The sirens of Austrian police cars shrieked and whirled as they passed Stephansplatz on their way to the riot. Otto left her there, and at the sight of the police, he ripped the armband from his sleeve and walked calmly toward a waiting streetcar on the other side of the platz.
Elisa watched him go, staring after him as he boarded the streetcar, paid his fare, and took a seat near the front with his back to the window. Although it was the same streetcar that would have taken her home, she did not want to share the same space with him. It did not matter that he had saved her from the mob. He had been part of that mob. He had called her attackers by name. They had looked at him with fear and respect.
The discarded swastika armband fluttered across the platz. The streetcar lurched into motion as two more police cars wailed toward the Jewish district. Elisa pulled her torn coat closely around her and climbed the steps of St. Stephan’s to take shelter beneath the massive portals until another streetcar arrived at Stephansplatz. I will remember their faces, she promised herself. She felt no gratitude toward Otto. He had simply rescued what he thought was an “Aryan” woman. Had he known her father was Jewish, no doubt he would have let Sporer do what he wanted with her, just as they had done what they wanted with Rudy. Poor, dear Rudy. Had Otto been a part of that as well? Had he destroyed the hands and then the man in the name of Aryan purity? Was it possible that the son of Karl and Marta Wattenbarger had come to this? Could he be the brother of gentle Franz?
Elisa had not noticed that she was crying. The harsh wind stung her cheeks, and she wiped tears away with the back of her hand. Staring after the lights of the streetcar, she remembered the words of Franz: “There are places . . . I can show you . . . two snowflakes . . . sleep side by side . . . they came from the same womb . . . when the heat comes, one snowflake melts and flows . . . south. And the other . . . downward into the cold waters . . . of Germany.” Two brothers. The same parents. The same house. The same church. And yet Otto had come to this.
No, Elisa was not grateful to Otto. She hated him for the path he had taken, for the power his voice had held among such evil men, for the torn swastika armband, and for the warning he had given to her. There had been a vision of the future in his words: “Don’t go there again, not ever.” Somehow his unspoken prophecy of evil yet to come to the Judenplatz frightened her more than all the pleas of Murphy and Thomas that she must leave Austria. She feared for Leah now, even though the Austrian police were at this moment battling against the Nazis. What if the police had not come? And would there be a time when they joined the men of Otto and Sporer?
It was fifteen minutes before another streetcar appeared at Stephansplatz. Elisa climbed the steps, ignoring the curious look of the driver as he stared at her torn coat and disheveled appearance.
“Are you all right, Fraülein?” he asked as her hands trembled and fumbled with the coins.
“I slipped,” she muttered, “on the ice.”
“You are bleeding, Fraülein. There is blood on your coat collar.”
She raised her hand to touch a sticky place on the back of her head. She hadn’t felt the pain; there had been too much else. “It’s nothing,” she said dully, taking a seat in the back. Indeed, compared to the realization that Austria was filled with men like Otto from decent families and homes, the blood on her coat was nothing. On this Christmas Eve, peace on earth was far away. Austria was bleeding internally from a mortal wound that divided families even as they shared their Christmas meal together tonight. The heat had come to melt and separate even those who shared the same womb. The division had begun. Brother against brother, son against father. Tiny streams and tributaries had carried the snowflakes far apart into two great rivers that flowed inexorably toward different destinies. Some would be swept away against their will, lost in the churning, boiling current. Don’t go there again, not ever! Lost, like Rudy. Trapped, like her father.
Elisa held no delusions of some safe middle ground after tonight. Her denial vanished as she stared out at the familiar streets of a deserted Vienna. Every door in the Judenplatz had been marked with blood. Her own blood stained the cobblestones at the foot of Lessing’s statue.
31
The Violin’s Treasure
“Eleeeza!” called the old concierge as Elisa climbed the stairs to her apartment. “You have company!”
She stopped and scowled down at him. The memory of her unwanted visitors earlier that day was fresh in her mind. “Who, Herr Haupt?” She was grateful that her appearance was hidden in the shadows.
