Munich Signature (37 page)

“You have need
now
.” He cleared his throat and became serious. “Shelby reports that you were the last person, as far as you know, to see Rudy Dorbransky alive.”

Elisa focused her gaze on the burled walnut desktop. She did not want to look into Tedrick’s probing eyes. She did not want to discuss that night in Vienna again. “Yes . . . Rudy.”

“And he gave you
this
—” Tedrick tapped the battered violin case that held the priceless Guarnerius.

Elisa nodded. “He told me where it was. I waited, and then . . . later . . . I got it out from behind the display case with Haydn’s skull . . . in the Musikverein. I told Shelby about it. And then my friend Leah Feldstein . . .”

Tedrick absently thumbed through the typed transcript. He raised a hand to stop her. “We know all about that, and the point is, you
saw
Rudy—what they had done to him.”

“Yes.” Elisa whispered her reply. “His hands were—”

“Quite.” Tedrick shifted his massive bulk uneasily in the leather wingback chair. “Rudy was one of our own fellows.”

“I assumed he was . . . that his work was simply smuggling passports to those in need.”

“Passports . . . and other things. We often provided passports to him in exchange for favors. A message here . . . a document there. We knew long before the Nazis marched into Austria what Hitler’s plans were.”

Elisa flushed with a new anger. “Then why didn’t you stop him? Why?”

“We were able to communicate with Chancellor Schuschnigg on the matter. He took it into his own hands and called for the vote in Austria. A rash move on his part. Made the Führer angry.”

“But why did Britain sit back and—”

“My
dear girl,
you have wandered from the point!” An edge of irritation laced Tedrick’s words.

“And what is the point?” Elisa was accusatory. Her fists were clenched in her lap and her blue eyes radiated anger as she thought of the violence that had come to Vienna and all of Austria from the Nazis.

“We are an organization meant to gather information.” Tedrick sniffed defensively. “Our information is relayed on to His Majesty’s government, where decisions are made—or
not
made. We are simply here to provide perhaps a glimpse into the minds of the other players in the game. Help our team to guess future moves.”

“And do the opponents also have the capacity to read your moves?”

Tedrick smiled with relief. “Quite. Which is why it is important that you carry a gun and know well how to use it, my dear. You see, the same fellows who tortured Rudy Dorbransky are still out there and quite willing to do the same to you as they did to him.”

“But Albert Sporer is dead.”

“Come now, do you think he was alone?” The fire in the pipe died, and Tedrick poked at the tobacco with the end of a match. “I am certain that your . . .
husband
. . . Mr. Murphy was informed in Prague that the Gestapo is quite interested in you. We relayed that information to the Czech government some weeks ago. Murphy was notified. Did he not tell you of the danger?”

Elisa frowned, remembering the night of the party at Hradcany Castle when Murphy had seemed to sense some terrible darkness on the Charles Bridge. He had not been the same from that moment. Until they reached England, he had always seemed to be looking over his shoulder for an unseen threat. “Not in words. He did not want to worry me, I suppose.”

“The danger is real, even for a short detour across the Channel into Paris. Even with something this simple, much hangs in the balance. Believe me, the Gestapo will not let you go so easily.” Again he tapped the violin case. “After all, you were the one Dorbransky chose to take his place. They killed him. They killed him in order to get the information he carried here. They were not quite clear about what they were after, or you would have been eliminated while you were walking around with the violin in Vienna.” He sat back to let that thought penetrate Elisa with a cold knife of fear. “Now I think they know what they want.” He changed the subject suddenly. “Your photograph—slightly altered—has been run in the major European newspapers. We will see to it that another photograph appears in the London
Times
announcing that you will solo on the BBC radio over the next few weeks.”

“But Paris?” Elisa was alarmed. When would she be allowed to leave London for Paris? When could she get this job finished and leave for America?

“Paris is certainly on your agenda, my dear.” He struck another match and held it to the bowl of the pipe. “But most certainly John Murphy will understand that you cannot turn down a chance to play with the BBC Symphony Orchestra in London. The Gestapo may even listen in—who knows?”

