Munich Signature Page 5

  Murphy stepped through the door of the bedroom. He was all dressed up in a black coat and a crooked bow tie and shiny shoes so that he looked like a waiter in a restaurant. “How ya doin’ Champ?” Murphy asked brightly in American. Murphy often spoke American to Charles and then translated the meaning. Someday, Murphy promised, maybe Charles and Louis could go to America and it would be important to understand the strange language even though the boy’s cleft palate made it impossible for him to utter even one word.

  Charles pulled his frail hand out from under the blue down quilt and gave Murphy the thumbs-up signal. Another way to say, “Okay.” Murphy had told him.

  At the sight of the thumb, Murphy roared with laughter and returned the sign. “Okay, kiddo! Swell!”

  These were other ways Americans expressed approval. Charles had decided that there were far too many ways for him to learn them all, but he liked that Murphy was teaching him all the same.

  The doctor wiggled a finger in his own ear as if to clear away the strange jumble of sounds emanating from Herr Murphy. “Do you understand what this crazy American is saying, Charles?” The doctor laughed.

  Charles nodded and raised his thumb again.

  “When he’s well enough to travel,” Murphy said in Czech, “Elisa and I will take him back to America. To New York, where you say that doctor can repair his mouth. He will need to understand a little English.”

  The doctor nodded as he replaced his stethoscope in the big black bag. “That sounds quite unlike any English my poor ears have ever heard.”

  “Believe me—” Murphy winked at Charles who could not understand any of the conversation now—“what I am teaching him is a great deal easier to speak than Czech! He would have to have a palate as strong as a nutcracker to say hello in your language!”

  “That may be so.” The doctor smiled in agreement. “But Czech is a beautiful language, a language of poets. And we shall hope that Herr Dr. Sohnheim in America shall perform his miracle for the child.” Now the doctor closed his bag and clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Unbelievable that the Nazis should refuse this child surgery to repair his deformity. And then also to remove Herr Dr. Sohnheim from his position at the university hospital in Berlin.”

  “What the Nazis have lost, America gains. What they did not tend to for little Charles will be taken care of. The same doctor who might have mended him in Berlin will now have the opportunity to do so in New York.”

  Once again, the doctor spoke German to Charles. “You see, my boy? You are very lucky, indeed!”

  Charles nodded, although he had understood nothing but his own name and the mention of another doctor and a place called New York. Murphy had mentioned the place before. Charles would like it, Murphy had promised. Charles dreamed about seeing this place with Louis. Moving pictures. The game called baseball. Parks to play in without fear of the Gestapo. And sausage called hot dog, which Charles would eat when his mouth was well. Such dreams were almost too wonderful! When Charles thought about it all, sometimes he would cry out with the joy of it, which made poor Frau Anna come running to the bedroom to check on him. She always seemed frightened, and now, Charles resisted the urge to cry out when he was happy. He saved his utterance for his most lonely moments, when he thought his heart would break with the need to see Louis. Father. Mommy. And then when he cried, Anna would call Elisa, who sat on the edge of the bed and played dear old Vitorio for him as Leah had done. Elisa did not play nearly so well as Leah, but she made Vitorio sing for him all the same. The Bach Suites were his favorite. Little happy dances. And always after hearing them, he was cheered.

  “It just must be the cello for you, eh?” Elisa often teased. “You will not content yourself with a violin, which I can play fairly well?”

  Each time Charles shook his head from side to side. No. The violin would not do. Somehow the old cello had become a voice for him. A prayer. A hope. He was never quite so lonely after she played. He could close his eyes and think of Louis sitting next to him in that little room beneath the stage in Vienna. He could remember Leah’s strong, gentle fingers as she worked to teach him the simple melodies. When he was well enough to sit up, Charles determined he would try to play Vitorio himself. Them Elisa could play along with him on the violin.

  Elisa’s clear, bright voice preceded her into the room. “How is our boy?” She swept in, shining and beautiful in a long white gown. She looked like an angel, Charles thought. Very pretty. Even a boy almost six could see that.

