Munich Signature

  For his effort, Murphy had gotten a raise of five bucks a week and a transfer to Berlin. The League of Nations pretended not to notice that the Germans had gone. When Mussolini left, when the Japanese attacked Manchuria, they looked the other way. They shrugged when the Italians invaded Abyssinia. They yawned when Hitler marched into the Rhineland, when Hitler stirred up the civil war in Spain, when Hitler invaded Austria. There were a thousand other little offenses that had also been ignored by the rattling bones of Geneva’s great tomb. There was finally nothing left for a journalist to cover. Any insult, any breach of common decency, could easily be written up by a reporter who spent his day at the casino while the League discussed the crises.

  In response to the Japanese execution of a thousand civilians, in response to the imprisonment of Baron von Rothchilds by the Germans, the League of Nations said, “My goodness, how dreadful! What a pity! Oh, dear me! Well, what can we do? It’s finished and best forgotten!”

  The bump of wheels on the airstrip pulled Murphy from his unpleasant reverie. Those same old codgers were over at the Palais des Nations right now. No doubt they were all very much insulted that this Evian Conference had been called and no one had invited them! After all, they enjoyed the spa as much as anyone!

  It was a short ride on the tram from Cointrin Aerodrome to le quai du Mont Blanc, where Murphy would catch the express steamer up the lake to Evian. He was edgy, anxious to get there. This time, he was certain, the nations would not fall into the pit of apathy as they dealt with the present issue. This time, surely, the thumb-twiddlers and sleep-talkers would be hooted out of the assembly. Something would be done. Something must be done, Murphy thought as he boarded the lake steamer among a bevy of other reporters. As they greeted him and slapped him on the back, he wondered if they could see the intensity of hope he carried with him to Evian.

  ***

  Thomas stepped from the Metro into the Left Bank neighborhood. He had already walked two blocks toward the bistro before he realized that he was being followed.

  Georg Wand. Across the narrow lane. Hat pulled low over his forehead. Eyes downcast. Yes, it was the Gestapo agent.

  Thomas glanced at his watch. He swallowed hard and hurried toward a confectioner’s shop around the corner. Purchasing a small box of chocolates, he left the shop and hurried back toward the River Seine and rue de la Huchette. Wand stayed with him, moving discreetly through the crowds of students on the sidewalks.

  At the corner, Thomas looked first toward the Bureau de Police and then toward le Panier Fleuri, “The Basket of Blossoms.” He walked briskly toward the bordello and entered.

  The madame, a woman of education and culture, recognized Thomas and smiled through her dark red lips. “You have come back, monsieur!” she exclaimed. “And you have brought a box of bonbons? Not every man brings candy to a place like le Panier Fleuri.”

  Thomas could feel the presence of Georg Wand at his back. Threatening. Breathing death. He half expected the bell above the door to ring, but it did not. Wand would take his station outside. Possibly in the very café where Thomas spent his time.

  “Is Suzanne occupied?” he asked.

  The woman laughed, tossing her head. “You look desperate, monsieur. And oui, she is occupied. But only for another twenty minutes. But if you do not care to wait, there are others who will be happy to have the bonbons.”

  He shook his head, trying to appear nonchalant. “No. Suzanne, I think.”

  “Then sit down. Have some wine.”

  “I want her all night,” he blurted out.

  She looked at him sideways. “Monsieur Thomas! You should have bought a bigger box of chocolates!”

  He ran a hand over his face. “She is not busy for the rest of the night, is she?” he tried again, feeling foolish and frightened at the same moment.

  “No. You will fill her hours nicely.”

  “Good,” he said. Then again, “Good.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes passed slowly. Georg Wand did not venture into the bordello. Thomas considered all the different angles of this building that might be observed from across the street. Wand was only one man, but might he have called in other watchers to follow Thomas?

  “Mon chéri!” cried Suzanne as the madame whispered to her, “I am to have you all to myself for an entire night!” She took his hands and led him up the stairway. “And chocolates.” She said the word seductively. An astonishing girl, this Suzanne.

