Munich Signature (6 page)

Mrs. Rosenfelt’s eyes narrowed. She smiled shyly and reached out to touch the clerk’s threadbare suit. “You look like a fellow who could use a new suit of clothes. Perhaps shoes, also? Or an automobile?”

His eyes widened and he drew back from her. “Bribes won’t do you any good. It’s been tried. I’m telling you, the list is the list. That’s the only way.”

“Then you are a fool.” She leaned forward. “Two weeks we have before the papers expire.”

“You can go back to America anytime.”

“
Oy!
So now you think I would leave them?”

“Work on this back in the States. Send for them.”

“Two weeks the Nazis have given. No more. They will not renew their travel documents.” Her gnarled hand was clenched in a fist. “Your kind I have seen a thousand times. Money is a language you understand. This is a language I can speak,
nu
? List or no list, we must leave Germany within fourteen days. We will leave, and you will be a rich man for having helped us.”

The clerk stared sullenly at the stubborn old woman in front of him. She was making it impossible. Yes, the lists were full, but perhaps there was another way. There was the freighter. But there was a waiting list for that as well. A share for him and a share for Captain Burton. No one needed a visa to get on a freighter like the
SS Darien
.

“Maybe there is a way.”

“I thought so. Nothing but a lot of
shtuss
you are giving me. Always there is a way.”

“There is a ship leaving Hamburg Tuesday morning. Maybe I can get your family a place on it.”

“I thought you could. And where is this boat going?”

Now the clerk smiled. “Away from Germany, Mrs. Rosenfelt.”

“That’s it? Away? So, away
to where?
”

“Just
away
. For you that should be good enough. You can go ahead to the States and work on their papers in the meantime. Day after tomorrow the ship leaves, and they are safe.”

How could it be that a ship could leave Germany without a destination? The old woman nodded once and frowned with the realization that the quota of every nation was filled to capacity with the names of hopeful, desperate Jews. And so such a ship would become its own nation, an island of refuge until a port could be found.

Slowly Bubbe Rosenfelt raised her pince-nez to her nose. This was not what she had bargained for, yet it was better than nothing at all. “And how much will this cruise around the world cost? I am listening. How much to save the lives of my family?”

***

The doctor was Czech, Charles knew, but now the kind man spoke to him in heavily accented German. “Never was there a little boy so lucky as you, Charles.” The broad face hovered over him like a bright full moon. The doctor looked like the man in the moon, Charles thought, but he could not tell him that. Charles could not communicate well at all since Louis had gone. Now that he was feeling better, Charles thought how very much he would like to see his brother and share his secret that the man in the moon had swooped down to help him through this latest illness.

The doctor squinted as he took Charles’s pulse. “Strong. Yes, yes. You are feeling better now?”

Charles nodded. He was much better now than he had been that first dreadful night they had arrived in Prague. His ears had become infected, and for days he had endured searing pain. There were, in fact, days which were only a blur in his memory. Images of Elisa and the tall American, John Murphy, floated through his mind. Charles liked the American who was always telling him tales about America and children who lived there. He liked Herr Theo, who also had been ill; and he liked Anna, who sat and read to him by the hour and stroked his hair as his mother had once done. Yes, Charles was feeling better, but the one ache that had not receded was his longing to see Louis again. Louis. Father. And in the darkest nights when the pain awakened him, he cried for Mommy, although he knew she was gone to heaven.

Murphy stepped through the door of the bedroom. He was all dressed up in a black coat and a crooked bow tie and shiny shoes so that he looked like a waiter in a restaurant. “How ya doin’ Champ?” Murphy asked brightly in American. Murphy often spoke American to Charles and then translated the meaning. Someday, Murphy promised, maybe Charles and Louis could go to America and it would be important to understand the strange language even though the boy’s cleft palate made it impossible for him to utter even one word.

Charles pulled his frail hand out from under the blue down quilt and gave Murphy the thumbs-up signal. Another way to say, “Okay.” Murphy had told him.

At the sight of the thumb, Murphy roared with laughter and returned the sign. “Okay, kiddo! Swell!”

