Vienna Prelude

  Whoever it was, the Austrian chancellor would be accompanying him. A concert in Vienna was almost standard fare in Austrian politics. Across the border in Germany, Göring invited foreign dignitaries on hunting trips. Such adventure appealed to those with a thirst for blood. But here, it was said that Schuschnigg hoped to calm the wild beasts of international politics with music. Tonight the musicians would play with that goal in mind: Rome, Austria’s ally. Pledged to stand with Austria, as friends and protectors, if it was threatened.

  Beyond the glare of the footlights, the buzz of the audience seemed particularly animated tonight. Elisa tried not to look up into the boxes where dignitaries always sat. Instead she scanned the score and peered up across the empty conductor’s stand to see Leah looking back at her. Dear Leah. Her warm brown eyes so full, so sad tonight.

  In the soft light of her music stand, Leah looked almost like the Madonna figure in the living nativity at the Schottenkirche. Elisa remembered Franz, laboring for hours over wood until at last it seemed to breathe. Leah, you would make a better model for the mother of the Christ child than I. Why do you look so sad, Leah? What do you see tonight that causes you to look at me that way?

  Elisa looked away, unable to bear the intensity of Leah’s eyes any longer. Was she saying good-bye? Not yet. Not so soon, she begged. Not until the spring. She told me they would not leave until spring. Suddenly she wondered who would take Leah’s chair after she had gone. No one would ever take her place.

  Elisa placed the clean white cloth on the chin rest of her instrument and joined the dissonant clamor of tuning instruments. A minute passed before the houselights dimmed, and silence fell over the audience. There was a suspenseful pause as concertmaster Rudy Dorbransky emerged from the wings bearing his treasured Guarnerius in his hand. Thunderous applause rose up and he nodded his thanks, the perfect model of decorum.

  Elisa was always amused at the way he managed to carry off the image of dignity and authority even when his head was splitting from a hangover. Handsome and talented, he had been the logical choice for concertmaster after Max Helmann had left for New York last July. The position had somehow given Rudy a sense of responsibility. Although he was still rumored to be seeing the wife of the Nazi and he still managed to lose his concert shirts in card games from Paris to Amsterdam, he had not once hocked his precious instrument since he had accepted the concertmaster’s chair.

  Elisa felt a surge of pride for him now as he bowed to the audience and then to his comrades. He raised the Guarnerius and gave the long, clear note by which all other found their pitch. Even in that one solitary note, the voice of the Guarnerius sang clear and strong to the highest galleries.

  And then, as if in reply, came a noise from the upper balcony. A voice, distorted with rage, shouted: “No Jews on our Vienna stage! Heil! Heil Hitler! Germany for Germans!”

  Elisa gasped, and as a thousand heads pivoted to see the madman, a shot rang out! Screams filled the hall; women in silks and satins scrambled for cover behind the seats. Musicians and instruments clattered to the stage as music stands toppled and swayed. A bullet, clearly meant for Rudy, gouged the stage beside his foot as he ducked behind the conductor’s stand. Elisa clutched her violin to herself. Strangely, in the tumult, she noticed small things: tears and handkerchiefs, men and women making the sign of the cross. And then there was Rudy, cowering behind the little platform as wild bullets splintered the stage. He protected his instrument, shielding it with his body as though it were a child.

  “Get him!” a strong voice shouted in the balcony.

  The gunman tossed his weapon at a dozen men who scrambled over the backs of chairs to wrestle him to the ground. There were more wails at the discovery that a man had been wounded.

  “Call a doctor! Please! A doctor!”

  The whistles of the security guards echoed in the auditorium as they clambered up the broad stairs to handcuff the madman.

  “Heil, Germany! The Greater Reich is coming!” he shouted as he was led away handcuffed. “You will see then, Schuschnigg! Germany and Austria are one! Germany for Germans! Death to the Jews!” At that someone had the good sense to crack him on the head with a club, and he was carried out of the building as the bleeding concertgoer was taken away by ambulance.

  Musicians and audience milled around in tight, stunned little groups. How could this happen here? How in Vienna? No one was killed, thank God. Has the chancellor gone?

