Vienna Prelude

  “Has Herr Stern talked yet?”

  “No. Nothing. Not a word. He eats like a well man. We leave the food, and when we come back the tray is empty. But he has not spoken even a word.”

  “If he has strength enough to eat, then . . . ”

  “The doctor thinks his mind is gone. Even dumb animals know enough to eat. There is no hope for this one. Better he should have died and been done with it.”

  “He is Jewish; there is no doubt. Circumcised. If worse comes to worst, the Gestapo will not mistake that. I have heard they shoot sick Jews in their beds.”

  They spoke loud enough for Theo to overhear, and he was certain that their words were meant for him. He lay blinking up at the white ceiling. When they came in he would look just the same as he had that morning. He would not even acknowledge their words of terror. They would not be able to frighten a response out of him.

  He shut his eyes as a nurse entered the room and lifted his wrist to check his pulse. “Your pulse is rapid, Herr Stern,” she remarked, tucking his hand back under his sheets. “Were you dreaming? A bad dream, perhaps? Yes, we are all having bad dreams now days.”

  She walked away from the bedside, and he looked toward the patch of blue again. He was afraid to walk to the window. Afraid to see how high he was from the ground. If someone saw him standing there, he would be taken away immediately, and he did not want to lose even one bit of nourishment, one moment of precious rest. Still he looked at the wrist bracelet and wished that it were off. Throughout the long day, he wondered how much it would take to escape from the hospital. There were no bars on the window. Perhaps he could slip out and disappear into the busy streets of . . . of where? He did not even know what city he was in. He had guessed Munich, since that was the nearest large city to the Dachau prison.

  He knew Munich well. He had friends in the central part of the city. But he had no clothes, no money; and Munich was thick with Nazis. Here Hitler had established his first grassroots support. Theo thought of the possibilities of walking from the building and finding some haven in the midst of Germany’s hell. But how? Most certainly there were Gestapo and SS guarding every exit and every floor. He would be picked up immediately. And that would mean an immediate return to the prison, the end of his temporary bed and decent food. It would simply mean the end.

  43

  The Time Has Come!

  A breath of hope blew through Vienna on a warm wind. Word had come that Mussolini had sent a message of congratulations to Schuschnigg. He had done the right thing in being so agreeable with the Führer. Nothing more would happen now. Things would soon get better since Italy and England were talking again and Anthony Eden was out of the way.

  Someone in the office of the Austrian government had let the contents of Il Duce’s message leak out. It provided a day of optimism in the conversation of the cafés of the city. People shrugged and said, “You see, things will be all right, after all. Austria will always be Austria.”

  The people of the little nation were for the most part firmly behind Schuschnigg, and when, on March 9, he announced that a vote be held to demonstrate the political strength of the established government, the decision was greeted pragmatically. The plebiscite was intended as a vote of confidence in favor of a free and independent Austria. Who wouldn’t vote for that? Only the Nazis. Only the Germans. Only Hitler himself.

  It was raining in Vienna. Murphy walked down the Ringstrasse without an umbrella. The sidewalk was littered with hundreds of pamphlets announcing the plebiscite, which would be held in Austria on the following Sunday, March 13.

  Murphy had heard that Mussolini had also sent along another message to Schuschnigg, this one dealing specifically with the vote.

  It is a mistake, Mussolini had warned. If the result is satisfactory, people will say it is not genuine. If it is bad, the situation of the government will be unbearable; and if it is indecisive, then it is worthless.

  Of course, no one in Austria doubted that the result of such a vote would be overwhelmingly in favor of the government. The simple question on the ballot was: Are you for a free, independent, Christian Austria? Yes was the only option listed.

  At this moment in history, Murphy was certain that even the Jews of Austria would vote for the Christian government of Austria. This was a vote being held to show the world that the people of Austria wanted their independence! The plebiscite was for the benefit of Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, and Prime Minister Chamberlain, and anyone else who doubted the Austrian people’s will to survive! A free, independent, Christian Austria? A resounding ja! would be heard the world over. But it would make little difference in the long run.