“Leah, your friend, and—”
Elisa did not hear the rest of his sentence. She ran up the steps and threw the door open, calling Leah’s name with such relief that she forgot everything else. She wrapped her arms around the cellist, holding her tightly. “Oh, Leah! You’re safe! Safe!” She was crying again.
Leah gasped as she saw the blood on Elisa’s collar. “You’re hurt, Elisa! What happened?”
Suddenly Elisa noticed that they were not alone. Three young children watched with wide eyes from the sofa. Elisa gaped back at them. She would not say what had happened to her in front of two small boys and a little girl. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing! You’re still bleeding!” Leah exclaimed with alarm.
“I slipped.”
“Beneath a streetcar?” Leah helped her off with her coat. “Look at you!”
Elisa was certain that Leah was unaware of what was happening in the Judenplatz right now. “How long have you been here?” she asked, still looking at the children. So these are Leah’s little refugees . . .
“About an hour.” Leah was still fussing about the cut on Elisa’s head. “I knew your mother would not be coming and that you would be alone. Everyone in the Judengasse is waiting for something.” She added in a whisper. “I thought it best to bring the children here.”
Elisa nodded. Her face was grim and serious. “I have just come from your apartment. Stay here tonight, Leah.”
The shock of understanding passed over Leah’s face. She did not reply but simply looked back at Elisa. The presence of the children was a painful muzzle. No doubt these little ones had known too much of violence and hatred in their brief lives. Both women restrained themselves, but the horror of what had happened was evident in Elisa’s face. Leah simply shook her head slowly in disbelief as if to ask, What next? What can happen next? The first riot had been bad enough—two Jews attacked and beaten within view of her apartment window. Hadn’t they found satisfaction in the murder of one Jew and the hateful slogans painted on the walls? Suddenly Leah noticed the violin case on the floor beside Elisa. She looked at it in disbelief, then back to Elisa again.
“Rudy?” she asked.
Elisa nodded curtly. She would not say anything right now—not with three pairs of frightened young eyes staring at her. She managed to smile at the children, walking past Leah, who seemed stunned at the sight of the case.
“Guten Abend.” She nodded. “I am Elisa.” Her voice was gentle and controlled, as though she were coaxing a lost cat from a window ledge. “I look terrible, I know. But I slipped on the icy stones. Leah, you must fix them hot chocolate while I clean up and change,” she instructed, not certain that Leah heard her. “Would you like hot chocolate, children?”
Three heads nodded in unison. Elisa guessed that the two boys were about seven and eight years old. The little girl was no more than five. She had thick blond braids and wide blue eyes. Elisa tried not to think what it would be like to be five years old and torn from family and home, forced to flee as an enemy of the Reich.
“Leah” —Elisa’s words were soothing to all of them—“you know where everything is?”
Leah nodded, tearing her eyes from Rudy’s violin case. “Of course.” She stared hard at Elisa. “I know.” She was speaking of more than cups and saucers and chocolate.
“Good.” Elisa was suddenly relieved. Somewhere in the violin case were the papers Rudy had spoken of. Leah knew where. Thank God!
***
As the three children quietly sipped their chocolate around the kitchen table, Leah slipped into the bedroom with Rudy’s violin and closed the door behind her.
How? When? Where? Her questions rushed out as Elisa washed and changed. Leah’s expression shifted from exultation to grief and horror as Elisa related the whole story.
“He told me to take it to you,” she finished. “I could not find anything in it. Nothing at all.”
Leah nodded. “That is the idea,” she said quietly as the impact of Elisa’s story settled heavily on her. “No one else could find anything either. Unless they knew—”
The violin case lay unopened on the bed. Leah reached out to touch it. “Show me,” Elisa said. “Show me, Leah.” There was a determination in her voice that caused Leah to start. “I have carried this case into Germany. My father knew its secret. Show me, Leah.” Her tone left no room for refusal.
