Munich Signature (55 page)

“This is true? Then it is madness for Hitler to want to fight.”

“
Madness!
Every member of the High Command knows he is insane. Our Siegfried Line is not finished yet. We are in need of no fewer than forty-eight thousand officers and at least one hundred thousand NCOs to bring the army up to strength! With France and Britain allied with the Czechs, we would face a war on all sides. We could hold out a few months at best. Even if the Czechs fought us alone, it would take us three months to break through.”

“Then why does Hitler persist?”

“Because he believes the French are cowards and Chamberlain is a doddering old fool. Elisa,
listen
! Czechoslovakia is the key. If the Nazis are stopped on this side of the Czech mountains, they will go no farther! If those Czech lands are lost, there is nothing that can stop Hitler. The land is level clear to Moscow!”

“Can I tell the British that Hitler thinks Chamberlain is a fool?”

Thomas smiled. “No, I suppose not. Tell them that this document telling of the fearful condition of the German Army and our inability to fight on so many fronts will be presented to Hitler at the Chancellery. He must listen to the generals in Berlin, or—” Again Thomas stopped himself. He could not say too much. Not now. Until the English showed themselves to be men of honor, he could not risk the possible betrayal of Halder and Canaris and the rest. He clenched his fists and gazed at his untouched food. He wanted to tell her everything
. If Hitler refuses to listen to reason again . . . if he gives the insane order to march against the Czechs, then he will be jailed and made to stand trial on charges of bringing Germany to the brink of destruction!

“Thomas?” Elisa said his name gently. “Are you all right?”

Thomas raised his head and looked into her eyes. “I can only hope that Hitler is indeed a madman and that Prime Minister Chamberlain is not a fool. Tell them in London that Hitler claims he can have it all without a shot being fired. That is his argument against the generals who oppose him. He says they are props, only props, like the backdrops in one of his Wagnerian operas. Oh, Elisa”—he squeezed her hand—“if only a man like Churchill were at the helm of England—if only.”

Thomas sat silent and ashen-faced as he studied Elisa.
Still beautiful.
A heart-wrenching beauty.
He took her hands and held them to his lips. This was not part of the performance.
Fingers calloused and strong. Red mark along her jawline
. The thought of Georg Wand made his heart race.

She did not pull her hands away, but there was no response in those sensitive fingers. The fingers that could sing such glory to God were without energy in his hands. “What is it, Thomas?”

“I heard you play again last night.”

She smiled, pleased. “You listened to the BBC? Blasphemy in the German Embassy, is it not?”

He nodded. “The man who turned on the radio was a Gestapo agent, Elisa. And when he pretended not to know the name of the violinist he looked at me.
Elisa, isn’t it? Elisa something?
”

A cold knot of fear settled in Elisa’s stomach. “Why . . . did he ask you?”

Thomas shrugged. “No doubt everyone in the Gestapo knows I was once . . . in love with—”

“A Jewess.”

“I still am.”

Elisa withdrew her hands. “Then I am sorry for you. She is not in love with you, Thomas.” Her voice was sharp. “While you were in Germany, I spent three days with my husband. I love him. I cannot even permit you to speak such words to me and let them stand unchallenged.”

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Yes, well. It is all my own fault. But that is not what we are speaking of. I just wanted to warn you to be very careful. I have heard this fellow Georg Wand is the very best they have. Which means the most efficiently brutal. I went two hours out of my way today before I met you.” He frowned. “Of course, this may be nothing more than the fact that his boss Himmler hates my boss, Canaris. It may mean nothing more than the fact that this little weasel read each file on every man in the embassy before he came here. Making the connection and using it against me is the most natural thing for him to do. But all the same, be careful. When you go back to London, be very careful. He mentioned the fact that your husband is anti-Nazi.”

“Murphy has stated that in a thousand ways.” She tried to reassure Thomas, although she could not reassure herself. “Why would he think twice about me in connection with you?”

Thomas gave a tight-lipped smile of consternation. “Only one thought with a man like Georg Wand is enough for action. These people have their methods. Not very pretty.”

