as it had been in the Judenplatz.

  Leah dared not speak. She silently prayed that he would not recognize her from the ordeal this morning.

  “She and the children––” the captain stammered—“she is with child, Herr Oberst Wattenbarger.” The captain was obviously intimidated by the arrival of this important Austrian Nazi official.

  “You have orders, do you not? Curfew violation means arrests.”

  “Please––” Leah tried to explain. “We did not know. We fell asleep in the Musikverein, and when we woke up––”

  “Silence!” Otto ordered, seeming to enjoy his power to intimidate.

  “But, Herr Wattenbarger––” The captain tried to defend the fact that they had not immediately clapped this woman and the children into irons.

  The Nazi officer shut him up with a withering glance.

  The soldiers stepped back and waited for Herr Wattenbarger to render a decision in this case. “Before yesterday, Fraülein,” he said curtly to Leah, “such excuses were a way of life in Austria. Now we must show members of the new order that we from Austria can be as disciplined and hard as they are.” The eyes of Otto Wattenbarger glinted steel, just as they had in the Judenplatz that morning.

  Is this the man who arrested Shimon? Leah wondered.

  “You are with child?” he asked.

  Leah nodded. “I could not take all the excitement of today.” Her voice trembled in spite of her attempt to control it.

  He continued to stare down at her as she sat on the sidewalk. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully. “I can well imagine. Today everyone was a little light-headed.” He gave a short laugh, and the soldiers joined him and mopped their brows with relief. Perhaps they would not be reported for not arresting the woman.

  “Please—” Leah extended her hand—“help me up. I am better now. I feel much stronger.”

  The German captain reached out and gallantly helped her to her feet. Louis and Charles immediately clutched her hands and leaned against her skirt. They sensed that the civilian was more of a threat than the German soldiers, and they eyed him fearfully.

  “Mothers of the Reich must be treated gently,” said Wattenbarger grudgingly. “They are the future of the Reich.” He still had not asked to see her papers. “How far do you live from here?” he asked, eyeing the boys.

  “Around the corner. Not more than a block or two.” Leah still felt dizzy.

  “Then I will see that you arrive safely home,” said Wattenbarger.

  The men around them seemed ready to cheer. She was not going to be arrested! The Nazi would personally escort her home. No one would be reported for being too lenient to this curfew violator.

  “We have other duties, Fraülein,” the captain said, clicking his heels. “You are in capable hands. On behalf of our Führer, we welcome you and the children to the Reich, and bid you Guten Abend! Heil Hitler!”

  “Herr Oberst Wattenbarger!” The captain nodded. “A pleasant evening and Heil Hitler!”

  Wattenbarger responded with the same salute. Leah did not raise her arm and the captain’s smile wavered a bit. Then Louis, after a nudge from Charles, tugged on the captain’s tunic for attention and raised his small arm in imitation of the salute. “Heil Hitler!” he cried.

  The captain roared with delight and winked at Leah. “Sons of Germany already, you see! Take care of your little one as well, ja?” He strode off with the other soldiers. Leah could hear him still chuckling as Otto Wattenbarger picked up the cello case.

  “We will have
no more unpleasantness, Fraülein.” His voice softened. “Tell me if you are dizzy, and we will stop a bit.”

  “I will be fine once I am home in my own bed.” Leah inhaled deeply. She resented this Austrian traitor who now somehow had power over her life. She did not want an escort, especially not one of this kind.

  Otto glanced at her, then averted his eyes. “A woman alone on such a night––,” he mumbled.

  She managed a weak smile. “Believe me, there are other places I would rather be.”

  “No more of this or I can guarantee that you will find yourself in a Gestapo cell.” There was no threat in the words. The statement was a fact, and Leah believed him. She fought to control her anger that such a fact now existed in her beloved Vienna.

  13

  Small Miracle

  It was 8 p.m. when the European broadcast crackled over the airwaves of New York:

  “The program of St. Louis Blues, originally scheduled for this time, has been cancelled.”

  Groans of disappointment echoed from the youngsters as fathers all over America raised their hands for silence. There was something urgent and frightening in the words of the broadcaster.

  “Columbia now presents a special broadcast that will include pickups direct from London, from Paris, and other such European capitals as, at this late hour abroad, have communication channels available. Tonight the world trembles as German troops swarm across frontiers in their first offensives since 1914. . . .”

  ***

  Historic. That’s what they said about the Anschluss broadcast on both sides of the Atlantic. There was a magic moment of silence after Bill Morrow closed out the program, and then a delirious whoop of delight and relief from the technicians and reporters. They had actually pulled it off!

  Somebody whacked Murphy hard on the back. “You did great. Had me believing it!”

  Suddenly the Nazi takeover of Austria had become old news. The never-before-attempted production was behind the boisterous little group, and they could get on with life. Phelps pulled out a bottle of gin. Strickland produced a bottle of Glenlivet. It was well past midnight, and the English pubs had been closed for hours, but Strickland’s little flat in Chelsea was always open.

  Murphy somehow forgot his exhaustion as his twenty-some buddies crammed into the tiny parlor and the phonograph blared the latest from Benny Goodman. Women seemed to appear from nowhere. Earlier only Amanda and a secretary at the BBC studio had been there. The secretary must have called her entire neighborhood, Murphy reasoned as a bevy of girls flooded through the door, chattering as though it were early evening instead of nearly 1 a.m.

  Scat Freeman grabbed a homely girl with a big bosom and began to dance as her companion sidled up to Murphy and put an arm through his. She smiled broadly, showing too much of her gums with her teeth. Her hair was piled up on her head, and her neck was too long.