Leah stroked the case. “It has held so many lives. They never guessed. It has been under the noses of the Gestapo a hundred times. Irmgard passed documents to us, names of those about to be arrested. That’s how your father knew for sure. We were just too late for him. The Nazis had planned his arrest weeks before. We sent your own passports and the names on the lists. Yes, your father knew what was inside the case. Last Christmas when you came back with the case and your father did not return, we opened it after Rudy redeemed it from you.” Leah smiled sadly. “Your father had sent enough to us in gems and bills to purchase seven hundred passports. Illegal passports for German Jewish children. Do you know what a great man your father was?” She turned her eyes on Elisa. “So many saved, but not himself. And he wanted you protected from all of it.”
“Rudy said he’s not dead!” Elisa picked up the case. “Irmgard got his file! Put it in here! Show me, Leah! I have to be part of this now. My father can’t protect me from it any longer! I have to know!”
Leah pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “There is a reason Rudy called you,” she said after a long time. Then she took the case gently from Elisa’s lap and placed it back on the bed. With deft and confident fingers, she opened the case and pulled back the scarf to reveal the violin.
Elisa frowned as she scanned the inside of the case, trying once again to guess where the priceless documents were hidden. “Show me,” she whispered hoarsely.
With a strange smile, Leah took the Guarnerius from the case. The plush velvet lining looked unremarkable, just like any other violin case. As if to demonstrate, Leah lifted the lid of each little storage compartment. “Nothing there but resin, a spare tuning peg, strings—right?”
At that, Leah placed her thumbs against the locks again and, with the lid open, pushed the locks downward three times. She threw a sideways glance at Elisa, who was watching with rapt attention. Then she grasped the interior of the case and pulled upward. The entire inside of the case lifted loose from the outer shell, revealing a space half an inch deep on the bottom in which five passports and a thin file were stored. Elisa reached forward to touch the documents; then she looked at Leah, who was grinning smugly.
“And now—” Leah lifted the Guarnerius and began to twist the two bottom tuning pegs. Strings slackened and fell off. She slipped the pegs from their slots and placed them in Elisa’s palm. “Go ahead. Pull them apart. Ebony wood with a gold tail piece and a tail button to match.” She nudged Elisa. “Go ahead. Pull!”
With her fingernail, Elisa pried off the little tail button, then pulled out a wad of cotton. A shimmering row of diamonds spilled out. “From my father?” Elisa asked.
“Right under the noses of the Gestapo. Into our hands in Austria, transformed into passports and ransom for children across the border in Germany. You see, eventually, the Reich does get its cash, but we get lives in return.” Leah picked up the file containing information about Theo Lindheim.
“And what about my father?” Elisa asked, staring down at the gems.
“That’s what this is all about.” Leah slapped the folder. “When he didn’t get out, we saved enough—fifty thousand dollars’ worth, we figured.” She tapped the bow, the one that Rudy had pretended to fence with. “There’s more in there, as well.”
“You saved money?”
“Gems. Irmgard had been trying to discover your father’s whereabouts for a year.” Leah frowned at the thought of Irmgard Schüler. “You see why I was so angry when you spoke badly of her?”
“Rudy said they would never let him out,” Elisa said fearfully. “Never!”
Leah did not seem to hear her. She was already checking the five passports in the bottom of the case. “Yes, yes” —she opened each folder and shut it again—“these will do for the boys with Shimon and Albert. But still nothing for my little ones.”
Elisa did not care about passports for the children. All she wanted was some reassurance that her father would somehow also find his freedom. She flipped through the file. There was a photograph of Theo. Description, age, some reference of the crime of assisting underground Jewish organizations.
Captured near Munich December 18, 1936. Interrogated in Brown House at Munich. Solitary Confinement. Transferred to Dachau under name Jacob Stern. May 23, 1937. Jew. Political enemy of the Reich, known for anti-Nazi sentiments and activities.
“Can he still be alive?” Elisa asked, alarmed when she saw the date of Theo’s transfer to Dachau.
