Munich Signature Page 36

  Charles turned from the window to face Bubbe Rosenfelt. She had come, after all! Even though Murphy had told him she could not, would not come, she was here!

  He opened his mouth with a cry. Bubbe did not bother to turn on the light but moved quickly toward him and gathered him up in her arms.

  Charles had resigned himself to his loneliness; his tears had dried an hour ago. Now he wept softly again as Bubbe Rosenfelt sat down with him in her lap and pressed his head beneath her chin. She smelled like a garden . . . like flowers . . . like Mommy. She stroked his hair and hummed to him as he wept.

  His feet dangled awkwardly over the arm of the chair. Maybe he was too big to be rocked, but he did not resist. He rested his head against her and absorbed her nearness like parched soil soaking up rainfall.

  He wanted to say, Bubbe. Thank you, Bubbe. Thank you for coming. Thank you for hugging me. Thank you for speaking in the same sweet accent as Mommy and Father and Louis . . .

  But he could not say these things. He had to sit his own silent shiva and be content to let her comfort him.

  And then she began to tell him stories about her own little boys. She spoke of her house beside the Aussen-Alster; of sailboats and picnics in the very same places Mommy and Father had taken him and Louis when they were very little. She reminded him of church bells and markets and the big ships in the docks. She spoke of blue skies above Hamburg and white clouds that looked like rabbits and sailing ships and other things.

  After a time Charles no longer remembered the banging of fists against the door or the cruel laughter of the doctors in Hamburg. Only happy memories filled his thoughts until at last he became sleepy. He closed his eyes and his fingers became limp. He would tell Bubbe Rosenfelt tomorrow . . . tomorrow, when his mouth was fixed; then he would tell her, “Thank you.”

  Charles fell fast asleep in her arms, yet still the old woman rocked him far into the night. Long after his breathing was deep and even, she continued to talk to him. He did not feel the dampness of her own tears against his hair.

  “Of course, my son was a little smaller than you then—just a baby, really. And I held him for hours and hours while the artist worked. And I remember thinking that Mary could not have been any happier holding her son than I was holding mine. Just like I am holding you now, sweet kinderlach. Don’t you know? It is you who comforts my heart tonight.” She pressed her lined cheek against his soft forehead and laid her hand over his ear. “Sleep now, Charles. You are not alone.”

  ***

  Things had been quiet in the Czech-Sudeten city of Eger for nearly three days. The Sudeten-Nazi Free Corps headed by Henlein and Frank had been dispersed with clubs and bayonets by the Czech military. Broken glass, burned-out buildings and littered streets were the marred reminders of the riots and violence that had rocked the Czech-Sudetenland. Martial law and curfews now prevailed and the Nazi Brownshirts seemed to disappear into the woodwork.

  This afternoon Colonel Ludwig Segki of the Czech Reserve Air Corps had at last found a moment to relax his vigilance. This luncheon with his officers at Hotel Eger was more than a social visit, however. Events of the past days and weeks were discussed. The readiness of the new air cadets was evaluated. The ominous future was probed.

  All the men under his command remained silent when officer Theo Linder spoke. They knew that he had once been a hero for the German Luftwaffe. He had been on personal terms with Luftwaffe Reichsführer Hermann Göring.

  “As long as we do not negotiate away this territory in the Sudetenland, we will remain safe,” Theo said. “The Maginot Line in France is not even as strong as our line of defense in these mountains. Concrete bunkers, machine-gun emplacements—even from the air, the Luftwaffe could not disable us.”

  “And if the Germans fly over our heads to bomb Prague?”

  On this issue Theo could not comment with encouragement. He shook his head and let a more senior officer answer.

  “I say we arrest the Free Corp Nazis here who cause the violence and jail them all around the city of Prague. Then if the Germans bomb civilians, they will also be bombing their own compatriots.”

  The plan met with general approval, but Theo saw the flaw. “With such an idea you are presupposing that Hitler cares what happens to the Aryans in our territory. I do not believe that he cares even that much—” Theo snapped his fingers.

