Elisa had the distinct impression that this exchange had taken place more than once between her father and this little man—perhaps many times, over many trivial issues.
“It would be wise if I were to search your luggage,” came the reply.
“You know I am a man of my word, Herr Müller.”
Elisa was surprised that her father used the man’s name.
Müller nudged Elisa’s suitcase with the toe of his shoe. “Open,” he ordered Elisa. Then he gave the violin case a kick that sent it toppling from the heap.
She resisted the urge to cry out, even though the instrument was valued at many times more than they were permitted to take from the borders of Germany. Obediently she knelt and opened her bag. Herr Müller reached down and in one motion held up the case and dumped its contents. Ski clothes, sweaters, bras, and panties that had been packed so neatly fell in a jumbled mess onto the tiled floor. Elisa looked away as Müller held up a bra and laughed. It was then that she noticed another man: tall and lanky with dark brown hair and a distinct expression of anger on his young face. He grimaced slightly and looked down as she caught his frank and open stare. He sighed and shook his head thoughtfully as he took out a notepad and strode to where Müller pawed through Elisa’s clothes.
Another Gestapo man? Elisa stayed beside her bag. She was humiliated but defiant as Müller commented on every article of clothing.
Her father could do nothing.
Müller remarked on the lace of Elisa’s bra. “Typical of a Jewess. German women wear plain wool and cotton. Decadent. Ridiculous extravagance.”
Just then the tall young man spoke up. “Arresting these people for underwear violations? A new Reichstag law? Something about what women should wear?” He had an American accent, and a slight smile curved his lips when Müller jerked his head up at his interruption. A dozen other people hurried by as though nothing were happening.
“Gestapo business!” Müller snapped. Then he added with disdain, “Not the business of foreigners, Englishman.”
“American,” corrected the young intruder. “And you’re wrong. It is my business. I am a news reporter. You want to see my press card?” He extended his wallet. Müller had turned his attention on him now but did not even bother to inspect his credentials.
“So? What has this to do with you? Or your newspaper?”
“We’re always interested in new laws in Germany. I mean, suppose some American couple came here to honeymoon and the wife got arrested on violation of lace statutes?” He shrugged as though he were perfectly serious. “That is the material for international incidents.”
“Get out of here before I arrest you also!” Müller hissed.
The newsman had already extended his hand to Elisa. “John Murphy.” He introduced himself as though he were meeting her at the theatre. “The New York Times.”
She nodded. “Elisa Lindheim. And Theo Lindheim.”
Murphy shook her father’s hand. “The Theo Lindheim, I presume?”
Theo looked embarrassed, uneasy. “Simply Theo Lindheim.”
Murphy began to jot notes. He asked Müller for his name. Müller raised his chin angrily. “Also none of your business. They have violated an ordinance,” he added defensively. “Now if you will leave me to it. . . .
Murphy frowned thoughtfully. “Violation of ordinance.” He wrote each word down. “Which one?” He pointed to the clothes. “Something, uh . . . ” He searched for words. “You see,” he said, changing the subject, “I have been asked to write a little piece on everyday life in Germany. I’ve seen an unusual number of arrests lately. This is as good as any. Beautiful young woman, wife of Theo Lindheim, arrested. You see? It makes good copy. She’s Aryan and he’s Jewish?”
Elisa did not correct him. She began to gather her things with the hope that Müller would somehow be distracted by this brash American journalist. She did not care if he thought she was Theo’s wife. She would only be happy if they could catch their waiting train.
“She is his daughter,” Müller spat. “And no more in Germany will you see Jewish industrialists with beautiful German women!” He narrowed his eyes as though he were pronouncing the end of all such terrible relationships.
“Yes. I forgot.” Murphy stuck out his lower lip. “Another law.” He turned to her father. “So what are you in trouble for?”
“My daughter sat on a bench,” he said. He raised an eyebrow and a flicker of understanding passed between the two men.
Murphy scribbled in his notebook: Sat on bench.
Müller stepped between them. “If you interfere, you will also be arrested.”