  Musicians checked their instruments for damage and tried to repair clothing torn in the headlong scramble to safety. Leah, weeping openly, embraced Rudy, then clung tightly to Elisa. She could barely speak. Her strong, sure fingers trembled. “You see, it is only a matter of time. You see now why we must go. Oh, Elisa! Did you hear it in his voice?”

  “He is a madman!” Elisa snapped angrily. “One crazy person.”

  Leah wiped her eyes and gazed at her friend, fear simmering just beneath the surface. “After Dollfuss was murdered, Chancellor Schuschnigg expelled forty thousand such madmen. They are Austrians. Just across the border in Germany. Elisa, do not be a child. If Hitler comes—”

  “He will not come!” She was adamant.

  “If he comes, those forty thousand angry Austrian Nazis will come back with him. One man we may throw to the ground. It will not be so easy if the Nazis come home.”

  Elisa had no reply. The hall was still packed with shocked men and women, disheveled but still glittering in the lights of the concert hall. There, among them, Elisa saw the pale face of John Murphy. He sat ten rows back on the aisle, his eyes riveted on her. His hat was on his lap. He was dressed in a navy blue double-breasted suit that looked strangely out of place among the white ties and black, formal coats of the men around him. He did not smile but raised his hand to her in brief greeting.

  Elisa felt herself blush. Herr Murphy, she mouthed, and a flood of terrible memories came back to her. What was he doing here? Why had he come tonight? Such an awful night. He always seemed to be around on the most awful nights of her life.

  “Who is that?” Leah was suddenly suspicious. She had been talking, but Elisa had not heard her words.

  “Someone I knew . . . once.” Elisa turned away from Murphy’s open stare.

  At that moment Rudy Dorbransky, his thick black hair tumbling down across his forehead, stepped up onto the platform with raised bow in one hand and violin in the other as a signal for silence. One group at a time, the knots of people turned their hushed attention to the concertmaster. “We have heard from the hospital!” he called. “Herr Wertheim has received a flesh wound only! He will recover!” Wild, exultant cheers rang out from the stage and the galleries in the auditorium. “The criminal is safely behind bars! We pray he may not recover!”

  Relieved laughter and more applause broke the tension. Men clapped one another on the back and women wiped away tears of joy. Once again Rudy raised the Guarnerius and a hush of expectancy fell on the crowd. “Our instruments are undamaged!” He flashed a smile as laughter rippled. “Nor are we hurt permanently! Pray, let us continue our concert—it is the Biedermeier thing to do!” The crowd roared their approval. Yes. The Biedermeier thing to do—the Austrian way to face near disaster. “Take your seats, please. It will take us a few moments to sort out our music!”

  Elisa had never been so proud of Rudy. Indeed he played his role of concertmaster well. Vienna would always be Vienna, no matter who came or went. As Elisa played, her heart sang that night. Yes. These people could face anything and then sit down to a concert as though the worst had not almost happened. And the madmen of Hitler’s Reich were behind bars or across the border in exile. Leah was wrong. Hitler would never dare to march here.

  ***

  The crowd sprang to its feet in one continuous roll of thunder. Six curtain calls, a standing ovation. The audience applauded until their arms, less strong than those of the performers, ached.

  The musicians finally left their stands on the empty stage; their instruments were packed away by the
time the applause died. And then the wings were crowded with gushing matrons holding tightly to the arms of their elegant escorts. Everyone seemed to want to gather around Rudy. He accepted their praise with an untypical and probably insincere modesty.

  Elisa and Leah grinned at him from the sidelines, then inched against the flow of traffic toward the stage door.

  “A cup of Kapuziner?” Leah asked, calmed by the evening’s smashing success. The opening moments of their performance had now receded like a bad dream.

  “Kapuziner?” Elisa made a thoughtful face. “No. No. Tonight something special, ja?” In honor of Rudy’s escape and sudden fame, I will take you to Café Sacher for a cup of Rüdesheimer!”

  “Black coffee, Asbach-Uralt brandy, and cream.” She looked at Elisa in mock disapproval. “Yes. That sounds like something suitable to honor our darling Rudy.” She laughed as Elisa pushed open the heavy stage door. “Did you see the way he cradled the Guarnerius? Better death than injury to his sweet fiddle!”