  “Then why does he rage so about them? Why send terrorists into our country? Why?

  Theo had a theory about that. He hesitated, hoping one of the dozen others would speak. Instead they all looked at him. “Because if he can somehow cross these fortified mountains and possess the Sudeten defenses he will simply roll into Prague, then into Poland and maybe all the way to Moscow. Five miles from the border of the Sudeten territory he desires is the Skoda arms factory in Pilsen. Only five miles, gentlemen, from Hitler to the finest munitions factory in the world. No, Hitler does not care one whit about the Germans who live in the Czech territories. He cares about the ground they live on.”

  Such reasoning made sense. Colonel Segki had heard just such matters discussed in staff meetings in Prague, and now from the mouth of a former German-Jew who had once been well connected with the German members of the High Command.

  Confident that all of this was true, Colonel Segki instructed his men not to relax their vigilance. Three days without violence in the Sudetenland made it certain that violence was just around the corner.

  The colonel left Hotel Eger with Theo. There was much he wanted to ask the man. Perhaps Theo had some personal insight that might help the colonel deal with the unexpected.

  “My car is just there around the corner,” said the colonel. “I will give you a ride back to the airfield.”

  Flattered, Theo agreed, then stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. He had forgotten his hat in the dining room. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  The colonel walked briskly across the street and rounded the corner with two other officers who had ridden with him. He would pick up Theo in front of the hotel.

  Theo had just retrieved his cap when the blast ripped through Colonel Segki’s automobile. Plate glass was shattered a block and a half away. The force of the explosion knocked Theo to the floor and sent a waiter tumbling down a flight of steps. Pieces of the officer’s car mowed down seven civilians, later determined to be German-Czechs.

  Just around the corner, violence had returned to the Sudetenland with a fury that made headlines halfway around the globe.

  ***

  Penniless, hungry, and still dressed in their Austrian traveling clothes, Leah and Louis arrived in Paris in the cab of a stuttering old pickup truck. The driver of the truck was a farmer from the provinces on his way to the Marché aux Puces, the flea market of Paris. He was a drop-cloth peddler prepared to spread the finest of his wares out on a canvas sheet for browsers to observe and perhaps purchase.

  Among those wares was a selection of needlepoint as well as an assortment of cabbages and fine apples from his orchard. In a moment of kindhearted weakness, he offered each of his ragged passengers one of his apples and watched with astonishment as they devoured everything, even the core. Smoothing his thick mustache thoughtfully at the sight, the peddler reached back through the glassless window and retrieved two more apples.

  “For later,” he explained to Leah. “For you and your son.” The man had seen a thousand refugees from the Rhineland and Germany and now Austria on the dirt roads of France. Occasionally he had given them rides, although most did not know where they wanted to go. This young woman he had picked up because of her child. A more weary, underfed little boy he had not seen in a long time. The woman spoke fluent French and even produced a French passport. She must have spent her last franc on the document, he reasoned. At any rate, the village priest would be pleased to hear of this good deed, and penance for his sins would perhaps be less because of it.

  The peddler had fully intended to drop the woman off amid the stalls in the flea market. But instead, she had made a
strange request that piqued his curiosity and caused him to steer his vehicle into the crazy traffic of central Paris with its canted streets and boulevards and hordes of taxis and bicycles.

  The brakes of his truck squeaked in amazement as the peddler finally stopped before the ornate and elegant facade of L’Opera.

  Leah took his hand in gratitude. Tears of appreciation gleamed in her eyes. “I am a musician,” she explained, and now the accent of Austria tinged her French. “I have played here many times. Perhaps I will again, and then I will see that you and your wife have tickets, monsieur.”

  The farmer laughed, revealing great gaps in his teeth. The poor woman has gone mad from her hunger, he thought. Poor thing.

  With a shrug, he watched as she and the boy darted across the street to the towering edifice of L’Opera. Holding the child’s hand, she dashed around the corner of the building and up the stage door steps.

