Munich Signature (41 page)

“And what about Charles? And Mrs. Rosenfelt?”

“I’ll see to both of them, don’t you worry. I’ve already hired a lawyer to look into the fact that Mrs. Rosenfelt’s family was refused visas unfairly. Did you know she has enough in her bank account to support them all for several years? The State Department contention that they might become public charges just doesn’t hold water in this case!” He banged his fist on the table. “There has been an abuse of the law here, and I’m gonna see to it that we turn the State Department so blasted inside out that they’re looking at the world through the soles of their feet!”

Murphy tried to smile, but the effort was too painful. He liked this gruff old man. He liked working for him. Trump was sending him to Europe because this story had the man so up in arms he wanted to attend to the details himself. Old man Trump was determined this would have a happy ending—and he would write it!

***

Georg Wand strained to see the dial of his watch. It was 10:17 pm and still Elisa had not exited the building of the BBC. She was later than usual. He toyed with the clanking pliers impatiently. Had she slipped out another way?

At 10:20 a black, official-looking sedan pulled up in front of the entrance. Two men stepped out and waited beside the car. Perhaps an important government official had broadcast. Someone who needed bodyguards. The prime minister?

Again Georg glanced at his watch. Then he looked up and gasped as Elisa emerged laughing and chatting from the BBC. The men stepped to either side of her. One opened the door for her as the other took the violin case from her and stepped in after.

Even in the darkness Georg could feel himself redden with disappointment and anger. Had he waited too long to move in? Or was this perhaps a temporary arrangement? Two fellows sent to pick her up for some engagement Georg had not anticipated, perhaps?

Georg cursed as the black sedan moved away from the curb and immediately turned the corner out of sight.

The omnibus would come in another ten minutes. He would simply return to the lobby of the Savoy to wait for her.

***

“The hook is set.” Tedrick leaned far back in his swivel chair and pressed his fingertips together. He was pleased with the latest development.

Elisa gazed miserably at the telephone on the broad walnut desktop. How could she say anything at all to Murphy with Tedrick sitting in the room? Who could know who else might be listening? And now this terrible news that Murphy had been beaten up by thugs in New York. Yet she could not even ask him about it.

“What about the Savoy?” Elisa asked, disturbed by the news that the New York thugs had mentioned her name as well as the Savoy Hotel.

“Shelby knows what she is doing.” Tedrick was reassuring without a hint of warmth in his voice. “A drag hunt,” he said cryptically; then he realized the obscurity of his allusion. “Ever ride the hunt?” he asked with a smile. “Fox hunt?”

“The sort of sport you would enjoy,” she snapped. “I am a musician. Foxes and hounds are not my style.”

He laughed. “A drag hunt is when the scent of the fox is laid even when there is no fox. The hounds simply follow the scent; the riders follow the hounds. Everyone has a jolly good time and no blood is spilled. The fox is usually grateful.” He leaned forward. “Why aren’t you grateful, little fox? The hounds are baying only at your scent. Tonight only at your scent. Tonight you are off to Paris.”

“And what do I tell my husband?”

“Tell him you’re fine, which you are. And you are certain to stay that way in such a bloodless hunt. No details. Tell him you have a bodyguard. His publisher has arranged for that. Tell him you are eager to see him, if you like. Sooner or later you might slip him the news that you will have to repeat your vows—unless you would prefer to remain legally unattached. That might also be of benefit considering your past relationship with Thomas von Kleistmann.”

“You are despicable!” Elisa flared.

Again Tedrick laughed at her anger. “Probably,” he answered. “But more practical than despicable. Say what you like to Murphy, within the limits you know we will enforce. Really, I would
not
mention von Kleistmann, however. John Murphy may suspect that you have stayed in Europe just to visit your old friend.”

Enraged, Elisa stood and moved to the opposite side of the room. The room was not big enough. She had grown to despise Tedrick over the past few days. She had felt this strongly about the Nazis, but to carry such anger for an Englishman was somehow even more unpleasant.