“You are telling me—” Elisa sat back as she tried to comprehend exactly what Tedrick’s agenda was—“that I will be here longer than—”

“Longer than we thought originally.” He smiled without emotion, a cold, determined kind of smile that told her she had no choice in any of this. “Long enough to perform several times with the BBC. You must explain it quite clearly to Mr. Murphy. Any musician would jump at such an opportunity. No one could refuse such a contract.”

“I could.”

“That is where you are mistaken, Elisa.” Tedrick was certain of the power he held over her. So certain that he would not bother pretending to be sympathetic. “You see, the moment you picked up
this—
” he shoved the violin case across the desk to her—“you signed a contract to perform. And so, you
will
perform, and you will begin that performance with a phone call to New York.
Then
we shall provide you with the rest of the script.”

***

Charles knew that it was very late at night—or very early in the morning—when the phone in the hotel suite rang.

Murphy was still dressed. He had never undressed. Never gotten into his pajamas. Never been to sleep the whole night long. He had paced the room and stared out the window at traffic and once when Charles had gotten up to go to the bathroom, Murphy had explained, “Elisa is going to call, see? The time is different between London and New York. When it’s daytime there, it’s night here. When it’s night here, it’s day there.”

Charles suspected that this strange difference in the time was why Murphy never seemed to sleep more than a few hours. Since they had arrived in New York, the typewriter had continued to
clack
and
ping
far into the night. Charles would awaken to find poor Murphy asleep at the desk, still in his clothes. Murphy would then shower and shave and start all over again with endless interviews on the question of refugees and appointments at the medical center and still more interviews. The hours of darkness were passed writing. Sometimes Murphy would eat, but not always. Charles was worried about Murphy—more worried about him than he was worried about the surgery he was to face ten days from now.

Tonight, or this morning, Murphy’s voice boomed into the telephone as if he were trying to shout across the Atlantic all the way to London. Charles listened quietly from his dark bedroom. At first Murphy sounded excited and happy. Moments passed and the voice took on an edge of unhappiness. Charles had heard the sound of unhappiness in the voice of his father before. He knew what it sounded like.

“Speak up, Elisa! Elisa? Darling, I can barely hear you. What? What are you saying? The BBC orchestra . . . what?” A long silence followed those words. And then, “But how
long
?” Charles heard something like a groan. Soft and barely audible. Certainly Elisa could not have heard the groan all the way to London. “I . . . but I thought you were coming right away. If I had known about this I would have turned right around and come back to England. Now Charles is scheduled for surgery, and I . . .”
The voice sounded angry now. It made Charles feel sad that his own name was recited with anger. He wished that Murphy would go on back to England, leaving him in the care of Bubbe Rosenfelt. He should go back to be with Elisa so he would not be angry. Maybe if he was with Elisa he would sleep in a bed and eat breakfast and lunch and supper.

Murphy sounded exhausted. “No . . . yes. I suppose I’ll survive. Work? Sure. I’ve gotten myself smack in the middle of the refugee problem here, but—” Murphy sighed loudly. Charles could see Murphy’s long legs stretch out from where he sprawled on the couch. “If I had known . . . no. Well, of course I see how important . . . what a break it is for you, but . . . but . . . sure, yeah. I’ll give Charles your love. Sure. Yeah. I . . . love you too, Elisa. Next week. You’ll call next week? Same time. Sure. Fifty bucks for three minutes. Sure. Good-bye, darling.”

Murphy had trouble replacing the receiver. It banged and rattled.

Through the crack in the door, Charles could see Murphy was lonely. Charles knew about that. He climbed out of his warm bed and tiptoed quietly to the doorway. He stood very still for a long time and watched, but Murphy did not move. He only sighed a lot and exhaled loudly as if he might breathe deeply enough to relieve some terrible pain.

At last Charles coughed—a soft cough to let Murphy know he was there. Murphy looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and he appeared to be sick.

