Suddenly they were no longer discussing paintings or cigars. “I was hoping we might talk before I left for the States.”
“You are leaving tomorrow on the Queen Mary, I understand?”
“My wife and I and a small boy. A refugee from Germany. He requires medical attention in the States.”
“The Kronenberger child.” Churchill was already informed, and his knowledge surprised Murphy. “A few of us followed the affair in Germany. Dreadful thing. One must pause to wonder at a race of people who pour millions into the weapons of destruction and yet will not spend a penny to raise the quality of one child’s life. The enormity of Nazi aggression often tends to mask the hideous offenses against individuals.”
He lowered his voice. “But then, you have seen all that firsthand with your wife and her family. The rest of us may rage against the breaking of this treaty or that. We may fear the force of Nazi air power and discuss the plans of Hitler against the nations . . . and we forget what all that means to even one child like Charles Kronenberger.”
Now Churchill looked out across the grounds. “One blade of grass is often lost to the big picture. Such are the affairs of politics and the lives of men.” He walked slowly back to the bench and sat down. “And yet there are moments when the issues may well hinge on one another. The small story becomes the issue on which great matters are decided.”
Murphy nodded, even though he was uncertain where the great man was heading with his thought. “I had planned to stay on in Prague for a while. My publisher arranged for the crossing. He intends to meet us in New York. From there I am not sure what issues I will be covering. I expect we’ll be back in Europe within the month.”
“Within the month,” Churchill repeated vacantly, “Europe as we know it may no longer exist. That, my friend, is the big picture. Small details such as human life under the dominion of the Nazis seem to be of little concern to our mighty governments. That is the great tragedy of our time. Peace at any cost is not peace at all.”
“President Beneš . . . the Czechs have managed to hold ground,” Murphy began.
Churchill silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I would not want to be in the shoes of President Beneš. The ground he has held is quicksand, I’m afraid. Czechoslovakia is in the center of the storm. Germany on one side and Russia on the other.” He pressed his palms together as if he were cracking a walnut between them. “Comrade Stalin has only just finished killing thousands of his best officers simply because he heard they might be friendly toward the Germans. By the time the purge in Russia is over, countless lives will be snuffed out.”
“But Stalin has given no indication that he is interested in Czechoslovakia,” Murphy protested. “The danger is from the West. From the Germans.”
Churchill cleared his throat. “And what if our little friend Beneš should not only hold his ground against the Germans, but should find some way to sign a treaty with Herr Hitler? Suppose the Czechs should manage to solve this internal problem with the racial Germans in the Sudetenland? What then?”
“Then it would be settled. Things would quiet down, and . . .” Murphy’s voice drifted off as he pictured the vise of Russia and Germany that held the Czech nation. Hitler raved against the Bolsheviks in Russia. Stalin declared that no one was safe with the threat of Nazi Germany in Europe. The government of Beneš was a democratic island in the midst of these two tyrannies. It was the thin line that kept two straining, snarling dogs from tearing each other apart. If that wall came down . . .
Churchill looked pleased. “I can tell the reality of the situation has penetrated your brain. And now, if only our own Prime Minister Chamberlain and the leader of France could see the situation as simply and clearly as we seem to.” He sighed and slapped his thigh in frustration. “But they cannot seem to grasp its significance. If France and Britain do not stick by their treaty obligations to defend Czech soil from invasion, then most certainly we are looking into a dark future for Europe. Czechoslovakia is indeed an aircraft carrier in the heart of the Continent. Either for Hitler or for Stalin—either choice is a dreadful prospect—or, if we stand firm for her, Czechoslovakia will be a stronghold for the democracies.” Churchill puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as both men sat in silence.
It did seem like a simple matter, Murphy mused. Now the riots in Czech-Sudetenland made sense. The Nazi party had gained a powerful political foothold in the mountainous region of Czechoslovakia. It was that very territory that served as a strategic military position for the Czech Army to keep Germany on its own side of the fence. If the Sudetenland were torn from the Prague government, then it would be only a matter of time before the Reich marched across the border. No doubt Russia would then advance from the north. The warring giants would crush the little nation—and with it, people like Anna and Theo would no doubt perish as well.
