Vienna Prelude

  He lowered his voice. “I need to speak to you privately.” He leveled his eyes to lock with hers, and the smug expression on her face faded away.

  “Come on.” She led him away from the clamor, through the back door, and onto a small iron balcony. “Elisa has not spoken of you,” she said, somehow in tune with the seriousness of his errand. “Is something wrong?”

  “I need to get in touch with her.” He bit his lip, uncertain of how much he should say. Elisa had her reasons for maintaining anonymity. He must not betray the confidence she had placed in him on the train to Salzburg. “It is urgent. A family matter.”

  “Family? You know her family?”

  Murphy nodded. “Her father and I are . . . friends. These are difficult times. You know that. It is most urgent that I speak with her.”

  Leah searched his face. She was well enough acquainted with secrets to know that Murphy carried something important with him. “She is not in the city. Not expected back until day after tomorrow. We start rehearsals for the New Year’s concert then, and—where are you staying?”

  “Sacher Hotel. She gave me her address at the Musikverein. I went there and . . . got your name. You are in the book. I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s all right. Half the people here have only come to eat.” She shrugged. “You brought your own, I see.”

  Murphy liked this woman. There was a depth to her eyes not unlike that which he had seen in Elisa’s. It was not surprising that they were friends. “For later. I plan on staying in Vienna until I see her. Will you tell her I’m here? At Sacher Hotel.”

  “It is close enough to the Konzerthaus. Yes, I will tell her to meet you day after tomorrow. After rehearsal. Say, four o’clock?”

  “Will she be in tomorrow night?” he asked, and the urgency in his voice caused Leah to rethink her suggestion.

  “It is that important, then?”

  He nodded curtly and frowned. “Yes. And I’m certain she will think so too.”

  “Then I will meet her at the station. If the train is on time, we will come at eight.”

  19

  Vienna Rendezvous

  Vienna was easily as cold as downtown Manhattan on December 26. In spite of the biting sting of the wind on his cheeks, Murphy found it almost impossible to stay indoors. He wandered in a desultory manner through the snow-covered garden at Schönbrunn Palace. The huge Neptune Fountain was frozen over, and the swans had long since gone south for the winter.

  Probably to Palestine, Murphy thought. Smart birds. Smarter than Viennese Jews. He decided he would talk to Elisa about those swans and about where she must go for safety. For a long time he stood in front of the tall statue of Johann Strauss, who played his cold bronze violin in the Stadtpark. An inch of snow had piled on young Johann’s head and clogged the strings of his instrument.

  Murphy stared at the statue. He had heard that Strauss was Jewish and that Hitler had forged a new birth certificate for the long-dead composer, purging him of the Jewish stain in his heritage. If the Nazis did indeed gain control of Austria, Hitler’s kind gesture guaranteed that Johann Strauss would continue his silent recital in Stadtpark.

  Yet it was not the dead who caused Murphy concern now, but one living violinist who touched bow to strings and gave mere wood a voice that echoed back from heaven. It was not the continuing privilege of a bronze Jew to stand in the park that worried him, but the memory of a young woman nearly arrested for sitting on a public bench.

  Of course Elisa had changed her papers, like Johann Strauss, but would that be enough to keep her safe if the tramp of German jackboots thundered down the Ringstrasse and drowned out the gentle playing of hungry street musicians in the park? There was only one way to be sure of safety when the Nazis came to town—that was to be elsewhere.

  Murphy’s breath rose in steamy mist as he tramped back toward the Sacher Café for a hot cup of espresso—and maybe another piece of strudel. Old men still sat hunched over the morning papers as they had been when Murphy had left three hours before. Had they frozen too, like Johann Strauss in the park? Maybe nothing in Vienna ever moved very far. Even the trolleys went around and around the Ringstrasse while passengers remained inside and stared out the frosted windows onto the city.

