Prague Counterpoint

  Dieter gazed in wordless surprise at his brother.

  Elisa argued gently, somehow realizing her words could not stop him. “There will be no war in Czechoslovakia, Wilhelm. Finish your time at the university, and then––”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Nazis on one side, Elisa, and Russia on the other. Tell, me, please, how we will survive in the middle of Hitler and Stalin?” He leveled his gaze on her. “I spoke with a Russian fellow yesterday who says that during the last year Stalin killed a million, maybe more, in a terrible purge. We are locked between two madmen here, Elisa. No matter which way we turn, we cannot find peace. And all the wishing of Papa will not make it so.”

  ”But the air corps, Wilhelm!”

  “Perhaps with the help of France and Britain, we may remain strong here. I want to be a small part of it.” He turned away as though he saw his future in the blackness of the night. “This nation welcomed us. It is my home now. Yes. I wish to be a flyer. Like Papa was. I will fight for my new homeland. Against Germany, if I must. Against the Aryan boys who were once my friends. Papa is home now. Mother will have to let me go,” he finished.

  Elisa took his hand and forced him to look her in the eyes. “Bis dahin! I suppose it has come to that,” she said sadly. She did not tell him of her own private battle. She would not tell him. He would fight openly, but she must remain silent like the silent stone St. Nepomuk who gazed down upon all three of them with pity.

  ***

  No doubt the entire shabby neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris had heard the bitter shouting of Herschel Grynspan’s uncle. “Life is difficult enough without another mouth to feed! Of course I said you could come! What else was I to do when my brother writes from Germany such a desperate letter? Yes, I said you could come! But if you are to stay here in Paris, you will have to find work!”

  “I supposed I could work for you, Uncle,” Herschel said in a hurt voice. The wildly gesturing man before him bore no resemblance to Herschel’s father. It was difficult to believe that this red-faced little tyrant was any relation at all.

  “Work for me? Ha!” It was an accusation. “I barely have enough work for myself. All of Paris is crowded with tailors; Jewish tailors running away from Germany! Now they will come from Austria as well! Prices for my work have gone to nothing. Nothing! And now my own brother sends me the very thing that has nearly driven me to bankruptcy—a refugee! You can’t work for me. And if you plan on staying here any longer, you will find a job!”

  Herschel nodded guiltily and stepped back as though the words of his uncle were blows. The boy had fled Germany and come to Paris expecting to find a reflection of his father’s kindness and hospitality with his uncle. From the beginning, his hopes had been broken. Herschel had been greeted with an almost grudging reserve at the station. The first meal with his aunt and uncle had been silent except for a few obligatory questions. Herschel had been given a corner in a windowless and unheated attic. His hoped-for haven had turned out to be a hell of silence and resentment. Now the boy hung his head and listened as the haranguing continued far past any purpose.

  “Are you clear on this? I cannot support you! The only redeeming factor is that you are small! Not so much to feed, although certainly too much!”

  Herschel nodded, fighting back tears of loneliness and a longing to see his father once again. Could it be that there are two Israel Grynspans in Paris, and I have gone to the wrong one? the boy wondered silently. “Of course. Yes. I will try to find work.”

  “Good! Then tomorrow you will apply for a work permit.” The color in Israel’s cheeks remained deep red. His voice was still harsh in the reply to Herschel’s every comment.

  “Where . . . ?”

  “Do you hear? At the government offices, you fool! Can this truly be the son of my brother?”

  Herschel determined that he would ask no further questions of the raving man before him. He swallowed hard, feeling that he might be sick unless the shouting stopped. “Yes. First thing in the morning. You will see. I will have a work permit.”

  Israel eyed him with silent disdain. He snorted like a bull, then turned on his heel and left the small kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

  Herschel blinked at the door. He stood in the center of the room, uncertain where he should go or what he should do next. The path to his attic led right past his uncle’s overstuffed chair. Herschel did not want to risk another outburst.

  He was suddenly very thirsty, but even a glass of water seemed like an imposition. His aunt had looked at him angrily when he asked for a glass right after she had washed the dishes. Turning slowly around, Herschel scanned the small table and tiny counter. This was not home—not even a slight resemblance either in setting or emotion. There was no thought of making an application to the university now; only the desperate hope that he could indeed acquire a precious work permit and somehow find a small flat of his own. “A prison, Papa,” he murmured. “More certainly than if I had stayed at home in Berlin. Paris has become a prison.”

  The boy could whisper those words now, but he could not write them to his father at home. News from Paris must be only good. Herschel had determined that fact long before he had passed over the border. He would send back words of hope to his parents to tide them over through his father’s long convalescence after the Gestapo’s midnight attack.

  From the top of the stairs, a woman’s voice shouted down on him, “Is he still here?”

  “I don’t know,” Israel answered. “I think he left through the kitchen.”

  “Thank God! A little peace!”

  At that, Herschel bolted out the back door and scrambled down the rickety wooden stairs into an alley littered with garbage. He ran wildly between rows of tenement apartments. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks as he searched for some open place, some patch of sun.

