Prague Counterpoint

  Just as Louis spoke for Charles, so Hitler claimed that he raised his voice on behalf of the groaning German race! As a journalist in Hamburg, Walter had declared that Hitler was not a voice but an upraised fist that smashed down on all Germans who dared to disagree. For this “scurrilous lie,” as the Gestapo had called it, Walter had been imprisoned for two years at Dachau. When he had come home, he found his wife was dead and his sons were in the care of a neighbor. He had left Germany with his sons in the dark of night. Today he realized too late that he had not run far enough. This glimpse of the upraised arm bearing Germany’s fist convinced Walter that, indeed, there was no place on earth that was far enough.

  Protectively he wrapped his arms around the shoulders of his sons. He knelt beside them and turned them away from the spectacle to face him. Beautiful blue eyes gazed back at him, matching the seriousness of his expression. “I must go away again,” he said quietly.

  Both boys frowned at once. “Can we go with you, Father?” Louis asked. Charles reached up to touch his father’s cheek in a soundless entreaty.

  “No, my sons—” he shook his head slowly—“not this time. But someday we will all be together again.”

  “But why can’t we go?” Tears welled up—angry tears, hurt, confused.

  “Where I am going is not a place for little boys.” He pulled them closer.

  “But where will we go?” Louis asked, and Charles moaned softly, placing his soft cheek against Walter’s.

  Walter fought to control the emotion that tore at his heart. He wanted to open his mouth and groan in agony with Charles. There were no words to express the gaping wound within him. “Very bad men”––he swallowed hard––“have come to Vienna. You must not stay here. It is not safe for you.”

  The scarf slipped down slightly from Charles’ mouth. In that moment Walter heard again the words of the doctor as he had held the tiny disfigured child in his arms for the first time. . . .

  “He will die if we simply leave him alone. Such a deformity is terrible in any time of history. But now, today, in the great Third Reich, beauty and physical perfection are paramount, Walter. Perhaps it would be kinder to the child if we simply let him go.”

  “You mean let him starve?” Walter clutched the baby closer. Tears fell on the blanket as a little hand with perfectly formed fingers had emerged from its folds and brushed Walter on the face.

  “He cannot eat without great difficulty. He will never be able to speak. It is becoming quite common, Walter, to let such monstrosities fade away. Someday soon it will be law,” the doctor said coolly. “Then we will have no choice in the matter. What place can the mentally deficient and those who are barely recognizable as human have in the Reich? It would be kinder to let this life end before it begins. . . .”

  Walter shivered at the memory. He lovingly adjusted the scarf, then lifted Charles’ perfect fingers and gently kissed them.

  “Ahhhhhh!” Charles wailed in anguish. He hugged his father tightly, not willing to let go.

  “Where will we go, Father?” Louis was crying now too.

  “Don’t cry, my darlings.” Walter’s tears streamed freely. “There are kind people here in Vienna. I have heard of them. They will take care of you until we can be together once again. Someday . . . all of us. Your mommy. You and me. Together again, my sons! God will let it be so!”

  ***

  Frightened men, women, and children stood together in the Judenplatz. They were silent, not resisting the uniformed German soldiers and the strutting Austrian Nazis who surrounded them. Harshly shouted questions were answered in quiet monotones. Those being held had learned within the first moments of their captivity that they must not question their captors. Any defiance was answered with a blow to the face with a rifle butt.

  Leah stood in Shimon’s shadow. She could not see over the heads of the crowd around them. A dozen times in the last thirty minutes Shimon had whispered to her, “They are bringing more now.” Then the mass of people would shift slightly and crowd in closer together.

  It seemed to Leah that the German soldiers were more polite than the Austrians. Even though she could not see them, the German and Austrian voices were easy to distinguish.

  “Let me see your papers, Jewish swine!” the words of a Nazi from Vienna roared. Such rage did not seem to fit with the soft Viennese accent. “So you did not think we would win, eh? You are surprised, Bolshevik Jew? It is not the picture of Lenin that will hang in the Ballhausplatz; it is the picture of Hitler! And you Jews will simply hang!”

  Then the words were answered by a sharp cry of pain as the prisoner was struck in the groin with a riding crop. Men winced at the sight of the young Jew falling to the ground and receiving yet another kick to the stomach. Leah wanted to shout out, “Why?” But she did not. Shimon silenced her with a look, then drew a deep breath to control his own anger as he looked sullenly away from the scene. Here and there sobs were heard. Occasionally there was an anguished cry from a wife whose husband was torn away and shoved into one of the smaller groups that were herded out of the square. But mostly the Jews of Vienna were silent.

  The spires of St. Stephan’s were clearly visible. At nine o’clock the bells rang out their final betrayal as they welcomed Adolf Hitler into the city. In the distance Leah could hear the cheering thousands who had gathered to watch the triumphal entry of the Führer followed by the arrogant, goosestepping soldiers of the Reich. How many Austrians had swarmed to witness this opening act in the destruction of their nation? A hundred thousand? Half a million? The Ringstrasse trembled beneath the press of human flesh. The great concert halls reverberated with the resounding shouts: “Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!” Over and over the cry was repeated. Leah could hear the words distinctly. There was no doubt what such a shout would mean to those who waited silently in the Judenplatz. Their world had ended. Judgment had come. The bells of St. Stephan’s now seemed to be tolling the end of the Jewish life and culture in Vienna.