  Thomas closed the door of the bedroom. The air was heavy of perfume. The bed was made. Lace lingerie was draped across a chair. Suzanne put her arms around his neck and kissed his ear.

  “I want you to stay here,” Thomas said. “All night.”

  “But of course, Thomas.”

  He looked at the window. He could make out the iron grid of a fire escape. “You will have to stay alone, though, my darling.”

  “What?” She pulled back slightly and looked quizzically up into his eyes.

  “I am being followed, you see.”

  Her mouth turned down in a pout. “But, Thomas—”

  “You will be well paid.” He pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket. “Double for your time?”

  She smiled and opened the chocolate box. She sat down on the bed. “A detective?”

  “Yes. He is out there now. He has followed me all afternoon, hired by the husband of my mistress. The fellow says he will kill me if we are caught together, and I do not fancy being killed.”

  Suzanne shrugged. Her mouth full of candy, she put a finger to her lips. Yes. She would stay alone in the room. She had been given stranger assignments. “And you will come back?”

  “About eleven.” He opened the window and peered out. There was no one in the alley below the fire escape. He could see the Seine. “I’ll tap on the window. You’ll let me in?”

  “Of course, mon chéri.” She blew him a kiss. “Don’t worry about me. I will be faithful to you.”

  ***

  Four times Elisa had met with Thomas at the bistro to gather bits of information to take back to London. But this meeting was different. There was something desperate, yet hopeful in his voice. She knew there was more behind what he was saying.

  “General Halder is one of us!” Thomas whispered urgently to Elisa from across the table in the dim Paris café. “You must tell them that! Hitler’s ultimatum is nothing to fear! Halder is one of us!” Thomas sat back as if to consider that he might have gone too far in mentioning Halder’s name as an anti-Nazi. Beck’s replacement was as ardently opposed to Hitler as General Beck had been. The question was how to make a man like Chamberlain understand that at this moment Hitler was only the howling of the wind!

  “But you told me that if Beck resigned, that meant Hitler was intent on war.” Elisa’s hands were trembling. Had she somehow mistaken the meaning of Thomas’s first message?

  “Hitler is only one man! And now this Prime Minister Chamberlain has gone to Berchtesgaden to meet with him! It is folly, Elisa! It is too much like Schuschnigg and Austria. Hitler will bully and flatter and see that Chamberlain is a man so blinded by hope of peace that he will set the table and serve up Czechoslovakia like a roasted lamb. Hitler will have only to carve.”

  Elisa sighed. The news of that meeting between Chamberlain and Hitler was not at all encouraging. “What do I tell them? What word from the High Command?”

  “You might tell them that Adolf Hitler spent an hour and a half ridiculing Chamberlain after he left. Then others of his lackeys took up where the Führer left off. There is no respect, no fear.” Thomas took her hand in his. “Now you must listen very carefully. Tell them this in England. There are things being done. I cannot say all. The generals have written a document that they will present to Hitler. In this document they show that the Czechs have between thirty and forty divisions which they are deploying right now on Germany’s eastern frontier along their fortified line in the mountains of Sudetenland. The weight of the French Army in sheer numbers is eight to one
against us along the western wall. Daily, Churchill speaks of forming an alliance between France and England and Russia. Russia might use Czech airfields against Germany. The British Royal Navy is unsurpassed—”

  “This is true? Then it is madness for Hitler to want to fight.”

  “Madness! Every member of the High Command knows he is insane. Our Siegfried Line is not finished yet. We are in need of no fewer than forty-eight thousand officers and at least one hundred thousand NCOs to bring the army up to strength! With France and Britain allied with the Czechs, we would face a war on all sides. We could hold out a few months at best. Even if the Czechs fought us alone, it would take us three months to break through.”

  “Then why does Hitler persist?”

