Munich Signature (42 page)

And then there had come a time when he had feared to open the letters—feared that they had already been read, and that his love for her might end his hopes for his career.

Tonight he opened the envelope carefully, afraid to tear even one word that her hand had written. Inside the envelope was a tiny white square of paper. Written upon the paper was an address, and a date, and a time. Nothing else. No signature. No personal words. Only pertinent facts in her distinct handwriting.

He exhaled and pressed his lips to the writing. How clever she was. She had no doubt that he would know at a glance who had sent the message.

One more look, then Thomas held the paper under running water until the ink ran together and finally disappeared. Then he tore the envelope and the note and flushed the fragments down the toilet.

***

Gaining entrance into the hotel room registered to Elisa Murphy had been laughably simple for Georg Wand. A skeleton key inserted in the lock. A moment of concentration, and the mechanism had clicked and opened.

He waited behind the louvered doors of the closet. The soft fabric of her dresses touched him. He could smell perfume. The hour of waiting there in the dark was not at all unpleasant.

His pistol, equipped with a silencer, was in his right jacket pocket in case the bodyguard came into the room with her. In his left pocket he still carried the pliers. The idea of using them had stuck with him. He would not abandon the idea because of a little inconvenience.

Light from outside streetlights bathed the room in a soft glow. He could make out the dial on a clock that ticked on the night table. It was after midnight. He heard voices outside in the corridor. A man’s voice and that of a woman. Elisa Murphy.

The rattle of the lock. A man’s laughter. “I’ll just give the place the once-over for you.”

“Freddy, I know you. Why Tedrick assigned you to me is a total mystery. No, on second thought, it’s no mystery. He did it to annoy me.”

The door opened and the light clicked on. Voices were strong and clear as they stepped into the room. “Actually, I’m paying
him
so I can guard your body, honey.”

“You’re worse than an adolescent.” Her voice was playful as she shoved the man away.

“Just once around the room!”

“Leave!” she ordered, shoving him back. “I’ll scream if I need anything.”

Georg grimaced. Yes, she would scream. That would be a problem in the hotel. He would have to think.

“I’m going to the corner for a sandwich and a pint. Would you like me to bring you back a snack?” The man sounded hopeful.

“Do you know how long I’ve been up? Goodness, Fred, don’t you ever give up?”

“Just trying to be friendly. Make sure you’re taken care of.”

Georg watched through the slats as she stepped aside and swept her hand over the empty room. “As you can see I am quite alone and will remain so quite happily, thank you. Tell Tedrick I’m sleeping with my revolver under my pillow. That is the only protection I need tonight.”

She gave the man one gentle shove and sent him, sputtering a protest, into the hallway.

She shut the door and locked it. With a sigh she walked slowly to the bed and tossed the violin case onto a pillow before she sat down. Georg’s hands perspired in his pockets. He would have to wait; he would need to remain very quiet. If she screamed, her companion might still be close enough to hear her. At any rate, the scream of a woman in the Savoy Hotel would certainly be investigated. Someone would hear her.

He watched her kick off her shoes and rub her foot a moment before she rose and walked into the bathroom.

She turned on the bath water and began to sing softly, “I can’t give you anything but love, baby. . . . ”

Georg smiled and took the gun out of his pocket. He would not use the weapon, but it would serve to silence her at a glance.

“Room service!” he called as he stepped from behind the closet door.

Her angry voice replied, “Go away! I didn’t hear you knock, and I’m—”

Georg had already moved to block the doorway of the bathroom. “Do not scream.” He leveled the barrel of the gun within an inch of her head.

She froze, horrified. She opened her mouth as if to speak.

“I have come for your autograph,” Georg whined. “Come to hear you play the violin.”

“Please,” she managed. “Please, don’t—”

“Come out, very quietly, please,” he replied, stepping away from the door. She followed him, her eyes wide with fright.

“You’re the man in the lobby . . . the Jew.”

Georg laughed. “I am no Jew.” He glanced toward the violin case. “Now show me what kind of musician you are, eh?” He placed the cold black steel of the gun barrel along the line of her jaw. “Such lovely unblemished skin,” he crooned. “And manicured nails. Polished. Very pretty. Will you play the violin for me . . . Elisa?”