These were other ways Americans expressed approval. Charles had decided that there were far too many ways for him to learn them all, but he liked that Murphy was teaching him all the same.

The doctor wiggled a finger in his own ear as if to clear away the strange jumble of sounds emanating from Herr Murphy. “Do you understand what this crazy American is saying, Charles?” The doctor laughed.

Charles nodded and raised his thumb again.

“When he’s well enough to travel,” Murphy said in Czech, “Elisa and I will take him back to America. To New York, where you say that doctor can repair his mouth. He will need to understand a little English.”

The doctor nodded as he replaced his stethoscope in the big black bag. “That sounds quite unlike any English my poor ears have ever heard.”

“Believe me—” Murphy winked at Charles who could not understand any of the conversation now—“what I am teaching him is a great deal easier to speak than Czech! He would have to have a palate as strong as a nutcracker to say hello in your language!”

“That may be so.” The doctor smiled in agreement. “But Czech is a beautiful language, a language of poets. And we shall hope that Herr Dr. Sohnheim in America shall perform his miracle for the child.” Now the doctor closed his bag and clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Unbelievable that the Nazis should refuse this child surgery to repair his deformity. And then also to remove Herr Dr. Sohnheim from his position at the university hospital in Berlin.”

“What the Nazis have lost, America gains. What they did not tend to for little Charles will be taken care of. The same doctor who might have mended him in Berlin will now have the opportunity to do so in New York.”

Once again, the doctor spoke German to Charles. “You see, my boy? You are
very
lucky, indeed!”

Charles nodded, although he had understood nothing but his own name and the mention of another doctor and a place called New York. Murphy had mentioned the place before. Charles would like it, Murphy had promised. Charles dreamed about seeing this place with Louis. Moving pictures. The game called baseball. Parks to play in without fear of the Gestapo. And sausage called hot dog, which Charles would eat when his mouth was well. Such dreams were almost too wonderful! When Charles thought about it all, sometimes he would cry out with the joy of it, which made poor Frau Anna come running to the bedroom to check on him. She always seemed frightened, and now, Charles resisted the urge to cry out when he was happy. He saved his utterance for his most lonely moments, when he thought his heart would break with the need to see Louis. Father. Mommy. And then when he cried, Anna would call Elisa, who sat on the edge of the bed and played dear old Vitorio for him as Leah had done. Elisa did not play nearly so well as Leah, but she made Vitorio sing for him all the same. The
Bach Suites
were his favorite. Little happy dances. And always after hearing them, he was cheered.

“It just must be the cello for you, eh?” Elisa often teased. “You will not content yourself with a violin, which I can play fairly well?”

Each time Charles shook his head from side to side. No. The violin would not do. Somehow the old cello had become a voice for him. A prayer. A hope. He was never quite so lonely after she played. He could close his eyes and think of Louis sitting next to him in that little room beneath the stage in Vienna. He could remember Leah’s strong, gentle fingers as she worked to teach him the simple melodies. When he was well enough to sit up, Charles determined he would try to play Vitorio himself. Them Elisa could play along with him on the violin.

Elisa’s clear, bright voice preceded her into the room. “How is our boy?” She swept in, shining and beautiful in a long white gown. She looked like an angel, Charles thought.
Very pretty.
Even a boy almost six could see that.

“Better!” Murphy exclaimed. “Almost well, says the doctor.”

Elisa smiled at Charles and bent to kiss his forehead and smooth his tousled hair back. Charles wanted to ask her where she was going all dressed up. Murphy might look like a waiter, but she looked like a countess or a queen in a picture book. He wished she would tell him where they were going.

“My strong brave Charles,” she whispered. “Such a good patient.”

She was so beautiful that Charles decided he would marry her when he grew up. Herr Murphy would not mind, he reasoned. He and Murphy got along very well together.

Elisa spoke in Czech to the doctor. They always did that when they did not want Charles to understand, and he hated the exclusion. The doctor smiled and waved a farewell, and Elisa turned her attention to Murphy’s crooked bow tie.