“Surely Britain and France will not let Beneš down,” Murphy whispered.
Churchill chuckled grimly in reply. “Did you not hear what Chamberlain had remarked about the Czechs? ‘Not top drawer,’ he said. Not even out of the middle. Mr. Murphy, he has again stated his conviction that the Slavs are inferior, that we in England would be fools for considering going to war on their behalf. He is determined to give away the freedom of others to forestall the inevitable conflict that must come to our island in the end. Only six weeks ago he signed the Anglo-Italian pact with Mussolini that gives that dread government the right to pursue their aggression in Abyssinia and Spain. We British merely retain the right to stay out of it.”
“I was in Spain for almost a year.” Murphy’s thoughts filled again with memories of bombed-out towns and dying women and children in the streets. “The Germans and Italians did not even bother to paint over their insignia on the wings of their planes. Target practice. That’s what Spain and Abyssinia are. The Fascists are practicing for what they plan to do to England and any other country that gets in their way.”
“Well, then. We see eye to eye on the matter, Mr. Murphy.” Churchill clapped him on the back. “So what do you intend to do about it?”
Murphy laughed nervously. “Me?”
“You have a mighty pen and a willing publisher, I hear. These matters must be explained on your side of the Atlantic as well. A little pressure from President Roosevelt, and the American public might hold some sway over our umbrella-toting prime minister.”
Murphy nodded. Again he imagined Anna and Theo, Elisa’s family, in Prague. Indeed, they had been through enough in Germany for a lifetime. Now once again they faced the possibility of Nazi invasion. “First of all I’m going to transplant a few blades of grass—” he replied absently.
“Blades of . . . ?”
“My wife’s family. Small details in the big picture. I have to make certain that we get them out of Prague.”
“Not easy these days. They are Jewish, are they not?”
“Elisa’s father is Jewish.”
“The quotas of every nation are filled now. And the Mufti in Palestine has taken up the methods of his mentor, Herr Hitler. Daily the Arab population is rioting against the immigration of additional Jews into the Mandate. Of course, never mind that the majority of Arabs have come into British Palestine from other Arab countries. The Mufti simply will not have another Jew in Jerusalem, he says.”
“Chamberlain isn’t bowing to that kind of pressure, is he?” Murphy was astonished at this information. “He certainly won’t revoke the British commitment to a Jewish homeland—not now, when there is nowhere else for the Jews of Europe to run.”
Churchill did not answer for a long time. “It is common knowledge that the Arab Mufti Haj Amin and Adolf Hitler are on very good terms. Chamberlain seeks peace at any cost. Any cost. As long as it does not cost Britain.” He cleared his throat again. “If I were you, Mr. Murphy, I would do my best to get your wife’s family into America. Surely your publisher can assist you in obtaining visas for them. Within a matter of weeks the British government will close Palestine to all immigration. Tha
t is my prediction.”
Raising his eyebrow slightly Churchill slowly shook his head. “I am afraid this Jeremiah has no vision of good things in the future. No. It does not bode well for any of us. We are being led, docile and meek, to the edge of an abyss. What voice will turn us around? Are we blind? Are we deaf?”
Churchill extended his hand in farewell. The interview was at an end. “You have a crossing to make, Mr. Murphy. I wish you luck. I have offered you no hope and have passed along the heavy cloak of Jeremiah. Perhaps we will meet again soon. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot even hope in my error any longer. Godspeed.”
14
The Queen Mary
Two forged French passports for Louis Kronenberger and Leah were open on the table before them.
“But you see how very good the passports are!” Leah pleaded. “Can we not simply drive across the border?”
Marta and Karl Wattenbarger exchanged glances. “You tell her what you and Franz have seen, Karl,” Marta prompted her husband.