The phone rang. Tedrick did not move. He motioned with his head for Elisa to pick up the receiver. Murphy was to think she was at the Savoy Hotel. The switchboard operator had been well coached. “Your move,” Tedrick smiled as the phone rang again.

Elisa picked it up. The long-distance crackle brought tears of frustration to her eyes. “Murphy?” she asked desperately.

Seconds of delay. His voice echoed through wires and half a dozen connections before finally arriving. “Elisa—you’re all right. Thank God!”

“I’m fine, darling. Except I miss you terribly.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She could hear her own voice tumbling across the hollow chasm that separated them. “Are you all right?”

“If I wasn’t so busy with all this . . . refugee stuff . . . Ship will be in tomorrow evening . . . Got it all ready for . . .”

There was a long pause. Had she lost him? “Murphy?”

“Yeah! Right here. New York. Charles is scheduled for surgery. I got a raise. Stay where you are . . . I’m coming to Europe . . . Chief of Euro . . . oper . . . I’m coming to get you.”

Elisa’s heart felt as if it were in a vise. She had forgotten that Tedrick observed and listened a few feet away. “Oh, Murphy! That man at the consulate who married us—”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been fired.”

“For what?” There was dread in his voice.

“Performing illegal wedding ceremonies.”

Waves washed over Murphy’s reply. Bits of words propped out like startled, angry squeaks. Then, “I still respect you.”

Elisa laughed. It felt good to laugh. “We’ll just have to do it all over again.”

“As often as you like.”

“I mean get married!”

Murphy laughed. The familiar sound of his laughter lifted her past her rage and past her fears. She could do what needed doing and then Murphy would come. It would be all over.

A roaring punched through the receiver and a woman’s voice broke in. “I am so sorry. We seem to have lost your connection.”

***

Mile by mile the
Darien
moved closer to port. Seabirds swirled and cried overhead. Seaweed floated past. Other boats were sighted nearly every hour.

Shimon had found refuge beneath a tarp shelter among the young men of the ship. Aaron looked after him, bringing him cups of water and meals from the galley and word from the infirmary. “The child is still with us! Ada-Marie is fighting back!”

As the sun climbed high above the ship, men and women who had been exuberant only the day before now talked in low tones about the fierce battle taking place below deck.

“Surely she will not die!”

“We are so close to New York, America now! There are hospitals there. Doctors who will help her.”

“My cousin lives in Brooklyn. He says that children in America hardly ever die of things like pneumonia anymore!”

“
Oy
, but look at Dr. Freund. Up there. He is going to see the captain. Look at his face. So sad. So hopeless.”

“Maybe he wants to know when we will arrive tomorrow. If she lives through the night, then surely she will not die.”

The late afternoon air cooled into a soft evening of pastel skies. Shimon sat up and watched as a group of men gathered on the bow to offer evening prayers.

“Help me up,” he asked Aaron. “I want to join the minyan. I want to pray for Ada-Marie.”

The plaintive cry of the evening psalms rose up as the seagulls circled back toward land.

“Blessed be the Eternal forever! Omaine! Blessed from Zion be the Eternal, who dwelleth in Jerusalem, Hallelujah! Blessed be the Eternal God, the God of Israel, who alone performeth miracles . . . ”

“If only we could have a miracle, Rabbi,” said Aaron as he helped Shimon to stand. “If only we could put little Ada-Marie on the back of a sea gull and fly her to New York, America!”

“Ah well, that is the Lord’s business,” said another sadly.

“Who says God is still not in a business of miracles,
nu
?” asked the rabbi of Nuremberg. “Look here! Each one of us is here! And look there—” he stretched out his hand to Shimon—“A miracle. Who would think Shimon could have lived that night we pulled him from the vent!”

Everyone agreed that Shimon’s presence in the minyan was indeed a miracle. And now one was very much needed for little Ada-Marie, whose four sisters huddled unhappily on the steps that led to the infirmary.

“If she lives through the night, she will not die. We will come to New York, and there . . . you will see.”