  Ragged children shrieked and played as he charged past them. No one commented on his flight; it was not unusual to see young men running away in this neighborhood. He tripped and fell, tearing the knee of his trousers, but he did not seem to notice or care. Above him was a crisp blue sky, but he was lost in a dark and lonely maze of the back streets of Paris. He lay panting for a moment beside a pile of garbage; then he looked up at the thin line of cold blue sky and shook his fist in the face of an uncaring heaven. “Gott!” he cried. “Warum? Warum? Why, why, why?”

  Slowly he pulled himself up, wincing now at the scrape on his knee. He stood in the narrow alleyway with his hands hanging limply at his sides. Ahead, the filthy corridor opened onto a larger boulevard. Bright-colored taxis raced by, and Herschel walked wearily toward them.

  He had seen nothing of Paris in his short and dreary stay. Without thinking, he stepped onto the sidewalk of the boulevard and glanced up at the street sign. “Rue du Cherche-Midi,” he read aloud, testing his French. “Search for Noon.” It was a strange name for a street, certainly, and stranger yet was the thick-walled building just across from where he stood. Massive arches and tiny slit windows gave the building the appearance of a massive, airless tomb. Above the main entrance the words Search for Noon were repeated; just beneath that was a plaque that identified it as a prison.

  As though hypnotized by the sight of the structure, Herschel stepped off the curb and walked toward it. A taxi swerved and honked as he crossed in its path. “I know this place,” Herschel murmured. “Yes. I know this place!” He put out his hand to touch the solid stone of the archway. He pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to recall where he had seen a photograph or woodcutting of the military prison.

  “Search for Noon.” Herschel frowned and stepped back to stare up at the tiny windows of the forbidding place. He imagined the men still held as prisoners even now. Perhaps they stood at the narrow slits and gasped for air. Perhaps they looked down at him at this very moment and envied him his freedom. Slowly he raised his hand in greeting to his unseen comrades behind the immense stone walls. They could not know that he, too, was a prisoner.

  *** r />
  Although Thomas knew that the precious book he carried held some secret message for the British, he had not been able to find it. Curiously he stared at the pages as he sat beside the broad Seine River where the Paris booksellers had set up their stalls. The fact that the message was hidden even to him was a comfort to Thomas. After all, if he could not find the coded words of warning from Hitler’s inner circle to the British, then perhaps the Gestapo would not find the secret either.

  He inhaled the sweet spring air of Paris. Sunlight warmed his back, and hope warmed his mind. The great bell tower of Notre Dame rang out the hour of noon as Thomas closed the book and tucked it into his pocket. Acres of busy bookstalls stretched out beside the riverbank. As he had been instructed, he browsed slowly from one stall to another, flipping through the pages of books on dozens of tables. He must appear as though he were not in a hurry as he moved steadily closer to the stall of the old man they called Le Morthomme. His name meant “the Dead Man,” and when Thomas had eyed Canaris and Oster doubtfully about the genuineness of such a name, they had both smiled and sworn that this was the true name of the old bookseller. One had only to ask for directions for the bookstall of Le Morthomme in Paris, and any ordinary citizen knew where to find him. The Dead Man, it seemed, was very much alive and quite well-known for his vast collection of rare books.

  Thomas put his hand into his pocket and touched the book. Le Morthomme would know what to do with it, and by tomorrow morning it would be in the hands of British Intelligence.

  “Excuse me, bitte,” Thomas asked a busy bookseller as the man unpacked a crate of old magazines and spread them on his table. “I am looking for the stall of Le Morthomme.”

  The bookseller did not look up. He jerked a thumb toward the opposite aisle. “That way to Le Mort. Third stall down. You look for German books? I have a few. Look here first.”

  Thomas thanked him and walked toward the stall. He recognized Le Morthomme from Oster’s description. Nearly lost behind towers of tottering books, the old bookseller bargained happily with customers, usually winning his price. Thomas watched him, relieved that the little man was exactly as Thomas had been told to expect. His leathery face was wrinkled with pleasure. A shapeless beret perched on the right side of his head. He wore a thin black string tie around his neck, and he gestured broadly and emphatically as he spoke.

  “For such a meager price I cannot sell this book, monsieur! Can you not see the quality of the binding? the gold lettering here? Two hundred years old, and still the book is exquisite! You could not have a book re-covered for what I offer this for! Take a shabby book to a bindery, monsieur, and see for yourself! I will not take less than this! And if you will not buy it for that price, I swear that within the hour someone else will!”

  Thomas drew in his breath and exhaled nervously as he approached the victorious Le Morthomme. He had won. His customer counted out the cash as the wizened old face smiled and reassured the man that this was the greatest bargain in Paris. Perhaps it was. Thomas was in no position to doubt anything today. He removed the precious cargo from his pocket now and approached the Dead Man.

  “You were recommended to me,” he said quickly.

  The old man’s eyes rested on the cover of Thomas’ book, then shifted back to his anxious face. “Sooner or later every bibliophile in the continent comes to the table of the Dead Man.” He grinned, and Thomas could see that most of the old man’s teeth were missing in front. “You come to sell or buy?” The Dead Man already knew the answer. The volume that Thomas displayed held the reply.