  Elisa joined her laughter; then her smile faded as she looked down and noticed the tall handsome man leaning on the banister at the bottom of the stairs. He tipped his hat and pulled the collar of his dark wool overcoat closer around his chin.

  “I thought you would never come out, Fraülein Linder,” Murphy said in very clear German—tinged, however, with an easily recognizable American accent.

  Leah drew herself up and mumbled, “Stay by me. Another stage door Jäger.” She marched arrogantly down the stairs, but Elisa did not follow.

  Murphy stepped aside for Leah, then gazed at Elisa as he had throughout the entire performance. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye. His suit and necktie stood out from all the others, and she could not help but notice that he was there, focusing on her only. “For a few minutes I was afraid you had given me the slip,” he said in English.

  She understood him, although Leah did not. “Herr Murphy. Yes, now I remember—” She pretended to have difficulty remembering. “The American reporter. Are you still . . . reporting?”

  He ignored her question. “You see,” he said, also ignoring Leah’s indignant glare, “last year you told me I would have to wait a year to hear you play a Christmas concert—remember that?”

  She nodded, suddenly embarrassed that she had been so cold to him. “So you are back in Vienna after a year,” she replied brightly. Too brightly, she thought, hearing her own voice.

  Then Leah gasped, “Now I remember! The American! Yes. You came to the party with ham!”

  Murphy lowered his chin slightly as though he was addressing an accusation. “Ham, yes. But my heart was in the right place.”

  “Yes! Yes! And then Elisa met you at the Sacher Hotel and wouldn’t tell me a word, but she moped for weeks and—” Leah clapped her hand over her mouth. She had said too much.

  “Leah imagines things . . . she imagines that she remembers things,” Elisa said with a hard silencing stare at Leah. “That is why I am Leah’s only friend in all the world.”

  Leah’s eyes grew wide. Her lips were tight as though she were trying very hard not to speak. Then she opened her mouth. “Is that why you wanted to take me to the Café Sacher tonight, Elisa? And buy me Rüdesheimer?”

  Elisa felt her cheeks grow very red. Murphy was looking hopeful, so she denied it, even though Leah was probably partly right. “No. The Sacher is the only place left that still serves decent brandy and unspoiled cream in their coffee.” She was defensive as she reluctantly descended the steps.

  “Well, I just happen to be staying there again,” Murphy threw in. “Would you ladies permit me to buy?”

  Leah accepted for both of them. Elisa would have accepted, but she would have at least made him wonder first. “So what are you in Vienna for, Herr Murphy?” She did not want to give him the impression that she was really interested.

  “To hear you play; I told you.” He looked straight into her eyes, then let his gaze drift down to her mouth and her throat and the top button of her coat.

  Elisa felt herself flush under his gaze and silently cursed her tendency to blush. “Yes. Well, you have heard us play. Now what?”

  Murphy pulled out a fist full of tickets and held them up as they walked under the light of a streetlamp. “I said I wanted to hear you play.”

  Leah thumped her chest. “Now here is a music lover!”

  Elisa stared at the tickets in wonder. “How many?” She choked.

  “How many will you play between now and January sixth?” He smiled confidently. He was making an impression. That was clear.

  “Sixteen,” Elisa answered weakly. She was flattered but somehow uneasy by a man so dedicated after a year of silence.

  “That’s right. Sixteen. Row ten on the aisle. Almost directly in line with your chair.”

  Did he have no shame? Elisa blushed more deeply. Leah was grinning deliciously by now. Elisa could almost hear the wheels of her friend’s mind whirling.

  “Well, you two,” Leah said in a very sensible voice, “Shimon is in bed with the bronchitis. I must see to him. Shimon would be quite worried if I didn’t go tuck him in. Good night; enjoy your coffee.” She shook Murphy’s hand and winked. “I’m sure I will see you again soon, Herr Murphy.” Then she turned off toward a waiting trolley car, and they watched as she wrestled her cello case up the steps.

  Elisa fumed inwardly. Leah had deserted her to this American. No doubt he would ask her unpleasant things like, “Have you heard from your father?”

