Munich Signature (16 page)

Children clung to Maria. “Mama! He is lying on our bed!”

“We need a doctor here!” Klaus knelt beside the injured man but was afraid to touch him.

“He is burned.”

“From being in the shaft?”

“No. This is a shaft for fresh air. Something else—”

“I am a doctor!”

“Let him through. Let the doctor through, please.”

“You think he escaped from the Gestapo?”

“What else? We have all escaped from the Gestapo,
nu
?”

After a few minutes of speculation and examination, the injured man was carefully moved belowdecks. He would probably not live, the doctor had muttered. How could such a battered creature survive?

Barely twenty minutes had passed since Maria had first heard the feeble call, and the excitement was over. The family had lost two precious blankets to the man from the shaft. On any other occasion she might have fretted over their loss. But not tonight.

***

Charles could not think why Anna and Elisa seemed so sad. As for himself, Charles was ecstatic at the thought of his first airplane ride. Theo, who now wore the uniform of an officer in the Czech Air Corps, had told him all about the way the wind would pass beneath the wings to hold the aircraft up. He had told him stories of daring pilots from Germany in the last great war. Charles had sat all evening on his knee and listened as he spoke about the young men he now trained to fly at the airfield just beyond Prague. Dieter was there now. He slept in a large barracks with fifty other cadets who were part of the program Theo worked in.

“Before you leave tomorrow,” Theo said, looking very brave in his uniform, “I will take you for a tour, Charles. Maybe Dieter can show you his bunk, and if there is time, perhaps, how would you like to go up for a ride in a training craft?”

Charles nodded enthusiastically. This was more than he had dreamed. Better than Leah’s promise of running through green grass or climbing a tree! When he saw his brother again, he would draw a picture to show him how Theo had taken him up in the sky. Much higher than climbing a tree!

Theo laughed and mussed Charles’s hair, then lifted him back onto the floor. “There’s a good boy, Charles! You will like flying, and I will take you up and have you back before Anna can say a word.”

Charles simply gazed at Theo. Always before Charles had thought that Theo was an old man, but now, in his dark green uniform with the insignia of an officer on his arm, he seemed not to be old at all. No, Charles decided, Theo was really a young man with silver hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled in a craggy face. His shoulders were broad and his posture as straight as any officer Charles had ever seen.

As for the limp Theo walked with, it was just another sign of what a great pilot he had been. Theo had let him touch the jagged scar of his war wound as he had told the story of what had happened in France. He spoke about the Red Baron and another pilot named Wilhelm von Kleistmann, who was killed in a crash. Also he talked about Hermann Göring, who had flown with his squadron. Göring had liked Theo very much; they had been friends once.

“Theo!” Anna scolded from the doorway. “What tales are you telling the child? Hermann Göring, indeed!”

“He likes my stories; don’t you, Charles?” Theo defended as Charles nodded his enthusiasm. “Besides, Anna, it doesn’t hurt the boy to know that even good men can go bad.”

“Hermann Göring was never a good man!” she said severely. “A greedy buffoon. Hungry for food. For women. And now for power. I never liked him.”

“You always were a better judge of character than I.” Theo reached for her playfully. “Now tell me what you are really angry about.”

“You. In that uniform. A volunteer, you said.”

“And so I am. Just a volunteer. But don’t you feel safer seeing me in a uniform again?”

“Last time I saw you in a uniform, we lost the war!” Anna pulled away and left the room.

Theo sighed. “Women. Beyond understanding, Charles. You know, she married me because I was so handsome in my uniform.” Then Theo told Charles of Anna and his first meeting. How he had gone back again and again to hear Anna play the piano concerto by Schubert. How he had waited outside the stage door because he had fallen in love with her so completely. “And she also fell in love with me,” Theo finished. “And she still loves me, or she would not be so angry. Do you understand, child?”

Charles shook his head in a solemn
no
. He wished Theo would get back to the war stories.