Murphy held up his hands innocently. “Don’t let me stop you. I’m just out for a story, see?” He stepped back and stood with his pencil poised. “It is all yours. Spell your name for me.”
Müller stood blinking at the American journalist. He had missed his opportunity for the five-hundred-mark bribe. He could not take a single mark while this American observed. But Lindheim would be back, and they would settle the issue of violations then. “Herr Lindheim,” he said politely, “please accept this warning. The law is the law. There is little we can do but enforce it. This time since your daughter”—he glared at Elisa—“has been abroad, we will be lenient.”
Murphy smiled benignly and nodded as he wrote the word lenient and underlined it. “Yes. Very good.”
“You must, however, respect the law of National Socialist Germany if you are to be welcome here as our guest.” Müller’s face showed that he feared he had gone too far with those words. “Germany is fair with everyone who obeys her laws and statutes.”
The announcement sounded again on the loudspeaker. “May we go, Herr Müller?” asked Theo Lindheim.
Müller, scribbled Murphy. “Good show, Herr Müller. You make a good impression for the Fatherland.”
Müller smiled in relief. He nodded abruptly. “Remember what I have said, Herr Lindheim. Yes, you must catch your train.”
Murphy took over the conversation as Elisa and her father scrambled to repack her scattered possessions. Müller did not even seem to notice as they struggled off with their arms loaded with gear. She heard Müller proclaim “Heil Hitler!” at the end of the interview.
Murphy responded with, “Twenty-three skidoo!”
Elisa’s heart was still pounding as they rushed toward their compartment. The door seemed very far away, as if it were at the end of a distant tunnel. Voices and faces were a jumbled blur of noise and light. Now she was not sorry to leave Berlin, even if it was forever.
Only after the train was hours from the station did she think again of the brash young American who had certainly rescued them.
8
The Dragon’s Prey
Within a few short days, Wilhelm and Dieter Linder had learned to laugh all over again. From early morning until the last stubborn rays of sunlight disappeared, they skied on the slopes of the Kitzbühel with the two youngest Wattenbarger brothers. Wilhelm had grown quite fond of seventeen-year-old Gretchen Wattenbarger and cast longing looks in her direction over meals with the family. Herr Wattenbarger had taught them the finer points of milking cows and churning butter, and they had made themselves useful wading through muck in their tall Wellington boots. What the Wattenbarger children considered drudgery, Wilhelm and Dieter attacked with an enthusiasm born of too many long months cooped up indoors in hostile Berlin. Mucking out stalls was a delight to them. Herr Wattenbarger used their work as an example to hold up to Friedrich and Helmut, the youngest of his four sons.
Franz joined in the fun each evening, teaching the boys to play the card game of Watten. Otto, however, simply ate his meal in silence and then retreated to the privacy of the small farm hut across the pasture. Even the Linder boys frowned when they looked at Otto. There was something serious and unhappy about Otto’s manner; his entrance into a room would cause their laughter to fall silent.
Anna Linder was still polite and correct in her conversation, but unlike her sons, t
he worry had not left her face or her voice when she spoke. Wilhelm and Dieter had stopped being so careful, but she remained cautious and veiled in her conversations. She laughed at the antics of the children and, Franz thought, there was a genuine happiness that her sons were enjoying themselves after what must have been a difficult time. But her laughter often stopped before anyone else’s. She looked away, and Franz could almost read her thoughts. Yes. She is wondering about her husband, her daughter.
One morning in the kitchen Franz had asked his mother if she noticed anything different about the Linders. Frau Wattenbarger had nodded and answered in a whisper, “Frau Linder is worried, Franz. That much is plain.” Later, in the barn she had said, “Unless this fellow Hitler is stopped, there will be a million more wives and mothers who carry secrets and hide their fears from strangers. Yes, we may see many more faces like Anna Linder’s. Beautiful, and very, very sad.”