“Darling,” she said, kissing Murphy on the chin, “you look as if you tried to hang yourself.”

“I did it this way on purpose.” Murphy kissed her lips and pulled her close to him. “So I could get you like this.” He laughed at her playful disapproval. They had forgotten Charles for a moment. Charles liked it when they forgot he was watching. He did not like it when they remembered and stepped out of the room to continue their grown-up play.

“Murphy!” Elisa scolded. “Not in front—”

“Oh.” The self-conscious smile appeared. “Right.” Murphy let her go and said good night to Charles, tousling his blond hair and adding how happy he was that his little friend felt so much better.

One last kiss from Elisa on his forehead and then they stepped out of the room, leaving Charles alone to wonder what it was all about.

***

As the last rays of sunlight reflected on the tall spires of Hradcany Castle, forty servants completed the monumental task of lighting six thousand candles on the crystal chandeliers of the great reception room.

On the cobbles of the square below, pedestrians looked up toward the shining windows and commented as the bulbs of dozens of news cameras popped, sending small explosions of light into the darkness. Musicians entered the vast building through a side entrance lined with burly, grim-faced security guards. The guards had been recently chosen from the finest and strongest officers in the Czech Army. They towered over the tiny president and were prepared to offer their own lives so that what had happened at the National Theatre would not be repeated. President Beneš now walked and talked and slept and ate and worked behind a human wall that protected him against the menace of Nazi and Sudetenland Germans who wished him dead and plotted his end.

Tonight the president of the most enlightened democracy in Europe held a celebration honoring the man and woman who had risked their lives to save his. But even on this joyous occasion, the specter of fear huddled behind every door and made itself felt as handbags and instrument cases and overcoats were searched for weapons. The near-assassination at the National Theatre had proven how very close death was for President Beneš.

And if death walked like a shadow behind the tiny form of this man, then it loomed up like mountains around the nation itself. The Death’s-Head units of the SS cast longing, hungry looks across the borders into Czechoslovakia. Even as the music played within Hradcany and the crystal chandeliers illuminated the gold-leaf splendor of the great palace in Prague, another scene was taking place in Germany. Fury and hatred simmered up, blackening the hearts of those who listened to the ravings of the beloved Führer:

“Czechoslovakia must be wiped off the map! It will be wiped off the map! It is my unshakable will that we accomplish this! Listen! We will not back down from those subhuman pygmies again! October first we will hold Czechoslovakia in our hand! And the fingers of the Reich will slowly close and clench until there is no life left there but the life we bring!”

***

Admiral Canaris was unmoving as he scanned the request of Thomas von Kleistmann. He raised his piercing blue eyes to stare angrily at the handsome young officer across from him. “What good do you think this will do?” he asked.

“What way is left for any German officer with honor?” Thomas replied.

“Self-centered prattle!” Canaris snapped. “Do you think I do not see through your intentions, von Kleistmann? Ultimately you intend to lay down your life for the sake of the Fatherland.”

“Why not? What else should I hope for?”

“There is no Fatherland left. No truer patriotism than to live and serve honor as a traitor to Hitler and his Reich.
Live
, and serve truth!” Canaris slammed his hand down on his desk.

“How can I do that in Paris? Without a contact?” Thomas challenged.

“Patience,” Canaris replied, tearing the transfer request in half and dropping it into the garbage can.

“How can I know if I am approached that the courier will not be an agent for the Gestapo? How can we know anything anymore?”

“You are afraid of the Gestapo? You, who want to be first across the line when Hitler storms the Czechs? You, who long for death from the rifle of an enemy? I tell you this—if you die from a Czech bullet, you have been killed by a man defending his nation! If you die at the hands of the Nazi Gestapo, you die at the hands of traitors who will destroy all that is good about the German people! Turn your eyes to the truth, Thomas, as your father would have done! You may die, as I may certainly die, but we must not view death as simply an end to our suffering! If it is to be, then we must give death purpose! We must fight against the evil that has taken hold of our people and our country!”