  “You’re a good-lookin’ Yank,” she said, sizing him up. “Some party!” Her voice was high. Eleanor Roosevelt with a cockney accent.

  “Yeah.” Murphy laughed nervously, looking past her. “Wake the neighbors.”

  “We are the neighbors!” She pinched his cheek, then giggled.

  “Convenient.” Murphy spotted Amanda talking to a group of three broadcast technicians from the studio. They hovered over her attentively and, to Murphy’s amusement, she was looking for a way out of the corner. Her eyes caught Murphy’s; she smiled with relief, raised her glass to him, and excused herself, walking through the noisy bunch toward Murphy.

  “My place is right next door.” The neighbor girl batted her eyelashes suggestively. “You look like you could use a little––”

  “Sleep,” Amanda interrupted, wrapping her arm around Murphy’s shoulder protectively.

  “Is he yours, dearie?” the woman asked in mock innocence.

  “You’re propositioning a married man.” Amanda leveled her gaze at the woman. “Or didn’t he tell you?”

  “Cheeky.” The woman sniffed and moved quickly on.

  Murphy laughed and kissed Amanda. “Right! You are cheeky! She had just gotten started on me. I didn’t have time to tell her anything.”

  “Well, now we know why Strickland lives in Chelsea, don’t we?” She scanned the room disapprovingly as a woman’s high, shrill laughter nearly drowned out the music of Benny Goodman’s clarinet.

  “Gotta keep the troops entertained!” Strickland shouted over the din. Phelps gave Amanda a broad wink.

  “I think one of the troops just killed a camp follower,” Amanda replied dryly.

  “What kind of newsreporter are you, Amanda?” Phelps teased. “You don’t like the press party?”

  Amanda cleared her throat. “Really, I think I’ll catch a cab and read all about it in the morning news.” She smiled too sweetly.

  “What?” Strickland feigned injury. “Nothing here of the opposite sex that interests you, Amanda?” He waved his hand drunkenly around his head.

  For an instant she studied at Murphy. She had been looking at him with interest the entire night and he liked it. She reached up and stroked the stubble on his cheek. “And you, Johnny! You should go back to your hotel and lie down before you fall down. You look absolutely appalling!”

  Since Murphy had gone straight to the news office from the airport, there hadn’t been time to get a hotel room. He had mentioned that to Amanda before the broadcast. “That bad, huh?” Murphy replied as she pressed herself against his arm to let a couple past.

  “That’s what marriage will do to you,” Phelps laughed.

  “Bad as the Nazis!” Strickland added.

  “Don’t listen to them, Johnny.” Amanda did not step back. “Marriage suits you. I always said you were the one decent man among these louts!”

  “That’s not saying much,” Murphy laughed, feeling anything but decent. He couldn’t remember if he had noticed in Berlin that Amanda was more than just another newsreporter. Tonight she was a little drunk and he liked her better that way. She seemed less formidable with that crisp British accent slurring a bit.

  Phelps was leering slightly. He had noticed the way Amanda leaned against Murphy. “So, Murph, where’s your little woman?” He checked around comically as though he expected Murphy’s wife to enter the room and bash Amanda over the head.

  Amanda batted her eyelashes at Phelps. “Where are all the little women?” she smirked. “Back home, minding the children!”

  “Children?” Strickland was following a little more slowly. “Moving a little fast aren’t you, Murphy?”

  “No children.” Murphy was determined not to let the banter affect him. Elisa was linked to him in name only. He wouldn’t let the thought of her interfere with the delicious feeling of Amanda Taylor against his arm. “No wife! We’re separated!” he shouted over another roar of laughter behind them.

  “But you just got hitched!” Strickland protested.

  “Her mother didn’t like me! We’re getting unhitched!”

  “You should have married another news reporter.” Phelps looked from Amanda to Murphy, then back again. “Like maybe Amanda. Ink in her veins.”

  “Ink, yes––” She smiled and slipped her arm through Murphy’s. “But warm ink.”

  “Ink and whiskey.” Phelps gave Murphy a knowing look.

  “Well, congratulations on your first marriage, anyway.”

  “And on your divorce.” Amanda looked pleased. She leaned more heavily against him.

  Phelps raised an eyebrow. “There you have it, Murphy.” He grinned. “Warm ink. Hot off the press.” He laughed and cupped his hand to Murphy’s ear. “We gonna read about this one in the morning paper, Murphy?”

  They had time for two more drinks before the taxi arrived. The gin and tonic hit bottom a minute after Amanda and Murphy walked out of the party.

  “We’ll go to my ex-husband’s place,” Amanda said confidentially. “I still have a few things there. You can shower and borrow a suit of his clothes.”

  “Is your ex-husband
in them?” Murphy leveled his gaze on her lips.

  The corner of her mouth turned up in an intoxicated half smile. She shook her head conspiratorially. “He’s off in Italy somewhere. Buying wine. That’s his business. Wine.”

  “What would he say if he found you in his house, and me there in his . . . clothes?” Murphy kissed her as the headlights of the taxi turned the corner.

  “We have an arrangement.” Amanda touched her fingertip to the cleft in Murphy’s chin.

  Murphy took a deep breath. “I’d better find a hotel,” he said seriously.

  “I told you—” she pulled him to the waiting taxi—“he’s away buying Italian wines. French wines. German wines. All for England. He’ll make a killing if war breaks out.” She slipped into the backseat, giving Murphy only enough room to squeeze in beside her.