“I know that,” Elisa answered quietly. “That is why I am here, remember? The British have set up a lovely decoy. They will handle him if he comes that way. I technically do not exist. This person you see has no real identity—except to meet with you.”

Thomas reached up to touch the mark on her jawline. “Your music stays with me, Elisa. Last night I—”

Elisa lifted her chin defiantly as he began again with a hint of his love. “I have to leave now,” she said abruptly.

“Elisa?”

“No. I will come here Thursday at five o’clock. I will tell them what you said.” She gathered her handbag and gloves and left the bistro.

Thomas stayed for thirty minutes longer. He gazed at the place where she had been and in his mind he said everything he wanted to say to her.

36

Innocence Lost

It was only a small box on the entertainment page of the
Paris
Daily Herald,
and yet Georg Wand had reason to study each item on those pages now. Logic had told him Elisa was here in the city. Instinct told him that she was indeed somehow connected with Thomas von Kleistmann. The question remained: Where might a musician wish to spend her spare time?

Perhaps at a concert? He had ruled that possibility out. She would not be so foolish to go to a concert in Paris where she might be recognized, not after all the trouble of arranging BBC broadcasts. But then again, if this were a concert given by a much-loved friend . . .

***

The cello Leah played was a three-hundred-year-old Tecchler. The sound was superb. The grain of the wood looked like the dark varnished hide of a tiger. It was truly a beautiful instrument, but it was still not Vitorio.

In exchange for free concert tickets, the instrument had been rented from an old instrument repairman who had a shop three blocks from L’Opera. During rehearsals, Leah could see the wizened old Frenchman sitting alone in the empty auditorium as he listened with pleasure to the sound of his instrument.

Today there was someone else sitting with the old man. A small-boned man with a long head and dark eyes and eyebrows that met in the middle. Perhaps this was another person the instrument makers brought to hear the instrument—a cellist, the father of an eager student intent on buying the best. Ah well, it was part of the bargain. And no one could better show the fines tones of a cello than Leah Feldstein.

The maestro had warned her that the old fellow had run an ad describing the instrument and the fact that Leah would be playing it.

“Interested Parties Please Contact Bernard at 14-009 Paris Exchange, and a Demonstration of Tone and Excellence Will Be Arranged.”

So this was the demonstration. The small client of Monsieur Bernard nodded with vigor in time to the music. Bernard sat proudly beside him.
Indeed, this is the finest cello in the world. Listen to her play, will you?

Well, there was a price for every favor, and now Leah must pay it. After the rehearsal, the maestro rolled his eyes and raised his arms in a shrug of apology. She remained at her music stand while Bernard and his client hurried forward to the stage.

“Beautiful, mademoiselle!” cried Bernard with his hands spread wide as if he would embrace both the cello and Leah. “What do you think of my instrument?” He had asked the question before and now she answered as she always had.

“A treasure, monsieur. Priceless.”

“Is it not the finest you have ever played?”

“It is a joy to play, indeed,” she replied, choosing her words carefully so she would not lie. The instrument was not so fine as her own Pedronelli, but he would not want her to say so right in front of the client.

The client. He seemed to be looking more at Leah than at the instrument. Noticing her questioning gaze, he smiled a brief smile, showing a glint of gold on his front tooth. “Pardon me for staring.” He bowed humbly. “It is just that I have heard you play so many times before. First in Salzburg, and later when you were in Vienna at the Musikverein.” He touched his chest as if she had affected his heart.

Bernard exclaimed, “Forgive me—my manners! The excitement of the music was so—” He kissed his fingertips for emphasis. “And now I must introduce you. This is Herr Krepps. Also late of Austria. He has also managed to escape from the Nazis.”

Again the flash of gold. The smile. “
Bitte
, Frau Feldstein. My escape from those people was not so exciting as your own with the child. The news accounts say you came over the Alps on foot?”

Cautious, Leah replied politely but vaguely. “I’m afraid my hosts exaggerated when they spoke of it to the reporters. I would have rather it not be mentioned at all.”