  Leah shuddered. She remembered how the bells had tolled for Irmgard Schüler as the smoke of Rudy Dorbransky’s body had risen from the crematorium. The same men who had murdered Irmgard and Rudy were now in control of the city and the nation. Leah looked at her hands and then at the hacked fingers of the statue of Lessing. The law of destruction had now come to consume them all.

  ***

  In Prague this morning, the hundred spires of the Gothic city were enveloped by a damp, cold mist that rose from the Moldau River. Together Murphy and Elisa walked slowly across Mala Strana Square toward the Charles Bridge. Stone saints stared down at them and the scant handful of other pedestrians who hurried through the early morning fog on their way to some emergency meeting in the government offices near Hradcany Castle. No one spoke. Only the silence of the stone saints seemed fitting after the news that had come from Austria.

  Murphy wanted to take Elisa’s hand in his, but she plunged her hands into the pockets of her overcoat. She walked with her gaze fixed on the cobbles of the square. Her face was grim, and her eyes reflected the sorrow of a thousand years. It was cold. The mist penetrated the fabric of Murphy’s coat, reaching out icy fingers and chilling him to the bone. He pulled his collar closer around his chin; then, certain that Elisa’s hand was hopelessly out of reach, he also groped for his pockets.

  Everything was gray and lifeless except Elisa. Her skin was pale and smooth like fine porcelain. Right now she seems as fragile as porcelain, too, Murphy thought. He cleared his throat as if to speak, but the sound seemed an unnatural intrusion, so he let his thoughts drift away in the mist.

  Then Elisa smiled sadly up at him. “You were going to say something, Murphy?”

  Her question surprised him. “No. I mean . . . do you feel like talking? I thought . . . ” He glanced at her. She was staring at him curiously. “I didn’t think you felt like talking.”

  “Murphy––” she did not wait for him to finish—“I want to thank you. For . . . my father’s life. For bringing us here.”

/>   He shrugged and peered up at the statue of a saint. “Anybody would have––”

  “No.” She looked back thoughtfully at the cobbles. “Not just anyone.” She held out her left hand. The gold and blue lapis wedding band was the only fragment of color in the grayness. She started to take off the ring. “I suppose you will want this.”

  Murphy reached out and took her hand. “No, Elisa.” She did not pull her hand away, and he intertwined his fingers with hers. A slight blush colored her pale skin. He was relieved that he could touch her, even if it was only this much. Hands clasped together, palm to palm.

  After several minutes of silence she spoke again. “Are you sure you don’t want it back? You might meet a woman, and . . . ”

  He frowned. “If that happens I’ll let you know.” He was sorry she had said that. She couldn’t care much about him if the thought of him with another woman didn’t matter. “You might need it. No telling what’s coming. You might need a wedding ring.”

  She shuddered at his words. “You don’t think they can come here, do you? Not to Czechoslovakia!” Fear was thick in her voice. She looked down at the cobbles again as though she could not bear to imagine Nazi flags fluttering from the buildings of Mala Strana.

  “Not if the Czechs have anything to say about it.”

  “Prague isn’t like Austria!” She sounded almost pleading, as though a promise from Murphy would make them safe here in Prague.

  A thousand thoughts raced through Murphy’s mind. The Czechs had one of the best-equipped armies in Europe. Four million men and fortifications all along the border of Germany. He would tell her that, reassure her with those words. He would not tell her about the racial Germans who also lived in the Czech Sudetenland or about the Nazis among them who clamored for unification with the Reich.

  This morning he would be careful what he said, for Elisa needed hope that Hitler would be stopped somewhere, by some strong hand. “Yes,” Murphy said quietly in a confident tone, “the Czechs are a strong government. Their constitution is almost identical to the American constitution. Four million soldiers stand between us and Hitler.”

  At his words, Elisa raised her head and sighed with relief. She squeezed his hand and smiled as though a great weight had been lifted from her. “Britain and France will stand with them. Czechoslovakia is too important. My father has always said so. That this place will be like Switzerland. Neutral. Czechoslovakia is too important for the great powers to desert her.”

  Personally Murphy did not trust the great powers any further than he could throw them. Britain and France, with men like Chamberlain and Daladier at the helms, were nearly paralyzed with fear of Hitler’s war machine. Murphy would not have believed that German troops could have marched into Austria as easily as they had. But he would not express his worry to Elisa. “Your family is all together now,” he answered, caressing her with his eyes. “Safe. That’s what matters. You will all be safe here until I can arrange to get you to the States.”

  Her face clouded again. She looked up toward the bridge tower and the silent stone saints. “There are so many saints in Prague. You could get so used to them that you wouldn’t see them anymore.” She stopped and gazed across Charles Bridge. The water of the river rushed against the pilings. Closing her eyes for a moment, she appeared to be praying . . . or perhaps remembering something.