  “Because he believes the French are cowards and Chamberlain is a doddering old fool. Elisa, listen! Czechoslovakia is the key. If the Nazis are stopped on this side of the Czech mountains, they will go no farther! If those Czech lands are lost, there is nothing that can stop Hitler. The land is level clear to Moscow!”

  “Can I tell the British that Hitler thinks Chamberlain is a fool?”

  Thomas smiled. “No, I suppose not. Tell them that this document telling of the fearful condition of the German Army and our inability to fight on so many fronts will be presented to Hitler at the Chancellery. He must listen to the generals in Berlin, or—” Again Thomas stopped himself. He could not say too much. Not now. Until the English showed themselves to be men of honor, he could not risk the possible betrayal of Halder and Canaris and the rest. He clenched his fists and gazed at his untouched food. He wanted to tell her everything. If Hitler refuses to listen to reason again . . . if he gives the insane order to march against the Czechs, then he will be jailed and made to stand trial on charges of bringing Germany to the brink of destruction!

  “Thomas?” Elisa said his name gently. “Are you all right?”

  Thomas raised his head and looked into her eyes. “I can only hope that Hitler is indeed a madman and that Prime Minister Chamberlain is not a fool. Tell them in London that Hitler claims he can have it all without a shot being fired. That is his argument against the generals who oppose him. He says they are props, only props, like the backdrops in one of his Wagnerian operas. Oh, Elisa”—he squeezed her hand—“if only a man like Churchill were at the helm of England—if only.”

  Thomas sat silent and ashen-faced as he studied Elisa. Still beautiful. A heart-wrenching beauty. He took her hands and held them to his lips. This was not part of the performance. Fingers calloused and strong. Red mark along her jawline. The thought of Georg Wand made his heart race.

  She did not pull her hands away, but there was no response in those sensitive fingers. The fingers that could sing such glory to God were without energy in his hands. “What is it, Thomas?”

  “I heard you play again last night.”

  She smiled, pleased. “You listened to the BBC? Blasphemy in the German Embassy, is it not?”

  He nodded. “The man who turned on the radio was a Gestapo agent, Elisa. And when he pretended not to know the name of the violinist he looked at me. Elisa, isn’t it? Elisa something?”

  A cold knot of fear settled in Elisa’s stomach. “Why . . . did he ask you?”

  Thomas shrugged. “No doubt everyone in the Gestapo knows I was once . . . in love with—”

  “A Jewess.”

  “I still am.”

  Elisa withdrew her hands. “Then I am sorry for you. She is not in love with you, Thomas.” Her voice was sharp. “While you were in Germany, I spent three days with my husband. I love him. I cannot even permit you to speak such words to me and let them stand unchallenged.”

  “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Yes, well. It is all my own fault. But that is not what we are speaking of. I just wanted to warn you to be very careful. I have heard this fellow Georg Wand is the very best they have. Which means the most efficiently brutal. I went two hours out of my way today before I met you.” He frowned. “Of course, this may be nothing more than the fact that his boss Himmler hates my boss, Canaris. It may mean nothing more than the fact that this little weasel read each file on every man in the embassy before he came here. Making the connection and using it against me is the most natural thing for him to do. But all the same, be careful. When you go back to London, be very careful. He mentioned the fact that your husband is anti-Nazi.”

  “Murphy has stated that in a thousand ways.” She tried to reassure Thomas, although she could not reassure herself. “Why would he think twice about me in connection with you?”

  Thomas gave a tight-lipped smile of consternation. “Only one thought with a man like Georg Wand is enough for action. These people have their methods. Not very pretty.”

  “I know that,” Elisa answered quietly. “That is why I am here, remember? The British have set up a lovely decoy. They will handle him if he comes that way. I technically do not exist. This person you see has no real identity—except to meet with you.”

  Thomas reached up to touch the mark on her jawline. “Your music stays with me, Elisa. Last night I—”

  Elisa lifted her chin defiantly as he began again with a hint of his love. “I have to leave now,” she said abruptly.

  “Elisa?”

  “No. I will come here Thursday at five o’clock. I will tell them what you said.” She gathered her handbag and gloves and left the bistro.