  “Better!” Murphy exclaimed. “Almost well, says the doctor.”

  Elisa smiled at Charles and bent to kiss his forehead and smooth his tousled hair back. Charles wanted to ask her where she was going all dressed up. Murphy might look like a waiter, but she looked like a countess or a queen in a picture book. He wished she would tell him where they were going.

  “My strong brave Charles,” she whispered. “Such a good patient.”

  She was so beautiful that Charles decided he would marry her when he grew up. Herr Murphy would not mind, he reasoned. He and Murphy got along very well together.

  Elisa spoke in Czech to the doctor. They always did that when they did not want Charles to understand, and he hated the exclusion. The doctor smiled and waved a farewell, and Elisa turned her attention to Murphy’s crooked bow tie.

  “Darling,” she said, kissing Murphy on the chin, “you look as if you tried to hang yourself.”

  “I did it this way on purpose.” Murphy kissed her lips and pulled her close to him. “So I could get you like this.” He laughed at her playful disapproval. They had forgotten Charles for a moment. Charles liked it when they forgot he was watching. He did not like it when they remembered and stepped out of the room to continue their grown-up play.

  “Murphy!” Elisa scolded. “Not in front—”

  “Oh.” The self-conscious smile appeared. “Right.” Murphy let her go and said good night to Charles, tousling his blond hair and adding how happy he was that his little friend felt so much better.

  One last kiss from Elisa on his forehead and then they stepped out of the room, leaving Charles alone to wonder what it was all about.

  ***

  As the last rays of sunlight reflected on the tall spires of Hradcany Castle, forty servants completed the monumental task of lighting six thousand candles on the crystal chandeliers of the great reception room.

  On the cobbles of the square below, pedestrians looked up toward the shining windows and commented as the bulbs of dozens of news cameras popped, sending small explosions of light into the darkness. Musicians entered the vast building through a side entrance lined with burly, grim-faced security guards. The guards had been recently chosen from the finest and strongest officers in the Czech Army. They towered over the tiny president and were prepared to offer their own lives so that what had happened at the National Theatre would not be repeated. President Beneš now walked and talked and slept and ate and worked behind a human wall that protected him against the menace of Nazi and Sudetenland Germans who wished him dead and plotted his end.

  Tonight the president of the most enlightened democracy in Europe held a celebration honoring the man and woman who had risked their lives to save his. But even on this joyous occasion, the specter of fear huddled behind every door and made itself felt as handbags and instrument cases and overcoats were searched for weapons. The near-assassination at the National Theatre had proven how very close death was for President Beneš.

  And if death walked like a shadow behind the tiny form of this man, then it loomed up like mountains around the nation itself. The Death’s-Head units of the SS cast longing, hungry looks across the borders into Czechoslovakia. Even as the music played within Hradcany and the crystal chandeliers illuminated the gold-leaf splendor of the great palace in Prague, another scene was taking place in Germany. Fury and hatred simmered up, blackening the hearts of those who listened to the ravings of the beloved Führer:

  “Czechoslovakia must be wiped off the map! It w
ill be wiped off the map! It is my unshakable will that we accomplish this! Listen! We will not back down from those subhuman pygmies again! October first we will hold Czechoslovakia in our hand! And the fingers of the Reich will slowly close and clench until there is no life left there but the life we bring!”

  ***

  Admiral Canaris was unmoving as he scanned the request of Thomas von Kleistmann. He raised his piercing blue eyes to stare angrily at the handsome young officer across from him. “What good do you think this will do?” he asked.

  “What way is left for any German officer with honor?” Thomas replied.

  “Self-centered prattle!” Canaris snapped. “Do you think I do not see through your intentions, von Kleistmann? Ultimately you intend to lay down your life for the sake of the Fatherland.”

  “Why not? What else should I hope for?”