  “Have you heard from your father?” Murphy asked as soon as the trolley clanged away.

  “No.” Next he will ask me about Mother.

  They walked a few silent paces. “How is your mother?”

  “How would you expect her to be in such a case?” Elisa let the irritation creep into her voice.

  Murphy frowned. “Yes. You’re right. Silly question.”

  “And don’t ask me why I am still in Vienna!” she snapped. Maybe she would strangle Leah tomorrow and first chair cello would be empty before spring, after all.

  “After tonight I might think you would give it some thought.” Murphy was still frowning.

  “Is that why you have come here after a year?” She whirled around and stood facing him just outside the ring of light from a streetlamp.

  He stared at her again. Lovely face, slender throat—he seemed to touch her with his eyes; then his gaze caught hers and held her. She did not like the way he looked at her—as though he had some claim on her, as though he knew her . . . intimately. She backed up a step, trying to escape the rush of warmth his eyes brought to her. “I have felt”—he did not take his eyes from hers—“responsible. Like I need to . . . look after you in some way.”

  Is he really saying this after a year? “We barely met. I hardly know you, Herr Murphy.”

  His eyes held a smile, as if they were sharing a joke.

  She did not appreciate his expression. “And you do not know me at all!” Her voice was loud—defensive, even angry now. “And why do you smile at me that way?” she demanded.

  “I know you better than most,” he teased. “I’ve helped you pack your underwear—twice!”

  Elisa’s head drew back as if he had struck her. Is that why he seems so—so familiar with me? She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. “I am sure the clerks at any lingerie shop in Vienna will be happy to show you whatever you wish! You cannot expect the same from me, Herr Murphy!”

  He put a hand to his cheek and winced. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t intend any insult.”

  She stared at him coldly.

  “Good night,” he finally added in English.

  She replied in very distinct English as well, “No, Mister John Murphy. The word is good-bye!” At that she spun around and strode away from him. She almost hoped he would follow her, but he did not.

  23

  The Coming Fire

  On this cold Sunday in December, the French tricolor waved proudly from atop the
Eiffel Tower. The bells of the great cathedrals of Paris rang out as though to announce the coming of Christmas. More Frenchmen seemed called to stroll along the waters of the placid Seine than summoned to attend the services, however. Young and old, Parisians lifted their faces to the sunlight like the trees that reached out with barren branches in hope of finding warmth.

  Dressed in a brown double-breasted suit, Thomas von Kleistmann walked slowly along the beautiful Champs-Elysées. Somehow the gray-green of his military uniform would have seemed out of place in this peaceful setting. As the military attache of the German Embassy, he knew that his transfer from Berlin last year had been intended to remove him from the hot political climate in the capital of Hitler’s Reich. His banishment hardly seemed like a punishment.

  Behind him a young woman was singing quietly: “Paris sera toujours Paris . . . Paris will always be Paris.” For Thomas, the words were a comforting reminder that all the world had not dressed in the gray uniforms so common now in Berlin. The colors of bright print dresses, loose cable-knit sweaters, and berets blended like blooming flowers in the crowded cafés. Occasionally a gendarme’s blue uniform could be spotted among the Paris pedestrians, but these officials lacked the arrogance of their German counterparts.

  No, thought Thomas, this assignment is anything but an unpleasant exile. At every opportunity, he laid his uniform aside and mingled with the ordinary people of the city. When he spoke, of course, his accent carried a trace of German inflection, but the city had swelled with thousands of Germans who had come to Paris to escape. Many were Jewish, but many others were political dissidents who had crossed the border when the first roundups of anti-Nazis had begun in 1933. All of them had some other ultimate destination in mind—America or perhaps Palestine, or even South America. In the meantime, the French had been patient with the hordes in the city. After all, there was plenty of room along the banks of the Seine.

  French waiters hardly bothered anymore to ask Thomas’ nationality when he ordered coffee or a glass of strong red wine at a café. They might have turned him out had he worn his uniform, however. The political creed of Paris was “Live and let live”—except in the case of their sinister German neighbors. They could see the results of Nazi policies in the faces of the refugees, and a German uniform was more likely to evoke a sullen comment than the customary greeting of “Bon jour!”