  “What is it?” Murphy asked at last.

  “Leah.”

  “Leah?”

  “We had a picnic here on the bridge.” She started to walk again, this time more slowly as they moved onto the bridge from beneath the ancient stone arch.

  Murphy did not want to think about Leah Feldstein. He did not want Elisa to think about her or talk about her. Leah was bait on the end of a German hook to pull Elisa away from safety. “She’ll be all right.”

  “You don’t know that.” Elisa looked at him sharply. “How can you even say that when they didn’t make it to the apartment last night?”

  “They have their visas to Palestine.” He was feeble in his defense, and he knew it. The visas were probably worthless now.

  “And you know how much that means.” There was an edge of bitterness in her voice . . . and something else. Murphy knew that Elisa would still be in Vienna if he had not found Theo Lindheim when he did. Elisa left for the sake of her father. She would have stayed for the sake of Shimon and Leah; Murphy was certain of that now.

  “I’ll be back in Vienna in a few days.” Murphy had not meant to tell her that he was leaving so soon.

  “You’re leaving Prague?” She seemed surprised. “When?”

  “This afternoon.” He looked out toward the gray waters and Kampa Island below the bridge.

  “Then I will go with you.” The tone of her voice dared him to argue.

  He still held her hand, but the gentleness of her grip vanished. “You can’t go,” he answered simply, and at that she pulled her hand away and plunged it into her pocket beyond his reach. The gesture made him angry. “I’m going to London to broadcast a report on this whole mess first. A news report live over the radio all the way to the States.”

  The importance of the event evidently escaped her. “And will you tell them about all the people we left behind in Vienna?” Her tone was accusing. She leaned against the stone railing of the bridge and stared down into the current. “What will you tell them, Murphy?”

  “What I saw. Then I’ll go back to Vienna and––”

  “Report whatever is news,” she finished for him. “I saw it all in Germany, Herr Murphy. I know what the news will be. I know about the concentrations camps for those who disagree, for those of non-Aryan blood. Shall I write your story for you? You need not go back to Vienna just to watch, Murphy. I can tell you what is coming. This morning. Now. Here beneath the statue of Saint Nepomuk I can see it all. Safe and warm in a house with my parents in Prague, I can see Leah. I remember standing here on the bridge with her, laughing about how silly men are.” She turned suddenly to Murphy. Her eyes were frightened and sad and full of the terrible knowing. “Leah is my friend. My sister, really. Yes. That is not too strong a word. You go to London and then back to Vienna for your work. But I must go back to Vienna for another reason.”

  “No!” He took her by the shoulders. “I’ll get you and your family out of this European mess for good if you’ll sit tight awhile!”

  “I have hopes that my family will go to your country, but as for me, I have other things to do.”

  “Just give me a little time!” Murphy was pleading with her. “Just a couple of weeks to take a look at the situation. I’ll find them. Stay here, and I’ll go back and find them. The Nazis have nothing on me.” He shrugged. “I’m an American reporter. So, I’ll report. And I’ll find your friends. I stand a better chance than you of getting them out of there.”

  The determination in Elisa’s eyes wavered. She looked at him as if weighing the possibilities of what he said. She touched the stone rail of the bridge as though she remembered Leah’s hand there. The gesture was an unspoken promise to her friend. “Yes,” she said in a barely audible voice. “And will you take a letter for her from me?”

  Murphy breathed a sigh of relief. “Sure! And a tin of cookies if you want!” He laughed.

  She did not laugh with him. She twisted the wedding band on her finger. “And when will you come back, Murphy?” There was something in the question that Murphy liked. He took her hand again.

  “A couple of weeks.” He lifted her chin as if to kiss her, but she pulled away and stepped back from him.

  “I am grateful for what you have done . . . and what you are doing . . . for my family. For Leah . . .”

  “Grateful.” He was somehow disappointed by the word. “Sure. That’s what you paid me for, right?” He bowed curtly. “Comes with the price of the wedding and the American passport.”

  His sarcasm stung her. She frowned and looked back toward the Hradcany Castle, where a small patch of sunlight was trying to open up the sky. “Sti
ll, I am grateful.”

  Murphy saluted, but she did not see his gesture. “At your service.” He laughed as though it did not matter, as though he really had done everything for the sake of money. “I’m hungry. Breakfast should be ready by now. When will you tell your mother I am just an imitation husband?”

  She had already turned back toward the house. “It’s not important for her to know. Not now that you’re leaving. Let her think of me as the protected wife of an American. She deserves some time without worry for me. And if I have to go back to Vienna––”

  Murphy spun her around. “If you say that one more time, I’ll tear up that passport and personally throw your ring over the bridge!”

  “Then I’ll get another.” Her eyes flashed the warning that she would not wait obediently here in Prague for very long. Murphy had a promise to fulfill, a letter to deliver to Leah in Vienna. And if he failed, Elisa would simply complete the task herself. Then, as though she realized such an argument with him was useless, she dropped it and acted as if Leah’s name had never been mentioned. “Come on, Murphy.” Her tone was apologetic. “There’s something I want to show you before you go.”