  There was no news worth reading, yet Murphy read his paper like the others. Hitler had retired for the holidays at Berchtesgaden. Spain had stopped its civil war to celebrate mass. Afterward the Catholics on both sides of that conflict would no doubt return to kill one another with new dedication, but Christmas was supposed to mean peace even in the midst of war. In America, the soup kitchens had provided an extra supply of chicken for the season, and lines of unemployed stretched around the block in every city from New York to Dallas—even frigid Minneapolis. Nothing much was happening, nothing much to read about. Lesser men than Johann Strauss were reduced to sleeping in parks, freezing in public places, using newspapers for blankets. Things were mostly rotten all over, even though it was the season of peace and goodwill. In Jerusalem and Bethlehem, Arabs were killing Jewish settlers, and—

  Suddenly Murphy did not care if he ever looked at another newspaper. He folded his copy and put his hat on top of it as he sipped his coffee and stared back at the portrait of Emperor Franz Josef.

  So where are you going to recommend that Elisa go? he asked himself.

  He remembered the way yesterday’s conversation had grown hushed when America had been mentioned.

  To the soup kitchens in New York? Riots in Palestine? War in Spain? You think anyplace is safer than here? At least people still buy cream puffs in Vienna.

  It was true. The Austrians faced their fiery trials with a cup of coffee in one hand and puff pastry in the other. There was something dignified and genteel about the way they denied what was terrible and somehow inevitable in their future. Elisa denied it all too. Even in Berlin she had denied it. Even though she knew the SS agents were watching, she had sat down on the forbidden bench, played the forbidden song, and loved the forbidden man.

  Now Murphy must take it upon himself to bring reality crashing down on her. Theo was almost certainly dead. The British ambassador was busy in Berlin, giving Austria away like a captive bride to Hitler. While the Austrians denied the reality of the threat, the threat was hardening into an iron fist to crush them. And Murphy would have to warn this beautiful young woman: Anyplace but Vienna! Anywhere in the world but Austria!

  ***

  Elisa could not bear to have her mother accompany her to the Kitzbühel train station to say good-bye. Instead they embraced and Elisa played the strong and confident role one last time for Anna. All the assurances she had gleaned as a child in her mother’s care, she now played back. “Don’t worry. Everything will turn out, you’ll see. We will all be together again. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”

  Franz took her to the Bahnhof alone, holding her hand tightly in his. He did not speak for a long time and she was grateful. When at last he spoke to her, she dreaded his words.

  “Elisa . . . ” He faltered, looking away over the ears of the little mare. “I told you about Katrine.”

  She did not reply or return his gaze when he turned back toward her.

  He cleared his throat, obviously unnerved by her silence. “I want you to know,” he began again, and the words tumbled out in a rush. “Since that night when I saw you in the barn, I have not thought of her. I can think of no one but you at all—”

  “Please!” She tucked her chin and stared at her mittens. “So much is happening. Please, Franz, I can’t think about anything but my father right now.”

  He became instantly apologetic. “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t mean that I expect anything from you, Elisa, but . . . I wanted you to know how I feel about you. I—” He stopped and swallowed hard.

  She knew the choked, unspoken words at the end of his sentence and put her hand gently on his arm to stop him. “Franz, it is not the time to speak of such things. I cannot . . . could not . . . find a way to answer you.”
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  She could tell from his expression that there was so much he wanted to say! So much he wanted to hear! As the sleigh entered the village, they heard the distant whistle of the train as it rounded Kitzbüheler Horn. What had happened to their hearts since the first night Franz had come to this very place to pick up a holiday Feriengäste?

  “I am coming to Vienna.” His voice was firm. She knew he would not let go of her easily.

  “Oh?”

  “To see you.” He pulled up the horse outside the depot.

  “No, Franz.” She closed her eyes, feeling embarrassed for him and ashamed of herself. “You must not. It won’t work for us.”

  “I don’t believe you mean that, Elisa.” He gripped her arm and pulled her close. “You were there when I kissed you. You let me touch you, and I felt you wanting me.”

  She pulled free. “Not you. No. I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry, Franz.”