  ***

  The two sisters hovered over Leah and Louis like hens over chicks. After each sip of hot tea, Leah’s cup was refilled. Mounds of bread and cheese and cold cuts were spread out on the table in the one-room Paris apartment. Sonia fixed a salad: fresh lettuce, carrots, broccoli tossed with herbs, and vinegar and oil salad dressing. It was a feast even without the pastries that they stacked on a plate and placed within view but out of reach of the half-starved child.

  And all the while Leah and Louis ate as if it were something new to them. They had nearly forgotten about tables and forks and knives during their long journey across the Alps from the Wattenbarger farm. How long ago and far away Austria seemed now!

  Leah looked at her fingers as she tore a piece of bread from a long loaf. Her hands were cracked and sore from rocks and brush and the icy cold winds that had stalked them in the highest passes. But they were safe. Her fingers would heal. They would find Elisa and Charles and Murphy and perhaps, God willing, she would hear some word about Shimon.

  “For you just to show up like that!” cried Magda, adding fresh milk to Louis’ empty glass. “The doorman thought you were beggars. Imagine you, a beggar, the finest cellist in Europe. We thought you were lost to the Nazis. Herbert—you remember him? Bass fiddle. He was in Vienna last month and he said none of the old gang remained except a few who were able to play to the Nazi tune! Shimon was arrested, he said—”

  Leah nodded. “On the first night they took him. I heard there were almost one hundred thousand arrests in Vienna during the first two days. Many were freed. I am hoping—” She furrowed her brow. “Praying that he has somehow gotten free.”

  “Herbert told us about Elisa Linder, too. Of course we were frantic about you all! And then we turned on the BBC, and as clear as anything there is Elisa with the BBC, playing that sweet fiddle of hers! It is a miracle! First Elisa, and now you. Oh, Leah, we have been so worried!”

  Leah swallowed hard. She had not allowed herself to show any emotion before this moment. But now at the mention of Elisa. “She is . . . performing? In London? Oh, Louis, do you know what that means? They made it, too! Murphy and Charles must be with them!”

  Louis laughed brightly. Life and color returned to this thin face. “Charles! Wait until I tell him everything—about the mountains and the guides, the Nazis on the border, and the avalanche! I will have so many stories to tell him, won’t I, Aunt Leah—how the angels hid us and the dogs passed by. He will be glad to see me.”

  Through all of this burst of excitement from Louis, Leah found herself unable to do anything except hug the boy and nod at the miracle of their arrival in Paris—and the miracle that Elisa was just across the Channel from them!

  Then Sonia cried, “We’ll have to have a party, you know—to celebrate!”

  “Have you got your cello across the border somehow too, Leah?”

  Louis answered for her. “My brother Charles has it. He took it out of Austria for her, and now he has it.”

  Magda frowned. “Well, we’ll just have to get you another one for now so you can play. The maestro will want you to begin immediately, I know. We will have to borrow a decent instrument for you until you are reunited with Vitorio.”

  It was all happening so fast. Food, real food. Talk of parties. Now playing for the maestro. Leah suddenly felt very weak. She could let herself ease up for a few days. “No party.” She put a hand to her churning stomach. “Only . . . a bath now. Only a little sleep. And then we’ll see . . . we’ll see.” She stumbled, reeling, from the table and sat on the small sofa for a minute until she closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.

  31

  Life in the Shadow of Death

  The broken body of Shelby Pence washed downstream from London until the pilot of a garbage scow found her floating like a discarded mannequin.

  She had not been in the water long enough for time to conceal the brutality of her end. Colonel Tedrick had personally gone to the morgue, and with one glance at the young woman’s hands, he was convinced that she had told everything she knew. No doubt she had given her tormentor the information he wanted within the first moments of her torture. That was the horrifying thing about it all. What had been done to Shelby Pence must have been done for the sake of pleasure, a dark and evil sort of cruelty.

