Vienna Prelude

  “Amanda’s okay. Nice-lookin’ dame,” said Timmons, halfheartedly. Everyone was homesick for a little companionship, and all the American women in Berlin these days were either married to diplomats or well beyond the age of being interesting.

  “Amanda’s got no sense of humor,” Murphy droned, although his mind was racing as he decided what he must do about Theo’s letter.

  “Nobody’s got a sense of humor in Berlin,” replied Johnson. He sniffed as if he was bored with the entire idea of a Christmas reception at the British Embassy. “They say this new British ambassador, Henderson, is definitely pro . . . real chummy with Göring.”

  “Yeah. Amanda says Göring is supposed to be at the party too. Some sort of official welcome to the new British ambassador.”

  “I’ll bet he’s coming dressed as Santa Claus, huh?”

  “He’s fat enough.” Timmons laughed. “Yeah. Göring as Santa Claus. He’ll come and steal the candy from all the little kiddies’ stockin’s!”

  Murphy sat up and stretched, intrigued by the thought of seeing Göring. “Let’s go,” he said, as though it was settled. “A little talk with Santa Claus might be real enlightening.”

  “Yeah?” Timmons was confused. Hardly anything was more boring than a British press reception. On Christmas Eve in Berlin the only thing that really seemed worthwhile was a quart of schnapps to drown a really heavy depression.

  “Yeah.” Murphy put on his overcoat for the short walk to the embassy. “You can get drunk later, Timmons. Göring flew in the Luftwaffe with Theo Lindheim in 1918. Rumor has it that Göring has had his eye on Lindheim’s house. And his car. And his paintings. You get the idea? If anybody is going to be real interested in the whereabouts and political nonstatus of Lindheim, it will be Göring.”

  “You gonna pump a German Reich officer for information at a reception?” Timmons sounded amazed.

  “You bet,” Murphy said as he walked toward the door. “Lock up if you’re coming too. And if you’re not, put the room-service tab on your own room, will you?”

  ***

  Timmons and Johnson trailing behind him, Murphy dashed across the street to the British Embassy. Göring’s long black staff car was parked in the front. Little swastika flags posed stiffly on the fenders. The car, Murphy had heard, had belonged to a rich steel magnate who had supported the Nazis because they had smashed all labor unions in Germany. The industrialist had grown disillusioned, however, when Hitler had insisted that only Nazi Party members could supervise the steel mills. A few months later, Hitler began siphoning off the steel magnate’s profits until every cent he had gained by the ruin of the unions was now piling up in the National Socialist coffers.

  Murphy thumped the hood as they passed. Now the industrialist was a refugee in France, Hitler had the steel mills, and Göring had the limousine. Serves the joker right, thought Murphy as he showed his press pass to the doorman.

  The inside of the British Embassy was very—English, to say the least. The portrait of King Edward had been replaced by a portrait of his brother George, and George didn’t look any too happy about the arrangement. From the expression on his face, he had not planned to spend the rest of his life as ruler of the empire. No doubt he thought that Edward had gotten the better deal—a life with Mrs. Simpson with none of this foreign policy nonsense to worry about.

  Murphy searched the faces in the crowd for the new British ambassador, Neville Henderson. Tall and stoop-shouldered, Henderson wore a neatly trimmed mustache and had the almost cadaverous look of a country schoolmaster who had never done anything more significant than deal with the squabbles of ten-year-old boys. The man stood facing Field Marshal Göring, whose vast collection of medals and ribbons took up nearly every inch of space on his military tunic. Henderson actually appeared to be impressed by such a garish display. He had a ridiculous, awestruck sort of smile on his face as Göring told of his latest hunt.

  Murphy could not help but mutter, “Where did they dig this guy up?”

  Timmons overheard and laughed out loud. “Reminds me of a Latin teacher I once had.”

  Johnson nudged Murphy hard in the ribs. “Has the British foreign office gone nuts? They sent him to deal with Hitler!” Johnson swore under his breath and stomped off to find the buffet table. Amanda charged out of the reception room a second later looking for Murphy. She had the same look of disgust on her face when she caught sight of Göring’s great hulk, preening for the frail skeleton Henderson.