  “There is no Fatherland left. No truer patriotism than to live and serve honor as a traitor to Hitler and his Reich. Live, and serve truth!” Canaris slammed his hand down on his desk.

  “How can I do that in Paris? Without a contact?” Thomas challenged.

  “Patience,” Canaris replied, tearing the transfer request in half and dropping it into the garbage can.

  “How can I know if I am approached that the courier will not be an agent for the Gestapo? How can we know anything anymore?”

  “You are afraid of the Gestapo? You, who want to be first across the line when Hitler storms the Czechs? You, who long for death from the rifle of an enemy? I tell you this—if you die from a Czech bullet, you have been killed by a man defending his nation! If you die at the hands of the Nazi Gestapo, you die at the hands of traitors who will destroy all that is good about the German people! Turn your eyes to the truth, Thomas, as your father would have done! You may die, as I may certainly die, but we must not view death as simply an end to our suffering! If it is to be, then we must give death purpose! We must fight against the evil that has taken hold of our people and our country!”

  “The English will not lift a finger. The Führer is right.”

  A slight smile crept across the lips of Canaris. “What have the English to do with this? This is our battle first.” He leaned forward and whispered with a frightening intensity, “Has the Führer made you believe that he is invincible also? Have you listened to the lie?”

  “I have wished only to die now, as my father did.”

  “Months ago I told you to put away hope for your life. I did not mean that you should abandon all hope.” Canaris seemed disappointed. “This is not the way any of us would have chosen to serve. But it is the only way left to us.” The little man stood slowly and turned to look at a wall decorated with yellowed photographs of battleships and submarines with rows of young sailors standing at attention. “Tonight Hitler will review the troops as they march before the Chancellery. I want you to come with me. To remind yourself why you must stay where you are.”

  Thomas had been given an order. He saluted in acknowledgement, then lowered his eyes. There was an eagerness in the voice of Canaris that had not existed when they had met in Vienna. Could it be that the chief of German military intelligence had some new hope? Thomas did not question Canaris further. “These are the soldiers who were on the Czech border two weeks ago.”

  Canaris put a finger to his lips and smiled. “No one is supposed to know that. Not the British. Not the French, not even the Führer.” He sniffed slightly and shrugged. “The question of the hour is, why are they back from the border? And how might we keep them from returning there?” he looked up at Thomas, who was a full twelve inches taller. “Instead of crossing into the Sudetenland to die with them,Thomas, you might consider how you can help to keep them right here on German soil, eh?”

  4

  Celebration in the Shadow of Darkness

  Elisa’s gown was shimmering white silk adorned with tiny, hand-sewn sequin leaves flowing from her shoulder and her waist. Tonight as she held tightly to her husband’s arm and ascended the grand staircase to the ballroom, heads turned to watch her and eyes glanced in envy at the handsome American newsman who held her hand and leaned close to her. There was not a man in the vast hall who would not have willingly changed places with John Murphy that night.

  To have such a woman at your side!

  Murphy grinned slyly at Elisa and whispered, “That does it. Next time we go out I’m going to make you wear coveralls and an overcoat.”

  “You don’t like my dress, Murphy?” She was smiling, aware that he was crazy about the dress. He had asked her to put it on and take it off again at least a half dozen times before tonight.

  “Yeah. And I like what’s in it, too!” He grinned. “So does every other guy in the place.” He squeezed her hand when a Czech nobleman, complete with monocle and a chestful of meaningless ribbons, clicked his heels and bowed deeply as she passed.

  Elisa nodded politely, then said softly to Murphy, “At least they aren’t tackling me and throwing me on the ground tonight.”

  “Don’t think they wouldn’t like to.” Murphy drew her a little closer as they reached the top of the stairs.

  A man in a powdered wig and a bright red uniform announced them to the crowd in the main ballroom: “Madame Eliiiissssaaaa Murphy and Monsieur Johhhhn Murphy!”

  Heads turned in unison and a polite patter of applause broke out in the room. Murphy smiled and rocked on his toes nervously. He had covered these swank events a million times, it seemed, but he had never been the guy at the top of the stairs.