  “Perhaps a trade. An appraisal, at any rate. They say you are the best judge of the worth of a book.” Every word was prearranged as confirmation of Thomas’ identity, and yet the expression of the old bookseller betrayed nothing sinister or out of the ordinary. He extended his wrinkled hand and took the book from Thomas.

  Flipping through the pages, he seemed to examine the binding and the typeface. “Of course. You are in a hurry, monsieur?”

  “No. A day or so . . . ”

  “A day. Yes. For a franc I can give you an accurate appraisal. What I would pay wholesale, or what you might expect if you consign the book for sale with me. Your name?”

  “Von Kleistmann.”

  “A German! Paris is full of Germans, all looking for good books! You will find every book banned in Germany here on my tables, monsieur!”

  “Perhaps I will have time tomorrow to look,” Thomas replied, glancing at his watch.

  “Come back at noon.” The old man knelt and wrapped the book in newspaper, then slipped it into a box under the table. “I will have a reply for you, and perhaps we will do business.”

  The Dead Man dismissed Thomas with a wave of his hand, and without another word he directed his attention to a customer who flipped through a first-edition volume of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Monsieur!” he barked. “Do not handle such a treasure as if it were the Paris telephone directory!”

  Thomas suppressed a smile as he walked away from the bookstalls. It had all been so easy, so remarkably easy! His treason had been accomplished without a slight twinge of pain or fear or even guilt.

  17

  The Summons

  At least the members of the House of Commons had the decency on this dreary Monday morning in London to sit somberly in their places. Murphy took his seat in the press gallery among the correspondents from nearly every major newspaper in Europe and America. It seemed as though there were more members of the press gathered than the building could hold. Murphy’s bleary-eyed colleagues filed past him. Amanda Taylor was not among them. How could she miss such an event? Murphy wondered.

  This morning, no one doubted, Winston Churchill would certainly stand up and shake his pudgy finger at the members of Parliament with a firm I told you so! To which he might add a further word of warning about Hitler.

  No sober newsman in London would dare miss such a show. Murphy looked down the long row of expectant journalists. At the end of the row sat Helmut Andiker, correspondent for the largest daily newspaper in Czechoslovakia. Three rows behind him, looking very smug and self-satisfied, was Georg Bacher, the German correspondent for Hitler’s own Berlin-based propaganda sheet. He was the only man in the entire gallery with a tight-lipped smile on his face. The mood among the others in the press corps was so grim and angry that Murphy wondered how Bacher had managed to elbow his way into the assembly without losing a few teeth in the process.

  Murphy searched for the face of the usually cheerful and gregarious Isaac Fliker, the Austrian correspondent. He was not with the others. Murphy hoped that he had not returned to Vienna. The man was Jewish, and right now a Jewish journalist in the new Greater Reich would stand less chance of survival than a bug crawling across Trafalgar Square. They had all heard about Hitler’s triumphal entry into Vienna yesterday amidst cheering, possibly terrified, crowds of onlookers. Murphy sincerely hoped that Isaac had not gone crazy and decided to write his last article in Vienna. Maybe he had slipped away and gotten quietly drunk. There was little else to do.

  Murphy shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench. He ached all over. He could not remember now when he had had his last full night of sleep. Even when he had the opportunity to close his eyes for a few hours, his rest was full of uneasy dreams, memories of German bombs dropping in Madrid in the cause of Franco and Fascist Spain, and visions of the future. Visions of apocalypse here. In London. In all of Europe. And in the midst of it all he saw the upturned face of Elisa as she had laughed at the tiny figure of Death with his hourglass in the clock of Old Town Prague. The sands were running down for everyone. There would soon come a day when Death did not retreat any longer at the passing of the hour.

  Winston Churchill knew the face of Death as well as anyone. And when he began to speak, it was obvious that his knowledge was resented.

  He began with a slight nod of acknowledgment to Prime Minister Chamberlain, who sat very still and aloof from the stares of every man in the room. At first it seemed
that Churchill directed his oratory only at Chamberlain as if there were no one else to hear.

  “The gravity of the event of March 12 cannot be exaggerated.” He cleared his throat as if to let that thought sink in. “Europe is confronted with a program of aggression, nicely calculated and timed, unfolding stage by stage.” He glanced at his notes, then looked away as though mere words could not capture the danger of this moment. Murphy focused on the ashen face of the Czech reporter as Churchill continued. “There is only one choice open, not only to us but to other countries: either to submit like Austria, or else take effective measures while time remains to ward off danger; and if it cannot be warded off, to cope with it!” A grudging murmur of approval rippled through the hall as the speech gained momentum.

  Murphy scribbled notes in his own strange shorthand. “If we go on waiting upon events, how much shall we throw away of the resources now available for our security? How many friends will be alienated? How many potential allies shall we see one at a time go down the grisly gulf? How many times will bluff succeed until behind the bluff, continually gathering forces have accumulated reality?”