“Ah, well, I shouldn’t expect you to understand. You have to be Murphy’s age before it becomes important.” Theo gazed thoughtfully at his spit-shined boots. “Perhaps I should have a fatherly talk with Murphy before they leave tomorrow. No use letting the women in this family hold all the cards.”

***

After dinner Anna and Elisa cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, and put them away, while the men talked in the music room.

Their faces were serious when the women entered. They had spent the hour discussing details of business and the possibilities of political events that might threaten them.

“The nation that controls the skies will also control the world—” Theo stopped short as Anna and Elisa entered.

Serious discussion was put away. Anna sat at the piano and Elisa produced her violin. Charles, sensing that such a gathering might also need a cello, grabbed Murphy by the hand and dragged him off to fetch Vitorio from the corner of his room.

Murphy marveled at the little boy’s sensitivity as he propped up the case and opened it, then pulled back the silk scarf that covered the gleaming wood.

The boy crossed his arms and gazed at the instrument with satisfaction.
“
There
,”
he seemed to say.
“N
ow we have a trio
!”

For a moment Anna considered the instrument, then absently said, “If you like, Elisa, we can keep Leah’s cello here for her. It would save you the trouble of—”

The pain on the face of little Charles stopped her. He groaned and shook his head wildly.

No, the cello must not stay here. He would not go without Vitorio! That was his only promise that he would see Leah again. And if he saw Leah, then he would also be reunited with his brother, Louis. Vitorio must go with them to America!

“No, Mama.” Elisa gazed sadly at Charles. “Do you hear me, Charles?” she asked, reaching out to touch his arm. “We will take Vitorio with us.”

“Along with your violins?” Anna seemed surprised. “You will look like a traveling orchestra.”

“The gangsters will think we are carrying very large guns.” Murphy winked at Charles now, which made him smile in spite of the scar. “Fellows like Al Capone carry their machine guns inside violin cases, see?”

“Well, we cannot leave Leah’s cello in Prague, Mama,” Elisa said. “Leah told Charles it is a magic carpet.”

“Yes,” Theo added. “Enough magic to keep the plane up even without wings. No doubt Leah will reach America before we do—”

Anna looked up at him sharply. He ducked slightly and concentrated on the floor.

“Yes.” Elisa appeared as if she might cry. Who could say how long it might be before they were together again? “When Leah writes, you must tell her how to contact us.”

“If nothing else, we can give her the name of your bank.” Theo was serious. A small fortune was being transferred from their Swiss account to Chase-Manhattan on Elisa’s behalf. Until they were settled in, any urgent messages would also be passed through the bank in New York. More than simply a personal margin of financial security for Elisa, such a vast amount might have other uses, Theo had explained to Murphy. The uses were unspecified, but Murphy had no doubt that Theo was speaking of the black market trade for American visas and passports. If there was difficulty obtaining those precious documents through the legal channels in the States, then Murphy would find a way to purchase them—just in case the situation in Czechoslovakia deteriorated.

Murphy also understood quite clearly that the personal fortune of Theo and Anna Lindheim was still actively purchasing the lives of prisoners attempting to flee Germany and Austria. Here in the relative safety and comfort of the house on Mala Strana, a very quiet, personal battle was still taking place between Theo and the Nazis who had thrown him into Dachau.

Twice, in the delirium of his fever, Theo had mentioned the covenant. A priest. A cantor. A man named Stern. The strange reference of the Herrgottseck of Dachau. No one had asked him to explain these dark and frightening words. It was enough that he had been to hell and had survived. Could they ask him to speak of it? So much was simply accepted in silence that an explanation seemed somehow an invitation to destruction. The walls had listened in Germany. The walls had heard that Theo Lindheim gave funds to the dreaded Zionists. Here in Prague might the walls also hear and whisper tales of the covenant to those who walked in darkness beyond the Charles Bridge? And might not those enemies come here to the house on Mala Strana to quietly slit the throat of such a man?

Theo understood all of this quite clearly. The American bank account might serve many purposes. He would leave it to his son-in-law to choose the best purposes if things went badly in Prague.