  He sat back and stared at her. The hurt was deep in his eyes. “So still you love this . . . Thomas. The man you told me about.” The disappointment was tinged with anger. “You let me believe—”

  “I am sorry,” she said again quietly.

  “And what about me? I am just a peasant from the Tyrol, is that it? Just someone to mark time with. Kiss your hurt, and then you run off again to play.” He grabbed her arm again and held her tightly. Seeking her lips, he kissed her hard, almost cruelly; then he pushed her away and stepped out of the sleigh.

  He did not look at her again. He did not offer his hand to help her out when she sat in stunned silence. Like a porter, he unloaded her baggage onto the platform and stood there until she made her way slowly up the steps.

  “You must have many more in Vienna just like me,” he said bitterly. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in red tissue paper. He balanced it on top of her violin case and turned away from her.

  “Franz!” she called after him as he descended the stone steps and hopped into the sleigh. He did not look at her again and ,with a single crack of the buggy whip, he was gone. The crisp clip-clop of the horse’s hooves was drowned out by the chugging engine of the train.

  ***

  It was hours before Elisa found the courage to open Franz’s final gift. As the towering Alps of the Tyrol receded in the distance behind the train, she tore the red tissue paper away and bit her lip in anguish. Gently she caressed the delicate wood carving as hot tears stung her eyelids. In her hands she held a perfect rendering of the holy family. Mary held the tiny infant Jesus as Joseph looked at her with such adoration . . . such love! Elisa held the figures up to the last light of day and gasped. Clear and unmistakable in the wood was the reflection of Franz, and the Madonna he had carved with such infinite love and care was undeniably Elisa!

  She squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the tears. Pressing the gift to her heart, she whispered a wish, a longing, a prayer: “Why can’t I love a man like him? Oh, why? Why can’t I love?” She was sorry—sorry and ashamed that she had hurt him. But she could not find in her heart the answer he so longed to hear.

  No, there was no one for her in Vienna—no strong arms waiting to hold her, no gentle smile or kiss good night. But she would be grateful to be back, grateful for the solitude of the practice rooms and the remoteness of the concert stage. In Vienna her embrace was the waves of applause that washed over her each night; her passion was expressed in the climax of the symphony, music echoing in her head like soft, loving whispers in the dark! In Vienna she could forget Thomas and bury the hope that someone else might awaken her heart again.

  ***

  “His name is Murphy,” Leah said brightly as Elisa followed her out into the crisp night air of Vienna.

  The smell of exhaust and the blaring of horns still seemed very far away as Elisa heard Murphy’s name. “He is here?”

  “I didn’t give him your address.” Leah appeared alarmed by the intensity in Elisa’s voice. “I told him you would meet him. You don’t have to go, you know. From the first I thought he was nothing but a stage door Jäger looking for a little . . . oh, you know how they are. Even though he is quite good-looking, in an American sort of way.”

  Elisa could not respond. A thousand thoughts assaulted her at once. He would not have come here if he didn’t know something. Maybe Papa is free. Maybe he knows where he is right now! She grabbed Leah’s arm and spun her around with such force that Leah’s smile vanished. “Where is he? Where is Herr Murphy, Leah?”

  “At the Sacher Hotel. Eating a torte and drinking a kleinen Braunen most likely. What else do Americans do in Vienna?” She seemed irritated by the demanding tone of Elisa’s question, then puzzled as she took Elisa’s hand. “What’s wrong, Elisa? You are shaking all over!”

  “Sacher Hotel. Will he be there? You are certain?”

  “He seemed to want to see you as much as you seem to want to see him.” She frowned. “What is this?”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said he is a friend of your father’s. He was a silly man—no, not silly, but clumsy. Came to our Zionist party with ham to eat.”

  Elisa was no longer listening as Leah recited the entire episode. Already she was scanning the road for an empty taxi. “Take my things.” She shoved the violin case into Leah’s arms.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Sacher Hotel, of course.”

  “Not without me.” There was more disappointment in Leah’s voice than concern. She knew that Elisa could handle whatever might come up with the American.