“Hi ya, kiddo,” he said. It was not the usual happy greeting. “You need something? Water? Bathroom? You have a bad dream?”

Charles shook his head and walked slowly toward Murphy. Three feet from him he stopped and waited patiently.

“What?” Murphy asked again.

In reply, Charles put out his arms.
A hug
.

With a muffled cry, Murphy enfolded him in an embrace. “Me, too, Charles,” he said. “Just what I was missing.”

24

Do-Gooders and Jew-Lovers

“
America’s Loss Is England’s Gain!”
The headline on the entertainment page of the London
Times
ran just above the photograph of the lovely blond violinist performing with the renowned BBC Symphony Orchestra
.
The article read:

A fortnight ago, a beautiful young violinist named Elisa Linder-Murphy fainted on the docks of Southampton and missed sailing to America onboard the Queen Mary. Those of us privileged enough to have heard Elisa Linder perform in her native Vienna were delighted to hear that her bout with influenza is over and that she has been signed to perform with the BBC Symphony Orchestra as a soloist over the next several weeks.

The article continued with reference to a daring escape from Nazi-occupied Austria and the incident in the Czech National Theater when the assassination of President Beneš had been thwarted by her warning. No mention was made of where she was staying in London. It was assumed by Colonel Tedrick that the Gestapo would pick up such details easily enough on their own.

Several different versions of Elisa’s agreement to perform with the BBC were published in dozens of publications in England and even across the Channel in France where the BBC was listened to as well. Most of the news accounts published the photograph as well. However, Colonel Tedrick considered that his goal had been accomplished merely by the publication of the information. He made certain that a copy of the article was cut out of one of the lesser newspapers and tucked into an envelope with a personal letter for Murphy from Elisa. The letter was placed in a mail pouch bound for America onboard the
Queen Mary.

***

Murphy was in good company on the express train from New York to Washington, D.C. Eddie Cantor and Rabbi Stephen Wise represented the American Jewish perspective along with Dr. Nahum Goldmann, the hard-driving founder of the World Jewish Congress. On the Christian end of the spectrum, Dr. Henry Lieper, secretary of the Federal Council of Churches, had come as spokesman of twenty-two million church members and twenty-four Protestant denominations. Catholic Bishop Bernard Sheil had come to represent Cardinal Mundelein of Chicago.

Along with the two hundred thousand signatures favoring assistance to the refugees onboard the
Darien
, these leaders of the American religious communities made up an impressive roster for the meeting scheduled with Secretary of State Hull in Washington.

True to his word, Secretary of the Interior Ickes had helped arrange the meeting. He had not forgotten his offer to help, which he made onboard the
Queen Mary.

Secretary of State Hull was over seventy years old. He was a handsome, tall Tennessee congressman, who had become a senator, and finally Roosevelt’s secretary of state. He was known for his keen political sense—a real horse trader, some said with admiration. His political savvy, then, tempered whatever personal feelings he might have acted on in regard to the immigration policies. His wife was Jewish, yet Hull still had not been persuaded to soften the immigration restrictions that prevented so many desperate and qualified applicants to flee Nazi persecution.

Secretary Hull sat behind his desk and scanned the stacks of petitions as if he might somehow recognize the names. The distinguished committee sat silently before him, waiting for some reply.

“Impressive,” Hull drawled at last. “A moving show of unity. Jews. Catholics. Protestants. But the law of the land is still the law.”

Each man in the room took a turn at appealing to factors beyond the government, beyond restrictions—humanity, the cause of right and wrong, standing for what was right.

Bishop Sheil concluded quietly, “In providing these people sanctuary—especially the children—where they can grow up in the ways of peace and walk in the paths of freedom, we will help not only them but ourselves. If we suffer little children to come unto us, we will demonstrate to the world our own devotion to the sanctity of human life.”

Hull nodded thoughtfully and then replied to the men who had gathered to plead for those onboard the
Darien
—and for those who remained behind in the Reich. “At this point we cannot grant those refugees asylum.”