Frau Anna Linder was indeed very beautiful, Franz thought, observing the elegance with which she moved. And somehow her sadness made her seem even more attractive. She carried the grace of Vienna with her. Franz noticed that his father was rigidly proper and polite with her, as though he were addressing a baroness. Perhaps the woman truly was of the aristocracy. Many of the nobles had been driven from Germany by the regime of the obnoxious little paperhanger in the Chancellery.
Franz enjoyed letting his imagination play on the mysterious circumstances of their guests. And lately he had found himself almost obsessed with wondering about Elisa Linder, the daughter of whom Frau Linder spoke so often.
A musician in Vienna . . . she plays the violin with the symphony. . . . Is she beautiful? Why yes, yes. She is quite beautiful I think.
“And she knows everything!” Wilhelm had added. “Make her sleep in the barn, Frau Wattenbarger!”
Only this morning, Frau Linder had shown Franz a snapshot of Elisa. “Taken three years ago beside the Spree River.” she had said. Immediately she caught herself, but she saw in his eyes that he knew the picture had been taken in Berlin! Before she had said it, he knew! As though caught in a terrible secret, she quickly put away the photograph.
“Yes, she is a pretty girl,” Franz had said, and Frau Linder had scurried off to air the bedding or straighten the bedroom. Elisa Linder was pretty, Franz thought, but not really so remarkable. In the photograph she had squinted into the sun and seemed almost gangly in her appearance. The daughter was not nearly as beautiful as the mother.
Tonight, as Franz hitched up the mare for the ride into the village, he felt a sense of excitement. Frau Anna would ride with him, and together they would pick up her daughter and Herr Theo Linder. Franz was interested to see what kind of a man had so totally captured the heart of a woman like Frau Anna.
He pulled the sleigh around to the front door and held the mare steady as Anna emerged from the warmth of the farmhouse. For the first time since she had come here, there was a lightness, an excitement about her that made her seem no more than thirty. The lines of worry around her eyes were gone. She stepped out and inhaled deeply, as though savoring the clear air and anticipating her reunion with the man she loved.
Franz stared hard at her, and in spite of himself, he felt a stirring. Yes, she is beautiful. Beautiful and young. “You are happy, Frau Anna?” He looked away and pretended to adjust the bridle.
“Yes, Franz. It has been difficult to be here in such a beautiful place and have no one to share it with.”
He looked hard at her, afraid that she would see the thought that played in his mind. “Yes,” he responded as her smile faded. “I know what you mean.”
She appeared thoughtful, standing with her hand on the seat of the sleigh. “Very soon”—she seemed amused by his frank stare and now spoke to him as if he were a small boy—“quite soon, my husband and I will have our twenty-fifth anniversary. One gets accustomed to sharing beautiful things with someone after twenty-five years.”
Franz blushed in spite of himself. He leaned down absently as though he were checking the bit. “You must have married quite young,” he said. She had read his thoughts.
“Twenty.” She stepped into the sleigh with dignity.
He cleared his throat, now doubly embarrassed as he calculated her age. “I would have thought you married at nine or ten.” He laughed, and she laughed with him. “Your husband is lucky to have a wife so beautiful.” The compliment was sincere, and he wondered again about what sort of man could win such a prize.
Suddenly she sounded quite young as well. “You think so, Franz?” she asked eagerly. “I want to look as fresh as the mountains tonight.”
This was the first moment that Frau Anna had shown her heart in any way. Gone was the veil of secrecy. Franz could see that there was something in the love this woman had for her husband that somehow enhanced her beauty. “Good wine ages well,” Franz said quietly, and she laughed again as the sleigh started into motion with a jerk.
***
John Murphy did not sleep as the train clattered slowly across the dark countryside of Germany. Endless searches and unexplained delays had put the schedule back by several hours. Now he doubted that they would cross the border into Austria before daybreak.
At every whistle-stop along the way, men in uniform and officials in gray trench coats and high boots had gotten on and off the train. Murphy had watched each platform in dread that he might see Theo Lindheim and his daughter being led away in handcuffs. Somehow, his intervention in Berlin had given him a sense of responsibility. He was angry with himself that he couldn’t simply leave it alone now that they were on the train. This unreasonable anxiety for the welfare of total strangers was costing him a night’s sleep.