  Elisa leaned in and said through her smile, “I’m not accustomed to this. Usually I’m just part of the band, you know.”

  Murphy laughed out loud, relieved that she was feeling as out of place as he was. When President Beneš showed up, Murphy would be able to practice his craft a bit—ask a few questions and maybe scoop the rest of the guys. But for now, this crowd was just a bit too hoity-toity. Of course their upper-strata social standing did not keep the old geezers from clicking their heels and twirling their mustaches and gaping at Elisa like a bunch of love-struck teenagers.

  “Let me know if any of these guys makes a pass,” he said in English. “You’ve got a husband who loves you, you know, and I’ve got a pretty good right cross.” He wagged his fist.

  Elisa stood tiptoe and kissed him playfully on the chin. “You already proved as much when you captured Albert Sporer, darling. I don’t think any of these gentlemen would dare to try to get past you.”

  Her words made Murphy feel like he had as a kid walking the picket fence in front of his girlfriend’s house. He was nuts about Elisa. She was Myrna Loy and he was William Powell. Gable and Lombard. Romeo and Juliet! He was convinced that nobody had ever been in love before them. Nobody had ever felt this terrific or been this happy! Elisa and Murphy had invented marriage, and woe to all those poor single swells who thought bachelorhood was something to hold on to. Of course, Murphy conceded, there was only one Elisa in the whole world, and it might be different being married if it wasn’t to her.

  “They’re drooling.” Murphy laughed as he escorted Elisa to the dance floor. He wanted to thump his chest like Tarzan and yell, She’s mine, fellas! You can all go home now!

  “Murphy, behave,” Elisa said demurely as he took her in his arms and they swirled off to the melody of a Strauss waltz.

  “You’re a good dancer,” Murphy commented over the music.

  She accepted the compliment with a smug nod. “I have played this melody enough. It’s a treat to dance to it.”

  “When we get to the States I’m going to take you to Radio City or the Algonquin to hear Benny Goodman. Maybe Glenn Miller. I’ll teach you to boogie-woogie!”

  As she laughed at his strange comment, someone tapped him on the shoulder, cutting in. Murphy had not expected that. He reluctantly yielded his partner to a tall, bespectacled man dressed in the uniform of a colonel. Murphy’s delirious cloud of joy evaporated as the suave young officer swept Elisa off into the crowd on the dance floor. H
e looked impatiently at his wristwatch and wondered if thirty seconds was long enough to wait before he cut in again. He hesitated several seconds longer and then followed in the direction Elisa had disappeared. Thirty seconds was too long to wait.

  Then the music stopped and the glittering crowd applauded and filtered from the dance floor to the sidelines. Murphy barely noticed the smiles of young ladies and matrons as he passed. He was too busy scanning the assembly for some sight of Elisa. Briefly he hoped that he would not spend the rest of his life so miserable out of her presence. They could still officially be considered newlyweds, however, so he allowed himself the luxury of missing her even after a few moments. Especially with her in that dress. Every other dame in the room was dressed in an old horse blanket compared to Elisa! As a matter of fact, every other woman in the room looked like an old nag compared to her.

  Murphy still could not quite believe that Elisa was actually his wife. The thought of it made him grin all over again. He spotted her at a table next to a giant swan ice sculpture and noted the gaggle of gentlemen swarming around.

  Sorry, boys; she’s taken. He walked toward her nonchalantly as she raised her eyes to meet his. Some eager young buck was talking to her, but she was looking at Murphy. Smiling at Murphy. Drawing Murphy to her with a look that whispered that there was nobody in all the world for her but him. He winked at her and she winked back, a gesture that silenced the chatter of the man beside her. The man bowed slightly and backed away as Murphy approached.

  “Missed you,” she said in English. “Nobody here has ever heard of boogie-woogie.” She raised her eyebrow slightly. “The lack of real culture here is astonishing, Mr. Murphy.”