***

Throughout the second night Ada-Marie still clung tenaciously to life. At the mention of her name she would open her eyes and squeeze Maria’s hand. The rabbi of Nuremberg had come several times to read to her a lesson from Torah school or sing her a song. One by one, her older sisters came to stand beside her cot and tell her stories about the happenings on the upper decks. All of this Ada-Marie acknowledged with her eyes; she could not speak.

For Maria and Klaus such signs were fragments of hope that they clung to even though the child’s fever still soared and each breath was drawn with exhausting labor. The face of Dr. Freund showed no such hope.

“If we can get her to New York in time,” Klaus ventured.

“Yes. New York,” said the doctor. His tone was flat and without encouragement, as if to warn the grieved father that even a modern hospital in New York could not perform the miracle needed here.

Still Maria whispered words that praised each labored breath. She sang quietly the lullabies that were Ada-Marie’s favorite. She spoke of Bubbe, waiting for them in New York. “She will be right on the docks, Ada-Marie. After we sail by the big statue of the lady in the harbor we will see Bubbe. Yes, yes, another breath. Yes, Mama knows it hurts, but you will get well. Yes, another breath.”

27

Her Soul Has Flown Away

It was nearly closing time at the café. The usual crowds had thinned until only a handful of persistent regulars remained around the table with Thomas. The topic of conversation had ranged from music to the latest political turmoil in the Czech Sudetenland. On the last, Thomas did not offer his opinion or the knowledge that the riots there were financed and led by men from Germany. He simply listened with fascination to the way opinions had begun to swing against the government of Prague over the last few weeks.

In the corner, a young man named Michael played the last sad love song on his accordion. Two more men from the table drifted out and wandered across the street to le Panier Fleuri. They entered the bordello almost at the same moment a young, lively black-haired prostitute emerged and walked across the street toward the café.

Thomas recognized her. Her name was Suzanne, and she came from a farm in the south of France. On more than one occasion she had provided him with companionship, so he was not surprised when she swept through the door and lowered her chin to fix her seductive gaze on him. She winked and waved and moved toward him when he smiled and shrugged.
Why not?

She sat down beside him, barely noticed by the dozen diehards who still argued around the table.

“Things are slow tonight,” she whispered. “I was hoping you would be here.”

“Me . . . or someone, eh, Suzanne?” He had no illusions. If he had not been here she would have found someone else to sit with.

“No, mon chéri!
You!
” She brushed her fingers lightly against his cheek; then she pressed a note into his hand beneath the table. Her mouth against his ear, she whispered, “Something for you, Thomas. And I’m told you will pay me well for it. Why did you not tell me you are in love with a married woman? Then I would have understood when you do not come around anymore.” She kissed his ear and then sat back with a coy smile.

Puzzled, Thomas looked down at the small white envelope. His name was written on the outside in handwriting he recognized instantly.
Elisa!
He tried to hide his surprise. A thousand questions flooded his mind, but he would not ask the woman across from him. Suzanne was a messenger, nothing more.

Thomas shrugged. “Affair du coeur, Suzanne. I can only manage one at a time.” He pocketed the envelope and then slipped twenty francs into her hand. “Is that enough?”

Suzanne glanced at her payment and smiled. “Enough for the note—and more, if you like.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“If things do not work out for you, then?”

Thomas nodded and kissed her on the cheek. He wanted only to be rid of her, to tear open the envelope and read the words from Elisa. The thought of seeing her crashed through the fog of his wine with a sobering impact.

“Well, then—” Suzanne shifted her attention to a bearded student who was listening with apparent boredom to the discussion. “How about you?” she asked, moving from beside Thomas to smile into the student’s eyes with rapt attention.

Unnoticed, Thomas left the table and staggered to the wash room in the back of the café. With trembling hands he hooked the latch on the door and pulled the chain of the lightbulb above his head. He took the envelope from his pocket and stood with his back against the brick wall as he stared at the finely written script. A thousand times he had seen his name written in that hand.
Thomas
. . . Always before he had cherished the thoughts that had come within.
“
I love you. Today I thought only of you. I could hardly practice because the music made me think of you.”