He reached up and switched off the light, then pulled his hat low over his eyes in an attempt to rest. Moments later he tossed his hat angrily onto the empty seat beside him and stared out the window into the darkness once again. Tiny villages and silent farmhouses slid by until at last the train slowed and rattled into Munich.
The inevitable Gestapo agents stood waiting on the platform just as they had on every platform in every village in the country. Don’t these guys sleep? Murphy wondered. He could hear them banging against the doors of compartments, shouting orders, and searching weary passengers.
“We have word there are smugglers onboard,” a harried voice called to a conductor. “Open by order of—”
Murphy rolled his eyes and jammed his hat down on his head as someone pounded on his door.
“Keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, pulling the door open and reaching for his papers with one practiced move.
He was met by a small man, remarkably like the Herr Müller who had harassed the Lindheims at the Berlin station.
“Your papers, bitte.” The man held out his hand in an almost effeminate manner.
“Does the Nazi government have some kind of factory or something? Turns out little Gestapo agents? You all look alike.” He spoke in English as he gave his papers to the man.
“I do not speak English, Herr Murphy.” The man scanned the forms. “American, I see. A reporter.” He exhaled loudly. “Your destination?”
“Berchtesgaden.”
The agent’s eyebrows went up slightly. “Oh? Official business?”
“You might say that. An appointment with Herr von Ribbentrop. Possibly a conversation with the Führer.” He could not resist the temptation to name-drop.
The man’s hands began to tremble. “Ja? The Führer?” He handed Murphy back his papers without further questions.
“Right. I was supposed to be there hours ago, but the train keeps getting delayed.” He frowned angrily at the sound of luggage being tossed out into the hall. “I’ll have a word with Herr Hitler about German trains, you can count on it.”
“We have orders to—” The man looked genuinely frightened.
“Ja. I know all about it. I have heard it all night.” More fists crashed against doors as he spoke. “You know, in Italy Mussolini has made all the trains run on time. Y
our Reich could take a lesson.” Murphy scowled and leaned close to the agent’s face. “So. What is your name?”
The Gestapo agent turned on his heel and stomped down the corridor, shouting at his comrades, “We have an important official on board! Finish up!”
Murphy stepped out into the corridor and stood against the doorjamb to watch the retreat. A tall officer bearing the jagged insignia of an SS officer hurried past, then stopped to stare back at Murphy. “And who do you think you are? Why are you watching?”
“I am the important American official,” Murphy said evenly. “I have an appointment with the Führer.”
The soldier’s eyes grew wide with astonishment; then he scurried away after the little Gestapo man. He stepped over a pile of clothes that had been dumped out of a suitcase into the corridor; with one final glance back at Murphy, he vanished into the next car. A moment later the train lurched once and rattled out of the vast Munich train station. Murphy could hear the sound of muffled sobs from the compartment across from his. He wondered if the voice was that of Elisa Lindheim. Without thinking, he raised his hand and knocked gently on the door.
A fat, bald man of about fifty answered. He stared angrily up at Murphy. “Ja?” he demanded, pulling his bathrobe tight around his bulging middle. A gray-haired woman with sagging cheeks and red swollen eyes sobbed behind him. She did not seem to notice Murphy.
Murphy blushed and stepped back. “Wrong . . . pardon me. Bitte!” He doffed his hat and struck off down the corridor, stopping only when he reached the clothes strewn in front of compartment 7A. Delicate stuff. Lace underwear. He had seen it all before. My God, did they take her off the train? He snatched his hat from his head and stood staring dumbly at the belongings of Elisa Lindheim. He knelt impulsively as though to gather them up, his sense of failure and responsibility heavy on his mind. While I was playing the wise guy, they got her off the train. Shaking his head, he picked up a handful of clothing. Just then, the door to 7A opened, and he was suddenly eye level with a gorgeous set of legs that curved gracefully upward into a blue satin dressing gown.