  At the embassy, Harry Scotch warned Murphy that Americans in Vienna were being put on some sort of alert. Harry didn’t know what that meant, and neither did Murphy. Harry suspected that it was a warning to lay in a good supply of booze and any luxury items that might suddenly disappear if the Germans decided to invade. He had acted on that suspicion, and now had an apartment full of things that were essential to his lifestyle.

  When Murphy went to check on Elisa’s passport, Harry asked about her with a sly wink that gave Murphy an urge to smash him right in the nose. Elisa already had her passport; Harry was surprised that Murphy didn’t know about his own wife. “You know women . . .” Murphy shrugged.

  “Did you get her a ring yet?” Harry asked. “I didn’t notice if she’s still wearing the cigar band.”

  Murphy pretended not to hear him and left in a hurry. Now he prowled along the Ringstrasse in the rain, searching for a wedding band. Something more than a plain gold band; he wanted it to be noticed on her hand by any Gestapo thugs who might corner her.

  On the window of a small jewelry shop words were scrawled proclaiming that the owner was selling out and leaving Austria. Murphy stepped beneath the awning and looked in at the nearly empty case. There were still a few wedding bands on display, several with diamonds. Murphy didn’t want to buy her anything that some goon might be tempted to steal. He walked into the shop. A little bell jingled over the door as he passed the threshold, and a small man with thick glasses and baggy clothes stepped out from behind a curtained workshop area.

  “I saw your sign.” Murphy stood dripping and awkward in the center of the small shop.

  “Ja. You are looking for something special? We are almost empty.”

  “You’re leaving Vienna?”

  The man nodded and stepped up to a glass counter. “Here is what we have left. Only these. All handmade by me and my son.” He plainly wanted to talk about jewelry, not leaving Vienna.

  Murphy decided not to ask him where he was going or how he felt about it. Mind your own business. “I want a wedding ring. For . . . a woman.”

  “Ja. We have a few here.” He pulled out a tray.

  Murphy stepped forward and in an instant saw what he wanted. There, nestled on black velvet among a dozen others, was a band of blue lapis inset in gold with a gold vine entwined around the stone. It was simple. It was royal blue—the color he had searched for in the crowd outside the embassy. It made him smile and ache at the same time. He pointed. “The blue one.”

  Now the jeweler smiled. “Lapis lazuli. Blue, like the color of Gott’s eyes, mein Herr. Ja. Beautiful.”

  Murphy thought about Elisa’s eyes. They had such depth of color. He paid for the ring without ever questioning the price, then tucked it into his pocket and left the little shop. He did not think about the rain anymore, and when he showed up on her doorstep like a soggy puppy, she smiled kindly at him and invited him in for tea or coffee.

  “Are you lost?” She was amused at his appearance. She took his overcoat, but the rest of his clothes were just as wet.

  “No. I’ve been gone from Vienna a while. The Eden thing.” He was dripping on her rug. He looked at the petit point chairs and remembered the miserable night he had watched her shadow on the shade and seen two silhouettes kissing. The memory made him uncomfortable. He was suddenly imagining all that must ha
ve taken place in here that night. “Nice place.”

  She was polite, but controlled. “Herr Murphy,” she began, “why are you here on such a night?” She did not offer him a seat.

  “Harry said you picked up the passport.” He glanced toward the bedroom. A little lamp was beside the table. An angel—one of his—hung from the shade with a cigar band crown. Murphy was pleased. He looked away as her eyes followed his and suddenly she blushed.

  “Yes. The passport. Thank you. I got it very quickly. Twice more I have been to Germany, and the document has made life much less complicated.”

  “You’ve been there since”—he frowned—“even with all this going on? Don’t you realize you might get yourself caught in the middle of a Nazi Panzer division heading this way?”