The sad-eyed Tyrolean farmer spread his calloused hands in helpless frustration. “Everywhere there are photos now of you and Louis. Charles is also in the photograph. They have pieced something together. Identified you and Louis somehow. Your faces will condemn you. Here in Austria if you are captured, these passports Otto had made for you may well condemn him.”
“The snows have melted,” Franz said quietly. “We can take you out over the mountains.”
Leah nodded bleakly. She had hoped that somehow Shimon would be freed and join her here for the journey. That was not to be. She cleared her throat in an effort to find words. “Then we have no choice.”
“I am sorry,” Karl said. “The choices are made for us in this.”
The lines of Marta’s kind face deepened with concern. “You must go to France from Italy. Hitler and Mussolini are cut from the same cloth, Leah dear. Soon Jews will no longer be safe in Italy, either. No matter how the Holy Father speaks out against such evil, the course there is set. Do not delay in Italy!”
“If we can reach Paris—” Leah closed her passport and pressed it in her hands— “I have friends there, two sisters who roomed with Elisa and me during our school days at the Mozarteum. They were luckier than we were.” She smiled sadly at a memory. “Not luckier—they were smarter than we were. Elisa and I wanted to stay on in Austria to study and work at the Musikverein. They were ready to see the world. And so they took jobs in Paris.”
“They will help you?”
“I soloed in Paris last year. Sonia and Magda begged me to stay in Paris with them, but by then, you know, Shimon and I were—” She sighed, full of questions about what might have been different if she had stayed. Perhaps Shimon would have joined her there. Perhaps . . .
As if reading her thoughts, Marta placed her hand on Leah’s. “Do not begin to doubt God’s guidance now, child. Do you think He could not see that two little lambs would need you to help them in Vienna? And so you are here now. We must not doubt . . . only pray.”
***
Anna found herself alone in the little house off Mala Strana Square in Prague. Theo, Wilhelm, and young Dieter remained on duty in the Sudetenland. Elisa and Murphy were gone.
In the morning Anna lay in bed too long—much longer than she had except when she was sick. There was no one to make tea for. She did not want breakfast. After a while the old house echoed with memories . . . happy memories, but they were echoes, all the same. She turned her face toward Theo’s pillow. She had managed to live without him so long when he was in prison; would she now have to learn the language of loneliness again?
She was angry with him for running off to this duty. Had they not sacrificed enough time from their lives because of Germany and Hitler and his Nazis? Could they not just live now and forget about it?
She sighed and sat up. She was arguing with a shadow. Theo had given her his answer clearly enough. “Shall I, who have suffered once, let myself forget the suffering that will come upon millions if the Sudetenland is lost? Anna, dear wife, I must serve my heavenly King by doing what I know is right. I made a covenant with dying men, a covenant with the Lord, that while I live I will follow the command of Psalm 37: ‘Trust in the Lord, and do good!’ I alone survived to fulfill that covenant. And so . . .”
“And so he has gone,” Anna whispered in quiet despair. She spoke to the empty pillow. “Again and again, Theo, you have taken up your cross, sometimes without telling me why or how or what you were up to. What about me? What am I supposed to do here in this empty house?”
***
Trains from London emptied their passengers directly onto the docks of Southampton. Throngs of spectators had come just to see the enormous superliner, the pride of the Cunard Line. The sleek hull of the giant Queen Mary dwarfed every other ship in the harbor.
Elisa held tightly to her violin case and Charles shoved his hand in Murphy’s pocket. Murphy pushed ahead through the crowds, using the cello case as a sort of shield before him. It was something Elisa had seen Leah do a hundred times over the years, and the gesture made her ache for her friend once again.
“Get your Queen Mary ash trays right ’ere! Hey, gov’!” A vendor made the mistake of stepping into Murphy’s path. “Buy the lad an ash tray, won’t y’?”
The cello case smacked the wooden tray the man had slung around his neck, sending dozens of glass ash trays crashing to the ground.
“Hey! What’sa idea? Hey you!” The red-faced vendor shouted at Murphy. “Look at me merchandise ’ere! Y’ve smashed everything!”
