Munich Signature (3 page)

“Again we are destined to wander in the wilderness,” whispered the ancient rabbi of Nuremberg. Tears streamed down the lined cheeks and dampened the soft white beard. “Unless we have a miracle.”

“Ascribe unto the Eternal glory and might.”

The groaning of the steel tracks of the demolition equipment could be faintly heard.

“Ascribe unto the Eternal the honor due unto his name.”

Next came the low rumble of engines—the bulldozer, the crane with its wrecking ball.

“Bow ye down unto the Lord in the adornment of sanctity.”

Voices shouted, “Juden!”

“The voice of the Eternal resounds above the waters..”

“Jews out! Jews out! Jewish vermin out of Germany!”

“The voice of the Eternal thunders above the mighty waters. The voice of the Eternal in strength.”

“Destroy the Jews! Bring it down on their heads! Down! Down with the temple!”

“The voice of the Eternal doth shatter the cedars of Lebanon!”

A bullet through the head of Moses on Sinai burst the window into a thousand fragments, which showered down on the congregation. Raucous voices called, “Blow them up!”

Within the dome the prayers continued. “The voice of the Eternal flasheth with a flaming fire: the voice of the Eternal causeth the oaks to tremble, and maketh the forests bare; and in his temple everything bespeaks his glory.”

One after another the stained-glass windows shattered, and the slivers rained upon the heads of the mourners until they were forced to take cover beneath the long wooden benches.

As the report of gunfire died away, a voice boomed over a bullhorn: “In the name of the people of the Reich—in the name of the Führer, Adolf Hitler, you are ordered to leave this building or it will be brought down on you!”

Again the chanting of young Nazi voices began. A full minute passed, and then the bullhorn bellowed over those voices: “We give you just one minute! Evacuate the building, or you will be destroyed with it!”

No color was left in the Great Synagogue of Nuremberg. The aged rabbi gathered up the ark and raised his gnarled hands to bless the last of the congregation as each man picked up a shard of glass and filed out to face the angry mob. “Direct us toward thee, O Eternal, that we may return indeed.”

As the old rabbi stepped from the synagogue, the wrecker’s ball swung hard against the cupola, crushing the Star of David. The ark was snatched from the old man’s arms, and the scroll was trampled beneath the feet of the crowd. Prayers shawls were ripped to shreds. Faces of the Jews were spat upon and bloodied.

Some from among the congregation were hauled off to concentration camps for their act of prayerful defiance. Others were put to work in the public parks of the city clearing the grass with their teeth. The rabbi of Nuremberg was shackled hand and foot and loaded onto a truck bound for Hamburg. There a ship waited; by the personal order of Adolph Hitler the old rabbi was to be put aboard to head a congregation of doomed men and women. There was an irony in such an ending, which pleased the Führer very much.

***

Persistent sunlight had been seeping in around the window shades for nearly two hours, but Elisa ignored it. She lay quietly beside Murphy and watched his broad muscular back rise and fall in the even cadence of deep sleep. She wished he would wake up and take her in his arms again, but he did not, so she contented herself with studying the topography of shoulders and admiring the smooth, olive-colored skin stretched tight over his ribs. She traced the boundaries of faint tan lines that remained from last year’s short-sleeved shirts and swim trunks. On the left shoulder blade was a small, strawberry-colored birthmark. She decided she would kiss it—but later, when he was awake. Like an explorer in a new land, she claimed John Murphy for her own and happily memorized the landmarks of his body.

It was their first morning together. Strange how quickly the horrors of last night receded in her mind; thoughts of their fearful flight from Vienna and the battle at the National Theatre did not come to her this morning. She heard the rattle of pots in the kitchen and the voice of Dr. Litov when he came to check little Charles, but those sounds seemed like part of a distant dream. While Murphy slept, she wanted only to lie beside him. So many mornings had been wasted without him. She would not let go of this one easily.

She stretched out her left hand and held it just an inch above his head. The blue lapis wedding ring on her finger meant something now. More than little leaves of gold against a blue stone backdrop, it was a pledge: “This is my beloved, and this is my friend.” She whispered the words of Song of Songs 5:16 entwined in Hebrew letters with the leaves.