“But—”

“No, no. I insist. ‘The Blue Danube Waltz,’ perhaps? Or something easier?”

“What is it you want?” Her voice was level, serious. Perhaps they could talk.

“I want to hear you play the violin.” He moved back. “That is all. You, with your jaw unmarked from the chin rest of your instrument. Your uncalloused fingers. Elisa? Elisa Linder-Murphy? No. I don’t think so. A good likeness in the papers. Quite good. But you see, I have seen a real photograph of her. And I have also heard her play. They should have chosen a real musician to play this role. Who are you, eh? I have been wondering that. And then I decided that it did not matter because you will tell me who you are. And then you will tell me where she is, won’t you?”

The woman before him hardened as he spoke. She had not expected to meet with anyone as bright as himself, Georg reasoned. Bleached blond hair, a phony photograph planted in the papers and published with the name of Elisa Linder-Murphy beneath. The whole scheme was adolescent in its conception.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” protested the woman.

“Well, then, I will continue to call you Elisa, if you like.” He nodded his head slightly. “Put your shoes on.”

“Why?” A shadow of fear crossed her face.

“We are going for a ride.”

“No. Get out of here. I have bodyguards, and—”

“If your feet are too sore, what is that to me? Leave your shoes off if you like . . . Elisa. But if you do not come with me, I will blow your brains out all over the lovely silk bedspread.”

The woman was trembling as she put her shoes on. Her skin was pale, as if she were already dead. “You will not get three yards from this room,” she threatened.

“You are quite wrong. Fred is enjoying his sandwich and beer, remember?” He motioned for her to go ahead of him to the door. He took her arm and held the gun concealed but aimed with deadly accuracy into her ribs. “Now remember as we walk down the service stairs . . . Elisa . . . I have only to pull the trigger and the bullet will explode through both lungs. You will drown in your own blood.”

She stiffened and pulled back. “My name is Shelby,” she whispered hoarsely. “Let me go. I don’t know anything about her.”

“Of course you do.” Georg pulled her toward the door. “Shelby—a very nice name. You are quite lovely, Shelby. British, eh? Tell me, are you embarrassed to be seen with such an ordinary-looking fellow as me, eh?” He was smiling and nodding now, chatting to the terrified woman as he opened the door and emerged into the empty corridor. “I want to know all about you, Shelby . . . everything. We have all night.” The pliers in his pocket were waiting to do their work. “We have hours to talk. You can tell me whatever you want, and I will listen attentively. I am a man of patience, Shelby. I enjoy the company of a pretty girl as much as the next fellow.”

Again she balked as he shoved open the door of the service stairs. “Let’s stay here.” Her words were husky with terror. “We can talk here.”

“No. It is a warm night. A good night for a drive in the country. Shelby. Come along. Just a little chat.”

***

How long had it been since Bubbe Rosenfelt had worn any other color than black? Today she wore a blue dress with an orchid corsage pinned to her left shoulder. Mr. Trump had purchased the dress for her. It was not pale blue, or medium blue, but a dignified navy with a white lace collar and white lace sleeves. No longer was she like Rachel, mourning for her children.

The hotel suite was once again crowded with reporters and dignitaries. Bubbe Rosenfelt sat erect before the eager group and answered their questions as best she could. Her answers were tinged with hope and gratitude for the outpouring of public support from across the country. A press conference, Mr. Trump had explained to her, would be just the thing to let the readers capture what she must be feeling on such a day as this, this glorious day when the
Darien
would be arriving in New York!

“How do you feel, Mrs. Rosenfelt, after all the heartache the Nazi government put your family through?”

Her head raised slightly. She tried to find words. “I have been home only a little more than a week, and yet over two hundred thousand people have signed a petition asking for special consideration of my granddaughter and her children and husband. How do I feel?
Oy
! Such a question! We have come from bondage to the Promised Land. The Red Sea has opened once again!”

The reporters chuckled gently at the old woman’s allusion. She was a great interview, the stuff great stories came from—a tough old lady who had faced the Nazis and now was facing the formidable immigration laws of the United States.