  Thomas stayed for thirty minutes longer. He gazed at the place where she had been and in his mind he said everything he wanted to say to her.

  36

  Innocence Lost

  It was only a small box on the entertainment page of the Paris Daily Herald, and yet Georg Wand had reason to study each item on those pages now. Logic had told him Elisa was here in the city. Instinct told him that she was indeed somehow connected with Thomas von Kleistmann. The question remained: Where might a musician wish to spend her spare time?

  Perhaps at a concert? He had ruled that possibility out. She would not be so foolish to go to a concert in Paris where she might be recognized, not after all the trouble of arranging BBC broadcasts. But then again, if this were a concert given by a much-loved friend . . .

  ***

  The cello Leah played was a three-hundred-year-old Tecchler. The sound was superb. The grain of the wood looked like the dark varnished hide of a tiger. It was truly a beautiful instrument, but it was still not Vitorio.

  In exchange for free concert tickets, the instrument had been rented from an old instrument repairman who had a shop three blocks from L’Opera. During rehearsals, Leah could see the wizened old Frenchman sitting alone in the empty auditorium as he listened with pleasure to the sound of his instrument.

  Today there was someone else sitting with the old man. A small-boned man with a long head and dark eyes and eyebrows that met in the middle. Perhaps this was another person the instrument makers brought to hear the instrument—a cellist, the father of an eager student intent on buying the best. Ah well, it was part of the bargain. And no one could better show the fines tones of a cello than Leah Feldstein.

  The maestro had warned her that the old fellow had run an ad describing the instrument and the fact that Leah would be playing it.

  “Interested Parties Please Contact Bernard at 14-009 Paris Exchange, and a Demonstration of Tone and Excellence Will Be Arranged.”

  So this was the demonstration. The small client of Monsieur Bernard nodded with vigor in time to the music. Bernard sat proudly beside him. Indeed, this is the finest cello in the world. Listen to her play, will you?

  Well, there was a price for every favor, and now Leah must pay it. After the rehearsal, the maestro rolled his eyes and raised his arms in a shrug of apology. She remained at her music stand while Bernard and his client hurried forward to the stage.

  “Beautiful, mademoiselle!” cried Bernard with his hands spread wide as if he would embrace both the cello and Leah. “What do you think of my instrument?” He had asked the question before and now she answered as
she always had.

  “A treasure, monsieur. Priceless.”

  “Is it not the finest you have ever played?”

  “It is a joy to play, indeed,” she replied, choosing her words carefully so she would not lie. The instrument was not so fine as her own Pedronelli, but he would not want her to say so right in front of the client.

  The client. He seemed to be looking more at Leah than at the instrument. Noticing her questioning gaze, he smiled a brief smile, showing a glint of gold on his front tooth. “Pardon me for staring.” He bowed humbly. “It is just that I have heard you play so many times before. First in Salzburg, and later when you were in Vienna at the Musikverein.” He touched his chest as if she had affected his heart.

  Bernard exclaimed, “Forgive me—my manners! The excitement of the music was so—” He kissed his fingertips for emphasis. “And now I must introduce you. This is Herr Krepps. Also late of Austria. He has also managed to escape from the Nazis.”

  Again the flash of gold. The smile. “Bitte, Frau Feldstein. My escape from those people was not so exciting as your own with the child. The news accounts say you came over the Alps on foot?”

  Cautious, Leah replied politely but vaguely. “I’m afraid my hosts exaggerated when they spoke of it to the reporters. I would have rather it not be mentioned at all.”

  “I see. Yes. An ordeal, then.” The man bowed a slight apology. “My wife was left in Vienna. I was here on business when the Anschluss took place. She killed herself the first night.”

  At such a story even the exuberant Bernard fell silent. At last Leah spoke. She felt pity for this ordinary little man. He seemed helpless and somewhat lost. He was no musician. She could tell by his hands. “Well, this is a fine instrument if you are thinking of buying a cello.”