  The body was cremated. The case was suppressed. She was listed as unidentified by Scotland Yard. The prerecorded performances of Elisa continued to be broadcast weekly over the BBC. The room at the Savoy was still registered to her name, although Tedrick was confident that the Gestapo was quite aware that Elisa Linder-Murphy was now in France, making contact with another agent. Shelby had not known where in France or who the German contact was. If she had known, she certainly would have begged her attacker to let her tell him.

  Tedrick decided at once that it was not in the best interests of the British Intelligence Service for Elisa Murphy to know what had happened to her double. The bloodless drag hunt had become quite bloody indeed. Letters and telegrams had continued to arrive at the Savoy from John Murphy while Elisa was in Paris. Now that she had returned, she sat in Tedrick’s office and read them each again and again. Even with the distance of the Atlantic between them, she could feel his frustration and grief at the events he had witnessed with the Darien.

  Tedrick allowed Elisa an hour of privacy before he resumed his place behind the desk. “So, you see John Murphy will be in Europe soon. On his way to Evian he will want to see you.”

  “You read every telegram, every letter?”

  “We have taken the liberty of—”

  “Too much liberty.”

  “Of arranging for you to meet him. A few hours only at the BBC. We need a little time, and no doubt he will be watched. We do not wish to have your cover blown.”

  Elisa shrugged with smoldering resignation. As always, she had no choice in the matter. “How is Shelby?” she asked, folding the love letters on her lap.

  “Playing the role quite effectively,” Tedrick lied. “A splendid job of drawing the hounds.”

  Elisa sighed. She was weary from her trip. “Give her my best . . . and tell her . . .”

  “What?”

  “Just hello. And to be careful. Colonel Tedrick, I . . .” She searched for a way to communicate the importance of what Thomas had told her.

  “The meeting went well, I assume?” He lit his pipe and leaned back with a calm detachment that did not betray the excitement of what he was feeling. “He had something of importance to say?”

  Elisa closed her eyes and mentally conjured up each minute detail that Thomas had given her to carry back to England. “Yes.”

  “Then we were right to send you.”

  “If there was no one else, then yes.”

  “What news, then, from the German Chancellery, Elisa? Will there be a war over Czechoslovakia?”

  She smiled, a faint smile of pleasure that she could bring this news herself. “All that you hear from Berlin is only a brazen front. Hitler is all bark and very little bite. Thomas has firsthand information that General Beck, chief of the Army Gen
eral Staff, is profoundly alarmed about Hitler’s plans.

  “And what are those plans?”

  “He would have not only the Czech-Sudetenland but all of Czechoslovakia along with it.”

  “I can read the papers and know that. I want details.”

  “All right, then. After the invasion of Austria in March, General Beck sent a memorandum to Hitler arguing that a program of conquest would lead to a worldwide catastrophe and the ruin of Germany.”

  Tedrick coughed impatiently. “This is not news. We got a copy of that memorandum through Le Morthomme months ago. What is the latest?”

  “Details.” Elisa searched her memory for the details Thomas had told her were most important. “Beck is universally trusted by the military staff and by the army itself. He plans to confront Hitler personally this week. He refuses to share the responsibility with the Führer for plunging the world into another war. Beck will demand assurance against further military advances against the Czechs.”

  “We have known of opposition of the war ministry to Hitler’s escapades.”

  “Beck himself will answer your questions and those of Prime Minister Chamberlain as to whether there will be a German-instigated war over Czechoslovakia.”

  “How will he do this?”

  “If the Führer does not listen to him, if Hitler insists on following through with his deadline for an October first invasion, then Beck will resign. You will have your insight into the mind of Hitler in the London Times if a man like General Ludwig Beck resigns.”

  “Is that all?”

  “For the moment. Thomas asks that I inform you of this. The resignation of Beck would mean that the path of reason has been utterly forsaken by Hitler. If this is the case, then there may be another path that the leaders of the German Army might take.”

  “Details?”

  “Nothing yet. Everything depends on whether Hitler listens to Beck.”

  “When is this meeting between Beck and Hitler to take place?”