“Are you aware that there are sixty-six bills before Congress to limit immigration?” the sobering question was asked.

Mrs. Rosenfelt cleared her throat. “Such bills, if passed,
will be paid in human life
—by the suffering of millions, by children like my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” And as the weight of her words was pressed from pens to notepads, she smiled. It was the smile of a grandmother. “Would you like to see their photographs? I have them. Yes. Right here.” She pulled half a dozen snapshots from her new handbag. “Here are Maria and Klaus. And their little ones—Trudy, Katrina, Gretchen, Louise. And this—this littlest—is my heart, Ada-Marie. You should interview her when she comes to NewYork!”

Much laughter. Typical grandmother. Pictures and everything. There was a murmur of questions. Could copies be made of the photos for publication? Trump answered that soon enough the kids would be in the harbor, and a photo session could be arranged.

“What does the State Department say about bypassing the quotas for the
Darien’s
passengers?” The question seemed harsh after seeing the photos of the children. But it was the issue after all—it was reality.

“The State Department—Secretary Hull and Undersecretary Wells—have not yet responded to the petition about my family or the other refugees onboard the ship.”

“Will the
Darien
be allowed to stay in New York Harbor until the issue is decided?”

Mrs. Rosenfelt frowned a bit at that one. She glanced at Murphy for help, and answered, “In the absence of any word to the contrary, we are hopeful that the harbor authorities will be allowed to be hospitable.”

So. It wasn’t settled yet. But who would protest the anchoring of a freighter full of desperate people? With that question bobbing around the room, the next question seemed to be, “Who beat you up, Murphy? If there is no opposition to this, why were you clobbered?”

Murphy waved away the question. He did not want to be any part of the focus this afternoon. “I owe a couple of guys money from a poker game.” His colleagues laughed good-naturedly. He had fended them off.
No. There was no opposition or protest against the refugees.

“Mrs. Rosenfelt, how do you feel about the upcoming Evian Refugee Conference?”

“God bless President Roosevelt! Thirty-three countries should be able to decide how to help,
nu
? There will be doors opened for many like my own dear family by this conference. These are good men who will think of others. Yes. This is a very good idea! Tell the president I think so, will you?”

What a woman!
Tell the president!
Just then the telephone rang, the phone call they had all been waiting for. There was silence as old man Trump picked up the receiver.

“Trump here . . . yes. Yes. Thank you.” It was that simple. He hung up the phone and leaned to whisper to Mrs. Rosenfelt. It was a whisper loud enough for the reporters to hear. “The
Darien
has just passed Sandy Hook Lighthouse. We should leave for the pier now.”

***

Shimon stood at the rail of the
Darien
with the others. The sulfur-yellow sun was sinking behind the immense bulk that was America. The swelling tide had turned to carry the freighter easily up the estuary toward the harbor.

This should have been a moment of joy. But it was not.

“Tell them we are here,” Shimon instructed Aaron. “They should know that we have arrived in America.”

Aaron nodded silently. His face reflected the agony in every heart onboard the
Darien.
Thirty minutes before, as the Atlantic waves dashed themselves against the jutting spur of purple rock, the whispered word had swept through them. Hope had shattered like the waters, and then had receded into the low, undulating moan of collective grief.

“Ada-Marie is no longer with us. The soul of Ada-Marie has flown away. Ada-Marie is dead . . . is dead . . . is dead. . . .”

The words were repeated on every mouth as if it must be said in order to be comprehended. “Could this be? So close to New York? We are so close . . . if only . . . if only . . . ”

Two hours before, the sisters had been called below with Klaus and Maria. The family had not come up yet. The rabbi of Nuremberg was with them when Dr. Freund had climbed wearily to the upper deck and shook his head in silent confirmation of tragedy.

As the great green statue of Liberty loomed ahead of them, the waters became suddenly cluttered with small boats bobbing alongside the
Darien
. Curious onlookers had come to see the arrival of this desperate cargo. Shimon could recognize reporters on the upper deck of a sightseeing vessel. These men waved and snapped their cameras into the faces of men and women who could not find the strength now for even one smile.