As if in response, Murphy sighed but did not turn to face her. “You awake?” he asked drowsily.

“Um-hmm. Hours.”

He reached back to take her arm and wrap it around his middle.

She moved closer until she was curled tightly against him.

“How come you didn’t wake me?”

“I wanted to watch you.” She kissed the birthmark on his shoulder blade.

“Did I drool?” he asked jokingly as he raised her fingers to his lips.

“I don’t know. You were facing away from me.”

“It’s a good thing, too. If my face looks as bad as it feels after last night—” He rolled over and grinned.

Elisa winced. His left eye was swollen nearly shut and his cheek was red from the flame of Albert Sporer’s gun.

“Oh, Murphy!” Elisa looked pained.

“Just tell me you didn’t marry me for my looks.”

She giggled, then caught herself. “I didn’t marry you for your looks,” she repeated, then dissolved into laughter again at the sight of his lopsided face.

“Or for my money?” He pulled her closer.

“No. That is why
you
married
me
, remember?”

“After last night I think I’ll give you a refund.” He kissed her.

“Disappointed?” She ran her fingers through his hair as he pushed her gently back on the pillow and then raised up on one elbow to gaze at her appreciatively. Her golden hair fanned out on the pillow, and her blue eyes sparkled with amusement as she gazed back at him.

“What a way to wake up,” Murphy murmured as he pressed his mouth against hers. There was no reluctance in her kiss.

She held him tightly as a rush of warmth surged through her. “Murphy,” she whispered.

He smothered her words with another kiss. “I can tell,” he said breathlessly, “that you’re going to be like Chinese food.”

She pushed him away, startled by the strange remark. “What?”

He smiled and traced the line of her throat with his finger. “I thought I was full, and an hour later I’m hungry for you again.”

At that, she reached out for him. “When I think of what I’ve been missing!”

“That’s all . . . I . . . have . . . been . . . thinking.”

***

The room was exactly as Elisa Murphy had described it. Leah Feldstein felt lost in the middle of the massive feather bed. She pulled the crisp, clean sheets up under her chin and lay staring up at heavy wood rafters stained dark by centuries. Here at the Wattenbarger farmhouse there was a sense of safety beneath these stout timbers, just as Elisa had told her. For the first time in months Leah had slept the night through, waking only to hear Otto’s tearful farewell.

Strange man. Brave man, to return to Vienna when he might have stayed here
.

Someday perhaps she would be able to thank him properly. Then in a stab of painful memory it came to her that he was returning to Vienna with the name of Shimon Feldstein seared in his mind. Would he find Shimon? Would he be able to help him?

Such thoughts and questions robbed Leah of the peace she had felt only moments before. She sat up and frowned toward the shuttered window. Outside she could hear the sound of horses stamping impatiently at a rail. The jangle of bits and bridles mingled with urgent voices.

“We can take them as far as Gustav Stroh’s hut on horseback.”

“Small groups—two, maybe three at a time. Gustav can guide them over the Zillertal, and young Henri can take them to Father Prato in Italy.”

“Otto says we must hurry. We have days at best before they are back in force.” Leah recognized the voice of Frau Marta. There was no hint of dread or grief in the farmwife’s voice. This morning she seemed fully in charge of her emotions as though she had not been forced to bid her eldest son farewell.

Leah wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and stepped onto the cold floor. She tiptoed close to the window and held her breath as she listened to them discussing the escape of their fugitive guests.

“And the woman Otto brought last night?” a male voice said.

Leah peeked through a crack in the shutter. This strong, red-bearded young man was Franz, the one who had fallen in love with Elisa when she had stayed at the farmhouse with her family.

“Poor dear,” Marta said. “I put her in the garret room. Let her sleep through breakfast. She is a dear friend of our Elisa, Franz.”

Franz placed a saddle squarely on the back of a mare whose red hide matched his beard. “That may be, Mama, but I think we should take each group out in the order they came to us.
Ja
, Papa?”

“Leah is her name. She looks as if she could use the rest. Pale as a glacier. No sunlight for weeks. All shut up in a little flat in Vienna, Otto told us.”