“I see. Yes. An ordeal, then.” The man bowed a slight apology. “My wife was left in Vienna. I was here on business when the Anschluss took place. She killed herself the first night.”

At such a story even the exuberant Bernard fell silent. At last Leah spoke. She felt pity for this ordinary little man. He seemed helpless and somewhat lost. He was no musician. She could tell by his hands. “Well, this is a fine instrument if you are thinking of buying a cello.”

“For my daughter,” the man said again. “She is in Geneva now. A fine cellist. She has not been quite the same since word of her mother.”

“I can understand why.” Leah lapsed from French into the soft tone of Vienna. “You have heard me play in Vienna?”

“And Salzburg. You and—Elisa Linder was her name? The violinist. I remember seeing the two of you giggling on stage. Fast friends.” He smiled at the pleasant memory. The flash of gold. “Is she still in Vienna?”

“In London,” Leah answered readily. “Playing for the BBC. I heard her just last night.”

At this the man frowned slightly, then replied, “Well, this is good news—both of you safe. I suppose you still see each other.”

Suddenly there was a cold stirring inside Leah. Too many questions. The smile. A touching story, but . . .

“Would you like to hear a little more? I have an engagement shortly. I would like to chat about old times—they were good times, too—but I must be on my way.”

“I can’t think of keeping you.” Krepps backed up a step as if horrified that he had detained such a great musician with small talk. “Perhaps I might be allowed to come back and listen again. If I could hear something a bit slower, perhaps.”

“Oh! Yes, yes, yes, monsieur!” Bernard promised. “She will be happy to play for you! Yes, mademoiselle?”

Leah nodded, not at all certain that she liked the use of the Tecchler cello, after all.

***

There were a dozen stops where Elisa could have gotten off the Metro. But she found herself still riding the subway as if she had someplace to go. A goal. A destination where she would squeeze past the other passengers and step out into the light.

Then the conductor cried out, “Opera, next stop! All out for Opera!” She blinked and edged past the others, waited until the doors slid back, and stepped off the train.

The doors slammed behind her after the warning bell sounded; the train roared off through the tunnel. Elisa stood in the dim light of the underground station and stared dully at the light that streamed down from the steps. She could hear the sounds of traffic on the boulevard des Capucines above her. Could Leah also hear the same horns? Did Leah take this very train home from rehearsal each day?

Someone bumped her. “Pardon, mademoiselle; are you unwell?” She looked up into the concerned face of a blue-uniformed gendarme.

“No. I . . . might have gotten off at the wrong . . . ”

“Metro Opera.” He lifted his hand toward the sign.

She tried to smile.
“
Merci.
”
She moved mechanically toward the stairs. Toward Leah. The din of traffic became louder, and the great facade of the famous building was framed in the opening.

Elisa looked at her watch. Rehearsal would just be over. She could find Leah, she could wait at the stage door and surprise her. They would have tea together, and Elisa would confide in her. There was nothing she couldn’t tell Leah!

Elisa ran up the last few steps and then, as the full light fell on her, she felt suddenly as if a hand had seized her and shaken her. A warning flashed in her mind. Why had Tedrick forbidden her to see Leah? What did he know that he had not told her?

Through the open doors of L’Opera, Elisa could see the grand staircase. A janitor was sweeping the steps. Leah was inside. Just through those doors and down the aisle to the stage where they had once performed together. All the orchestra from Vienna. All of them like a family—she and Leah and Shimon and Rudy. The memory brought her no joy now. She shuddered as if the building were a tomb filled with ghosts.

Turning at the sound of the bell that warned of an approaching train, she ran back down the steps and deposited her coins to take the train back to the Left Bank.

***

“Murphy?” Elisa’s voice sounded so near. It was wonderful. Just what he had needed after a round with the hardcases and the cynics!

“Elisa! I’ve been to Prague already, seen your mother!”

“Oh, darling, what good news! I have needed to hear good news all day! This meeting between Hitler and Chamberlain seems so . . . scary. How are you? Is everything all right in Prague? Did you give Mother a hug for me?” A dam had burst inside her. She sounded so lonely for him, almost desperate—maybe as desperate as he felt to see her right now.