  “Really!” she snapped at the sight of the two of them. She grabbed Murphy by the arm and pulled him through a group of drinking, gossiping reporters toward the library. Then she slid the doors of the room shut and spun around to face him. “Everyone at Whitehall has gone mad! This ridiculous little man! Ridiculous! Murphy, do you see what they’ve sent to deal with the situation over here?” She was red-faced and sputtering with anger.

  “Obviously they don’t want to deal with it!” Murphy was quiet, already resigned to the inevitable. “Hitler has been saying he’d rather have an alliance with Great Britain than Italy. So London has sent someone innocuous to—”

  “Innocuous!” Amanda’s face grew more red. “He’s not innocuous; he’s barely alive!” She swore and gasped out, “Henderson? He’s been in Argentina for the last century. Göring with his medals and his nonsense—he’s already got Henderson spellbound! What, what, what can they be thinking over there?”

  “They aren’t thinking. That’s obvious. They stopped thinking when Hitler marched armed troops into the Rhineland’s demilitarized zone and nobody did anything.”

  “This is the end! Do you know what Henderson said to Göring?”

  Murphy could only imagine what could come from the mouth of a man so totally bamboozled by a large belly decked out with ribbons. Couldn’t Henderson see that Göring wore rouge on his cheeks, for goodness’ sakes? Nobody liked Göring except Hitler and Göring! “Okay,” Murphy said in a monotone, “should I sit down to hear this or what?”

  “First!” Amanda’s voice cracked and her eyes bugged out a bit.

  Murphy thought she looked better when she wasn’t upset.

  “Ha! Yes! Ha! First!” she sputtered.

  “First calm down, Amanda.” Murphy tried not to look either amused or worried, even though he half expected her to fall on the floor and kick and scream or turn blue.

  She took a deep breath and began again. “I heard him say it, plain as anything.” She raised her hand as if to swear.

  “What?”

  “In this strange little awestruck voice, Henderson said, ‘I’m not the least bit anti-Semitic, Herr Göring, but I certainly do not like Jews!’” Amanda repeated the statement with such a sickening aristocratic accent that Murphy knew this was nothing she could possibly dream up.

  “That ought to endear him to Göring.”

  Amanda buried her face in her hands. “I am so ashamed,” she said, nearly in tears. “To think one of my own countrymen—the ambassador of my government . . . ”

  “Cheer up, Amanda, it could be worse.” Murphy did not know how Neville Henderson could be worse, but he could not think of anything else to say.

  “Oh, but it is worse, Johnny!” she cried. “He has already told Göring”—she gulped as though repeating the words was painful—“that as far as he was concerned, Nazi Germany could have Austria. It didn’t make any difference to the British government!” She finished the dreadful pronouncement of Henderson’s mission of appeasement to Berlin, and then she groped for a place to sit down.

  Murphy remained rooted to the floor. “How do you know he said that?” He could not make himself believe such madness. “How?”

  “I heard it from the Austrian ambassador, poor fellow. He is staggering around out there.”

  “Some press reception,” Murphy said hollowly. “What are we supposed to do? Snap pictures of Göring with his arm around Henderson? Something for the family album?” He was getting more angry with every passing second.

  ?
??When I walked by”—Amanda sounded pitiful—“I heard Göring ask the little weasel to come hunting at his lodge. Like a couple of Boy Scouts playing camp. London has sent over just the sort of fellow Hitler likes to squash. There is nothing to respect. Nothing that remotely resembles the greatest empire on the face of the earth. Europe is overflowing with Jewish refugees from Germany, and London sends a man who doesn’t like Jews either. What next? What, Murphy? Will they stop emigration to Palestine next to show their mutual dislike of Jews?” Now she wept in earnest—angry, frustrated tears.

  Murphy knew that Amanda had covered Hitler’s war against the Jews and the church since he had come to power. Last week a young pastor who had been supplying her with information had been arrested and sent to Oranienburg. Her conclusion had to be that if anyone in the British government was reading her stuff, nobody really cared as long as Hitler left Britain alone.

  Murphy stared at her for a long time. He could not even think of what he could say to comfort her. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Rotten. Just lousy rotten.”

  Beyond the dark, paneled doors, Murphy heard the patter of polite applause. He slid the doors back to reveal Neville Henderson and Göring standing before a cluster of photographers with their glasses raised. Timmons and Johnson stood together with dark scowls as they scribbled their notes.