  “I can take care of myself.” She turned away, shutting the bedroom door. “But thank you.”

  He could not think of anything else to say. He was alone in the same room with her, and words just vanished. He reached into his pocket as the teakettle whistled. “I brought you this.” He tossed her the small velvet box.

  She held it as the kettle continued to shriek. She bit her lip and shrugged. “Why?” she asked above the noise.

  “It reminded me of you.” He wished she would turn off the kettle. But maybe she left it screaming on purpose. It’s hard to get romantic with the noise of an angry teakettle in the background.

  She shrugged and appeared distracted, then laid the box on the table and went to fix the tea. “Herr Murphy,” she said, “I know what you are thinking.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “This is a business arrangement. And it has been concluded, I think, when you were paid.”

  “Just open it. Then I’ll leave,” he said quietly. “I should have sent it by messenger, but I . . . I wanted to see that you are all right. Things are getting pretty heated on the other side of the border. I just . . .”

  “I am fine.” She carried out the cups and set them down beside the box.

  She wore gray wool slacks and a blue sweater, and her hair was done up like some movie star Murphy couldn’t remember. “No tea. I’ve got to get going. Just open it.”

  She didn’t want to open it, he could tell. She picked up the box and held it. He couldn’t see her face. She had turned away from him and soft strands of hair tumbled down on her neck. He wanted to touch her, but he didn’t. She exhaled loudly and opened the box, then closed it quickly again and looked toward the kitchen and the steaming kettle. He was sorry he had come. She didn’t like it. A blind man could tell that she didn’t like it. He had been a sentimental idiot.

  “I thought you could use it.” His voice cracked like an adolescent teenager.

  She still did not face him. She stood in silence, her back to him.

  Murphy shifted uneasily. “Well, I should go now.” He moved toward the door. She still did not speak or try to stop him. “Did you see that it was blue? Like your dress?” he asked with his hand on the knob.

  She nodded once, but she did not turn to face him. She held the box in her hand and still stared at the kettle.

  Murphy frowned. He wished she would look at him. He scratched his cheek and stepped away from the door, then sidled closer to her, moving around to the side, then stepping between her and the kettle. She was crying. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. He looked at her as though she were a stranger. Just when he had been certain she was all cold and heartless, she pulled this!

  “You’re crying.”

  She bit her lip and angrily wiped away tears.

  Murphy reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, but it was also dripping wet.

  “Just when I thought I had you all figured out,” she said, sniffing and taking the wet hankie from him. “Please go,” she murmured. “Just take your coat and go!” She was still crying. She did not look at him. She stared at his shoes. They were muddy, and he had tracked mud in all over her rug.

  “Elisa, ” he began, reaching up to touch the red place along her jawline. This was the place where her violin rested. It made him wish that she would lay her cheek against his hand.

  “Herr Murphy!” She stiffened and stepped back.

  “Just Murphy . . . you know.”

  “No!” She was adamant. “Mister Murphy. I should not have let you in. I thought you were someone else. I have guests coming tonight. To listen to the broadcast. I thought you were . . .”

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, reaching out to touch her cheek once again.

  “I cry easily. These are not happy times.”

  “You mean you would be crying anyway? Even if I hadn’t come?” He laughed. “That’s a relief.”

  “I am sorry,” she apologized. “You should go now. I have guests coming.”

  “Right.” He didn’t move. His hand still touched her cheek, but she would not lift her chin when he nudged it gently. She would not look into his face, even though he was lost in looking at hers.

  “Please,” she said more brusquely. “My company is a man.” She stepped away from him. “He will not understand your being here.”

  Her confession stopped him short. He cleared his throat and fumbled for his overcoat. “I thought you might need a ring,” he said gruffly. “Something more than a cigar band.” Then he remembered that she had said she was expecting guests. “Who else is coming?” he asked. “You said guests.”

  “A friend. With him.” She went to the door.