Murphy hesitated only a moment. “Sorry, fella,” he called over the shrieking whistles of boats in the harbor and the clamor of a small brass band on the quay. “An accident—we’ve got a boat to catch!”
The furious vendor removed the wooden tray and blocked Murphy’s path with it. “An’ I got me a livin’ t’ make! Here, who y’ think y’ are? Twenty-four pounds of me merchandise in pieces an’ y’ gonna catch a boat an’ not pay a brass farthing, I s’pose!”
The cello case pushed hard against the wooden tray. Murphy was nose to nose with the red-faced vendor. From the head of the gangplank the ship’s officer called out over a bullhorn, “All ashore that’s going ashore.”
They had another hundred feet of crowd to push through to make it to the ship. A moment of panic seized Elisa. The glass of the ash trays crunched beneath her feet. Of course this had not been even remotely Murphy’s fault, but now the vendor was screaming for a constable.
The band began to play, “I’m an Old Cowhand from the Rio Grande,” the song that Murphy had sung for Charles. The boy was delighted. Elisa was amazed. She had not believed that Murphy’s rendition had been of a real song. It made her hope that the stories he had told her about Wild West shoot-outs were not about to be reenacted here on the docks of Southampton.
“Look! That American chap has smashed the poor fellow’s things. And now he won’t pay for the damage!” In a moment the rowdy crowd had turned its attention on the broken Queen Mary memorabilia underfoot.
“Murphy!” Elisa called in desperation as she was separated from him by a line of angry spectators. “Murphy! We will miss the sailing!”
Her words were drowned by the loud blast of the ship’s horn, the final sign for boarding.
Their departure was turning into a nightmare. Charles’s eyes filled with fear. Elisa saw him wrap his arms around Murphy’s waist.
“Call a constable!”
“Why’d y’ go an’ smash the bloke’s things, Yank?”
“Teach that Yank a lesson!”
“All the same . . . ”
“Twenty-four pounds all in pieces!”
“The poor fella’s entire living . . . ”
All the while Elisa could hear Murphy angrily protesting that he was not responsible for the broken goods and that he would not pay twenty-four pounds for a lot of broken glass.
Again the ship’s horn bellowed its warning. Passengers crowded the rails of the many
decks. They waved and called to friends and relatives below as the indignation of the crowd on the dock continued to grow against the murderous, arrogant Yank who had mucked about, smashing a good bloke’s wares!
Elisa could see only the top of Murphy’s fedora. It was shoved back on his head. The cello case was still held high as a sort of protection. “Murphy!” Elisa called. “Murphy!”
“Get out of here!” he shouted back to her. “I’ll meet you onboard!”
Then the cries of the spectators drowned out his words as more insistent cries for justice rose up.
Myriad bodies separated Elisa from Murphy and Charles. They were going to miss the boat, of that Elisa was certain. All their luggage was already onboard the great liner. Would the Cunard Lines refund Mr. Trump’s money? she wondered. Would the Englishmen arrest Murphy and take him off to some terrible dark prison like in Germany?
Clutching the case of the Guarnerius to her, Elisa stood on tiptoe in an effort to catch a glimpse of Murphy and Charles. Murphy was still arguing angrily. The ship’s horn bellowed again, and Elisa fought against the crowds to move toward the gangplank. If she could make it to the ship’s officer, perhaps he could send someone to help. At least she could warn him that her husband and child were coming!
“Excuse me!” she cried. “Please, I am trying to get aboard ship!” The throngs parted at her words. She was making definite progress toward the enormous iron wall of the ship. Just ahead were the steps that led to the canopied ramp of the Queen Mary. “Please!” she shouted over the racket of the band. “Let me through!” With that, she pushed her way through the front lines of spectators who craned their necks upward and waved through the cloudburst of confetti that rained down on the docks. Sprinting toward the crew that manned the release of the ramp, she called. “Wait! There are more coming! Please wait!”