  “Yes. Without you. Go home. Or better yet, take my things to my apartment.” A taxi slowed as she raised her hand. “I’ll see you there.”

  “You can’t . . . can’t go there alone!” Leah stamped her foot angrily as Elisa slid into the taxi and slammed the door.

  Elisa glanced back as the taxi pulled away. Leah’s brows were knit together in one dark, angry line across her forehead. Elisa would make up some story for her tonight—something interesting, passionate, and totally untrue. Leah enjoyed believing such stories about her tall blond friend. Anything would be better than having to recount the agony of the last two weeks!

  ***

  The ride to the Sacher Hotel seemed unbearably long. Traffic snaked slowly along the Ringstrasse, yet Elisa could see nothing of the city she had so wanted to see. All her thoughts were focused on the memory of Murphy. His promise to help, his concern, his words of hope.

  What if Papa is there with him now? Maybe Herr Murphy brought him out of Germany himself.

  She could barely count out the change for the driver and finally overtipped to avoid the waste of even one more precious moment. Excited beyond reason, she had somehow convinced herself that Theo was waiting with John Murphy at the Sacher Hotel. She ran across the plush floral carpet of the lobby without seeing. She had lost all sense of time and place.

  Herr Murphy promised. God has heard. Frau Marta was right. Papa is here! Here! I can feel it!

  She banged the desk bell hard and leaned forward eagerly as the porter appeared. “Herr John Murphy, please. Please. What is his room? I am expected.”

  She did not wait for the slow, groaning lift to descend but instead ran breathlessly up three flights of stairs to Murphy’s room.

  ***

  Whatever Murphy had expected from this rendezvous, this was not it. The eager, searching face of Elisa Linder told him everything he needed to know at a glance.

  She did not seem to notice him as she brushed past and scanned the room. “Papa?” she asked. She was panting, barely able to speak, but she called for Theo again. “Papa?” And then a third time, more urgently as the hope wavered.

  Murphy stood back, helpless.

  She spun around and clutched his jacket. “Where is he? Do you know? Leah said—”

  “He isn’t here,” Murphy sputtered. “I . . . he isn’t here.” He felt confused, almost frightened by the strength of her belief that Theo was here! All images of Elisa falling into his arms
had vanished.

  “You told Leah . . . that you are a friend. Are. Is he alive? Is he still in Germany? Where is he? Please!”

  “Sit down.” He tried to guide her to a chair, but she shook herself free from his hands.

  “I don’t want to sit down. I have been sitting . . . waiting . . . ” Tears came now.

  Murphy felt even more helpless and confused. He was sorry he had come, sorry to be even partly involved in this mess. “Please. Calm down.”

  But she didn’t calm down. “Where is my father? Mama is sick with worry. We can’t tell the boys for fear they’ll—please tell me!”

  “I don’t know where. Exactly.”

  She glared at him. Her eyes cursed him for coming here to offer false hope.

  Again he wished he hadn’t come. Boy, did he wish he were back in Berlin! To face her heartache and disappointment unprepared was almost more than he could stand. So he cleared his throat and became very businesslike. “You have to sit down,” he demanded. “Sit. There.” He pointed to a chair and was surprised when she bowed her head slightly and obeyed.

  She inhaled deeply and did not attempt to fight off her tears. “I was so hoping. I thought that maybe . . . ”

  Across from her, he sat on the edge of his chair with his hands braced stiffly on his knees. He wanted a drink. Badly. “You need to calm down,” he instructed, trying to sound like his father had sounded when he talked to Murphy’s mother.

  Tears fell like heavy rain. Her face became red. Her nose ran. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she gasped in choppy sentences. “Have you got a handkerchief?”

  He did not have a clean one, so he brought her a towel from the bathroom and sat very quietly as she blew her nose and then studied him with sad and swollen eyes. “Take a deep breath,” he repeated in an even more authoritative voice. “Calm down.”

  She wiped her eyes. “I am calm,” she assured him, but tears still flowed, and she did not look at all calm.