  “A toast to Field Marshal Herman Göring. A fine chap. A man I consider my friend as well as our ally!” Henderson sipped his wine.

  Flash bulbs popped as Göring joined him. “And here is to the great hope that both our nations may also continue in their bond of friendship.”

  Murphy almost groaned at the words. There was nothing honorable here tonight. Nothing honorable in this sort of display. It turned his stomach. He had seen Theo Lindheim disowned by his own country! He had watched a man of true honor being stripped of everything he owned and threatened like a criminal until he was forced to run. Murphy was certain that Göring was behind much of the final intimidation. Göring was, after all, the glutton of the Reich. What he saw, his appetite demanded. He had not admired the honor of Theo Lindheim, but he had coveted the respect Lindheim’s honor seemed to bring him. The contrast between the two men was an impassable gulf. Göring in his pompous uniform, clinking and clanking from the weight of the medals. An overstuffed boar pretending to be a lion for Germany! I would love to see him bust out the seat of his pants right now!

  One thing was certain: Someone like Hermann Göring would never fill the shoes of Theo Lindheim. Göring would try—at least, he would try Theo’s shoes on. Then he would strip the house bare of everything of beauty and value and declare Theo either dead or a criminal.

  Göring threw his head back in contrived laughter at Henderson’s attempt at wit. No one else even smiled, but it did not matter to Henderson; he had won the approval of Göring!

  Murphy watched the circus with the sensation that he would throw up all over the polished wood floors if he didn’t escape soon. He had already determined that he would not mention Theo Lindheim tonight, after all. Why give Hermann Göring an opportunity to justify or explain away the racial policies of the Third Reich? Was he not standing in an embassy where the ambassador of a great power had confessed that he didn’t much like Jews either?

  Murphy felt his lip curl a bit in revulsion. “I’m leaving, Amanda,” he said quietly. She did not answer for a while. Her tortured eyes remained fixed on Henderson and Göring. “They’re going to do a song-and-dance routine soon—tea for two, or something. And I can’t take it anymore.”

  She nodded bleakly, understanding exactly what he was feeling. “Where can we find you after?”

  “Vienna.”

  “Vienna? But . . . ”

  “I’ll be back next week.”

  “You got a scoop?”

  “No. I just got a snoot full, if you know what I mean.” Murphy grabbed his hat and bowed slightly to her. She was really a pretty on-the-level dame. And nice legs too.

  “Well, Merry Christmas, then, Murphy.” She shrugged. “This may be our last.”

  17

  Silent Night

  Murphy caught the last plane to Vienna. The silver Ford trimotor was occupied by five other passengers, all of whom seemed as intent and introspective as Murphy. He did not want to talk with anyone right now and was grateful when no one sat beside him. Murphy dumped his hat and briefcase on the empty seat beside him as a warning to any strangers who might have been hoping for a little conversation. He reserved the empty place for himself tonight and shared it with his own thoughts and concerns as the little plane roared over the Alps.

  Looking down on the snow-covered ridges, he half-expected to see the shattered remains of Theo Lindheim’s little biplane—perhaps a frozen body lying stiff on the ice. But there was only the last glimmer of sunlight playing red and pink against the darkening sky until the snowy slopes and the patches of trees melted into the darkness. The guys are right, he thought grimly. If Theo is down there, no one will find him for a hundred years.

  When the plane passed over Vienna, the bright lights of Christmas celebration winked up like a miniature fairyland. Murphy could distinctly see the five tall spires of the government Rathaus where Chancellor Dollfuss had been assassinated by Nazis two years before. Tonight the Gothic facade of the building was dusted lightly with snow and bathed in light. It seemed more like a castle made of glistening sugar cubes than the place where Chancellor Schuschnigg now trembled at the thought of what Hitler was plotting next for Austria.

  There seemed to be no traffic moving down the broad, elegant Ringstrasse. Trolley cars were nowhere in sight, and only a few tiny human figures trudged along, leaving footprints in the snow as they crossed the street without even looking up.

  The plane landed without fanfare, and Murphy noticed that there were no other passengers in the terminal. Vienna had closed up for the night. It had shut its doors to strangers. Murphy felt foolish and alone as he stood on the sidewalk and hailed the last taxi in the city.

  “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 husband
s 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.