Murphy was grateful that Anna and Elisa seemed oblivious to the shadow of danger that he felt deeply through Theo tonight. The two played beautifully together—something Mozart had written for piano and violin. Murphy could not recall the name of it. Little Charles sat beside Vitorio and occasionally cast a comradely look toward the instrument. It was as though he could sense Leah and Louis very near to him, Murphy thought. There was deep contentment in the boy’s eyes as he absorbed the music like a tonic.

Much too soon it was over. The two women sat together on the piano bench and hugged and wept a farewell to their last evening together for what must be a long time.

Murphy and Theo exchanged a firm handshake. There was so much Theo had left unspoken. Murphy hoped the day would never come when he regretted not asking.

10

Reduced to Prayer

First it was fierce thirst that pierced Shimon’s awareness; then he heard the angry voices arguing above him.

“Medical supplies onboard this ship . . . inadequate . . . criminal lack of supplies, Captain.” Angry words aroused Shimon to foggy consciousness as he lay facedown on the narrow cot. He was aware that his feet stuck over the end of the bed and his right arm hung limply down off the side. There were voices humming around him. Two men argued above the chorus of crying children and distraught women.

“Look, I am just the captain. Paid by your own people in Palestine. They equipped the ship for five hundred, and now we have nearly eight hundred onboard.”

“A proper infirmary was specified. Proper medical supplies are crucial in such conditions. This man may very well die tonight if—”

“His name isn’t on the passenger list. A stowaway. If he dies, it will save us the trouble of handing him back to the Germans, now won’t it?”

Shimon moaned softly. He barely had the strength to take another breath, let alone strength enough to run.

“It is your own pocket that has benefited by the overcrowding of this ship. Everyone with funds enough has purchased a place. I demand to know if we have food enough.”

“If you are careful, there’s enough. I accepted additional refugees out of the kindness of my heart. You should thank me.”

The engines of the ship drowned out the doctor’s response as Shimon drifted into the twilight of awareness. He tried to remember how he had come to be here. How many days had he been hiding? Fire and explosions. Screams of the dying. His own screams. What did it all mean? Where was Leah? Had everyone in the orchestra been killed? A train wreck?

The pieces of the puzzle escaped his grasp. He opened his eyes and stared at the gray steel wall of the tiny infirmary. Flakes of paint and rust clung to the rivets and traced the welded seams. Shimon blinked and closed his eyes again. What had the captain said?
If he dies, it will save us the trouble of
—

The voice of the doctor rose in anger. “There’s not enough morphine to get this man through the night.”

“Then you’d better save it, Herr Doctor. I counted a dozen pregnant women on the deck this afternoon. If this man is going to die anyway, you’d better save what you have for the living.”

Again Shimon opened his eyes. He tried to turn his head but he could not. Something had happened. The pain was not gone, but it was dulled. Morphine. The doctor had given him morphine.
Not enough to get this man
. . . Shimon moved the fingers of his right arm. They were bandaged. His back and right leg were also bandaged. When had this happened? Shimon could not remember. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. A searing thirst choked his words to a hoarse whisper. “Thirsty.”

The arguing men fell silent.

Shimon was vaguely aware that one man, the captain, left the room. Gentle hands guided a spoonful of cool liquid through his parched lips. Most of it ran back out onto the thin mattress.

“There now, fellow,” the doctor crooned. “Yes. Thirsty. A little water for you. Take it slowly.” Another spoonful touched Shimon’s mouth. The metal bowl of the spoon tapped against his teeth. He clamped his lips tightly around it to capture the water. His throat had forgotten how to swallow. How long had it been since he had tasted water? “More!” he gasped as the cool liquid slipped down his throat.

“Yes. But very slowly, friend.” The doctor offered him another spoonful. A gentle hand rested on his forehead. “You have been through much.”

Shimon began to cry—pitiful little sobs, tearless whimpers. His body did not have enough fluid left to spare for tears. How could this kind man know what he had been through? How? Shimon wanted to ask him, “
Were you there? Do you know? Do you remember? Tell me, please!
”
But Shimon simply wept and sipped the water and tried to remember how he had come to be here.