“He’s alive.” Leah spoke with certainty. “Otherwise it would be listed in the file when he died.” She was still frowning down thoughtfully at the stack of passports. “If you can call Dachau being alive,” she added.
Elisa gasped, stricken at the thought of her father in such a place for so long.
It was clear from Leah’s expression that she was instantly sorry for what she’d said.
“Look,” Elisa said weakly. “They have copies of all our letters here. From Innsbruck. They know everything about how he escaped from the Adlon. John Murphy’s name is here and . . .” She felt ill. “And they say that Thomas came to the store the night we left Germany. Thomas was there! Did he . . . is Thomas von Kleistmann any part of this organization?”
“No,” Leah said. “If he went to warn your father, he acted on his own. If he tried to help you, it was apart from us. By then Theo knew already. He had seen the list. We have heard that Theo wanted fifteen others to leave Berlin. They were on the list as well.”
“Thomas,” Elisa said with amazement. “Yes. He must have come to the office that night. My father said it was a messenger, but—” She turned her gaze full on Leah. “He will help us,” she whispered. “I have to talk to him. He can help us.”
Leah looked doubtful. “Be careful, Elisa. You must not tell him anything.” She touched the case. “Nothing at all about all this. You must act on your own if you choose to ask Thomas von Kleistmann for help.”
A soft knock sounded on the door and a small voice called, “Fraülein Leah? We are finished.”
“There is a more important problem now,” Leah said, staring at the five passports. “What can we do with these little ones until we can get them passports and proper papers? They can’t stay in Vienna. Not now.”
“Fraülein Leah? Fraülein Elisa?”
Elisa looked at the box of angels beside the bed. With her toe, she absently nudged the lid from the box until the jumble of violin-playing angels smiled up at her. Elisa was suddenly involved, just as her father had been, in the lives and the lists of the Jews of Germany. “There was a reason Rudy called me,” she said. “I am Aryan . . . on paper, anyway. I am a violinist. And I carry a violin case . . .”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I will carry the case. You must tell me everything—everything. Where I must go. Who I must see.” Then she looked toward the bedroom door. “And I will tell you a place where we must take the children. A family in the Tyrol who have lost their son. I will talk to them.” She put her hand on Leah’s arm. “The children must not come through Vienna any longer.
We’ll find another place for them while we get their passports.”
32
Dachau Night
Night had come without darkness or peace to Dachau. A huge stone wall topped by electric wires ringed the massive prison compound. From the towers, machine guns bristled and stern, black-shirted sentinels kept watch. Harsh floodlights glared down upon the stark white walls of the barracks, bleaching color and life from the scene.
From the door of Barracks 11, a thin skeleton of a man emerged dressed in a black-and-white striped uniform. He stood blinking up into the lights and turrets, then stumbled from the step. His face was colorless, and he walked with a jerking motion as he moved toward the forbidden area where the lights beat down unrelentingly and signs declared that those who stepped across the low wire would be shot. The figure did not seem human. His thin clothes flapped in the chill wind like the rags on a scarecrow.
Scharf Geschossen! The black lettering warned.
The scarecrow trudged on toward the forbidden line. He did not look at the guards who shouted to him or halt at their command. Like an image on a black-and-white celluloid film, he lurched across a bleak screen. The guard dogs barked, straining on their leashes. One guard, then another, then still another clicked rifle bolts into place; the sound echoed hollowly across the silent night, a grim counterpoint to the crunch of ragged shoes against the snow.
“Judenhund! Halt!” cried a guard as he took aim on the stripes. A bony knee lifted a foot over the wire.
The figure seemed not to hear the words, the threats, the shouts. His hollow eyes stared past the harsh lights as though searching for something—some color, perhaps a single star.
Then, in a rattle of machine-gun fire, the black-and-white stripes jumped forward in a strange jerking dance that tore and stained the fabric—red, perhaps, if there had been color. But there was no color—only the white glare of the lights and a body tumbling forward as a spirit broke free and sailed over the walls of Dachau toward colors and stars.