  He understood. She would have him out of the apartment and out of her life.

  She threw the front door open just as the fist of Shimon was raised to knock.

  “Guten Abend! It is Herr Murphy, isn’t it?” Leah charged past Shimon and pumped Murphy’s hand vigorously. “How lovely to see you here!” She looked toward Elisa, who slipped into the bedroom—to fix her makeup or something, Murphy assumed.

  “Are you staying for the broadcast?” Shimon patted him on the back. “It will be good to have another man around while these women gossip.” He scowled. “You are all wet, Herr Murphy!” He bawled to Elisa. “Get Herr Murphy the clothes I left when I stayed here!”

  Elisa emerged from the bedroom, looking mildly unhappy. “Herr Murphy has an engagement.”

  “It’s okay.” Murphy was relieved. “I was just going to meet a few other journalists to talk about tonight’s broadcast by Schuschnigg. Just business. I can stay and hear it right here.”

  ***

  Since the first of January, seventeen Jewish children in all had passed from Vienna to the farmhouse in Kitzbühel, then on to France or Switzerland. Now the house was filled with happy noises as an additional nine waited for the papers that would open the way to some new homeland far from the roaring of Hitler’s Legions.

  There was some amused satisfaction among the Wattenbargers this week when they learned that the German ambassador was in the village for a skiing trip while under his nose nine Jewish children learned to milk cows and played with kittens and helped with the baking.

  “And that is as close as any Nazi will come to them,” Franz said as he kissed his wife good-bye. The young bride held on to his arm.

  “We will be praying that it goes well in Innsbruck,” she whispered. “That the whole world will listen to the voice of Austria.”

  Franz nodded. Tonight he and his father traveled to Innsbruck to hear Chancellor Schuschnigg speak. He was, indeed, the voice of Austria; there seemed to be no one else to speak for the wishes of the little nation. Millions would listen to his broadcast, but Franz and Herr Karl would be among those twenty thousand in the square who raised their voices to cheer him on.

  The verdict of the coming plebiscite was not in doubt. Although many of the youth of the nation were caught up in Nazi propaganda, they could not vote.

  What remained was a million and a half workers who had just pledged their support after the outrage of Berchtesgaden. Another million and a half peasants would back Schuschnigg to a man without being asked, and the country’s half million Jews and half Jews would mark the
ir ballots ja! For Austria and Schuschnigg! Even without the monarchists and the Nazi stalwarts of the Fatherland Front, Chancellor Schuschnigg and Austria could be assured of at least 70 percent of the vote. Union with Germany was not wanted. All of Hitler’s threats and desertion by the great powers could not change that.

  Here, tonight, cheering thousands would give the world an answer to the question. Millions more would listen at home on their wireless sets. If this last rallying cry within Austria was only to be the dying scream of one alone and drowning in a sea rocked by apathy and tyranny, then at least the call would echo in the parliaments of every nation who did not reach out to help!

  Kurt von Schuschnigg had come home to his native Tyrol to make his appeal. The streets and plazas of Innsbruck were crammed with men and women who had come to add their voices to his.

  Franz and Karl were near the front of the wooden scaffolding that was draped with the red-and-white flags of Austria. The chancellor wore a loose gray jacket and the green waistcoat of the Austrian Alps. He stood and a roaring cheer erupted from the mass. Applause and shouts of “Long live Austria!” all but drowned out Herr Karl’s words as he leaned close to Franz.

  “Mussolini can hear us now!” He was laughing. Even his drooping mustache seemed to smile.

  “And the British and the French as well!” Franz replied.

  Schuschnigg spoke for twenty minutes. This was his answer to Hitler’s “gracious invitation” to Berchtesgaden! He ended his impassioned speech, “Tyroleans and Austrians, say yes to the Tyrol! Say yes to Austria!” Twenty thousand voices yelled themselves hoarse in the square, while the millions at home quietly cheered as well.