Leah stared up at the timbers. She was not at all unhappy about being last on the list to leave this place. Perhaps Otto would somehow find Shimon while they waited here. Then they could leave Austria together over the Zillertal. They would be together in Italy and in Switzerland and then, perhaps, Jerusalem? This would be the best place, the closest place to wait for Shimon to join her. She exhaled loudly; in her excitement she had lost the flow of the conversation taking place beneath her window.

Three children stood tearfully in a half circle around Frau Marta. The oldest was a boy of eleven or twelve who raised his chin manfully and bit his lip to control his tears. Two little girls wept openly as Frau Marta daubed their tears with her apron and smoothed their long braids.

“There, now, no need for tears. When this is all over, as it surely must be soon, you will come back and stay for as long as you like and help Papa Karl milk Gerta and Zillie.”

“We will miss you,” sniffled the smaller of the two girls. “Who will sing to us and pray with us at night?”

Marta pulled the child close. “Everywhere there are those who love to sing with children and pray with them, too. In Italy you will be with a priest for a while; such prayers you will hear!”

“Can he bake good roggenbrot?”

“You have become an admirer of Tyrolean rye bread, eh?” Marta paused dramatically. “No one bakes it as I do.” She clucked her tongue. “But I have sent fresh loaves in your packs.”
“Mama”—Franz held the horses by their reins—“we have to go. Come, children. We have a long journey. Come, we must hurry.”

Wrapped in her quilt, Leah watched the sad children mount their horses and follow Franz into the woods. Their heads were turned to stare back longingly at the farmhouse until they could no longer see it.

When they were out of sight, Leah heard the soft voice of Frau Marta as she stood gazing after them. “
Grüss Gott!
May our Lord go with you, little lambs!”

After a long time, Marta wiped her eyes and turned to look up at the crucifix that hung above the door of the house. She made the sign of the cross and entered. There were others still to care for. The rest was in God’s hands.

2

Fire and Water

The expression on the face of Ernst vom Rath was grim and worried. He did not act the part of a young, carefree German diplomat out to see the sights of Paris. A strong spring wind whistled through the steel skeleton of the Eiffel Tower as he followed Thomas von Kleistmann up the steep metal steps of the structure.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder as if to encourage Ernst in the arduous climb. Ernst held up the small box camera in response as the tower elevator whirred quickly by them. The lift was crammed with tourists peeking out through the iron grid. As the eyes of strangers peered down on Ernst and Thomas, the two men paused on a landing. Ernst snapped a picture of Thomas with Paris in the background. Then Thomas took the camera from him and vom Rath posed, but he did not smile. He had not smiled since Le Morthomme, known as the Dead Man, had been shot dead in the bookstall. An absolute silence had fallen. No word of instruction from Berlin. No attempt at contact from agents of Britain or even of the French government.

Thomas leaned against the rail and gazed pensively over the city. “Well, what do you suggest we do now, Ernst?” The wind tugged at his overcoat and mussed his thick black hair.

Ernst looked through the viewfinder and snapped another photo. “The consummate tourists, eh?” he said solemnly. “Followed by the Gestapo, we wander through Paris. Visit the cabarets and cafés and hope for some encouraging word.”

“And if we are contacted?” Thomas looked at the empty steps above and below as if he were examining the structure. Satisfied that they had not been followed this time, he sighed with relief. “How can we know that the contact is not one of Himmler’s men? Gestapo in sheep’s clothing?”

The frown on vom Rath’s brow deepened. “Just so. How can we know?” He met von Kleistmann’s gaze. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“Much too late to wonder that now.” Thomas changed the topic with a wave of his hand. “They say the Führer is furious at the accusation that he might have had an eye on invading Czechoslovakia.” He smiled. “Goebbels is very adept at propaganda, is he not? Creating the image of innocent Hitler, slandered and indignant before the world?”

“That is what worries me.” Ernst buttoned his coat against the wind. “Perhaps the British do not believe—”

“And if they do not believe?”

“They will not attempt to reestablish a link with the German High Command.”