Munich Signature (50 page)

The three exchanged looks.
Americans! Will they never learn to talk?
“We thought it best to make certain of her safety because of your involvement with the Jewish refugees and her involvement with the Czech government. Especially at this moment in world affairs. There is no way to accurately gauge her vulnerability. We take matters of protection seriously.”

Murphy felt overwhelmed with gratitude. These fellas had really taken care of Elisa—made sure she was okay, not taken any chances with her. He couldn’t have done any better himself, he mused. Their measure of concern probably far outweighed the possible threat. So she had been in good hands, after all.

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“An hour’s drive from here.” The big man stepped back and opened a door that led to a long corridor with rooms opening off either side. At the far end he warned Murphy. “In, and then out the other side—”

No time to question. The door opened to the honking of horns and voices of passengers screaming for cabs. A long black Rolls Royce waited three steps away with the door open. The big man preceded Murphy and then a little shove moved Murphy into the car. The door slammed behind him at the same instant the big man opened the opposite door and stepped out into yet another black automobile pointed the opposite way. Murphy slipped into the second car and closed the door behind him. The first Rolls sped away to the east as Murphy’s car slipped out into the westbound traffic.

The windows were curtained with green velvet. Murphy resisted the urge to look out. He grinned at the unsmiling big man who seemed irritated by the very presence of Murphy.

“Quite a little shell game you’ve got here,” Murphy said as the traffic thinned and the car bumped over a series of railroad tracks. “You know—hide the pea under the walnut shell and move the shells around—”

The big man cleared his throat and ignored the comment. He removed a pipe from his vest pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he filled his pipe and lit it.

An hour in the back of this curtained car with this surly grouch? Murphy tried again. “I appreciate the way you fellas have taken care of Elisa. I don’t think I caught your name.” Murphy extended his hand.

“Tedrick. Amos Tedrick” came the reply and the handshake. This was better. A bit more human. “Quite all right. That’s our job, making certain a woman of your wife’s notoriety remains safe.”

“Notoriety?” Murphy repeated. “Not a word I would have chosen for Elisa.”

Tedrick shrugged. “Shall I say fame, then? Of course, you must have known that a woman could not foil an assassination plot against the president of Czechoslovakia and not arouse curiosity, at least, on the part of the Gestapo.” Tedrick puffed his pipe, filling the interior of the car with smoke. “I am surprised you did not arrange for this sort of protection for her
before
you were attacked in New York.” He frowned. “Certainly you are not considering taking her with you when you go on to—”

“Evian,” Murphy replied, suddenly feeling the weight of a veiled accusation from Tedrick. “I had thought . . . if her schedule—”

Tedrick’s eyebrows went up in astonishment. Then he let them slide back down in thought and cocked one in a gesture that said,
What an absolute lunatic! This man must want his wife dead or maimed . . . or kidnapped and taken to Germany to prison!
“Well, well,” Tedrick said at last.

Everything Murphy had decided about never letting her out of his sight now seemed foolish. How could she go with him to Evian with this Czech crisis in the headlines every day? Might the Gestapo still consider her to be some sort of link, just as Beneš had warned him in Prague? At least here she was under the watchful eye of professionals; under the care of the BBC, no less. Murphy coughed from the smoke. “Evian will probably be crawling with Gestapo agents,” he said. “I . . . think you’re right about that. She’s better off in England. Under protection.”

Tedrick nodded once. He smiled from behind his pipe. “Now
here’s
a sensible man.” He congratulated Murphy, even as he inwardly congratulated himself in the handling of this inconvenience.

***

That evening at the Shabbat meal, Trump sat wedged tightly between Charles and Bubbe Rosenfelt. There were fourteen all together around the table. A big family. Nieces and nephews, the youngest of whom was two-year-old Franklin Delano Rosenfelt.

“A pistol,” Trump declared upon meeting the child.

“Our little kochleffl,” declared his young mother with a laugh.

“Like a cooking spoon,” explained Bubbe, “always stirring things up,
nu
?”

The entire joyous evening was spent in translation and counter-translation of the Yiddish. Occasionally Charles tested the sounds against his lovely new mouth. Nothing yet seemed to come out quite right; it would be a long time, Bubbe warned, before Charles was speaking perfect Yiddish.

Here in Brooklyn and beneath the electric headlines in Times Square, toasts were raised to the birth of baby Israel. Bubbe Rosenfelt expressed only one regret. “If only I cold see the berith milah of my great-grandson.”

“Circumcision,” explained a niece. “For Jewish baby boys this is a ceremony on the eighth day, which is very important.”

This wish, expressed after one of the finest meals Trump had ever eaten in his life, was a request that he considered seriously. Within thirty seconds after the words had fallen from Bubbe’s mouth, Mr. Trump had already written the headlines:

“Great-Grandmother Travels by Fishing Vessel to Witness Dedication of Infant to God!”

Ah, yes. This might be too good to pass up. A few photos, plus a story about the ceremony, and within the time it took to read the article, this little boy would belong to all of America!

Trump narrowed his eyes in thought as he remembered the Coast Guard cutter assigned to keep all other vessels away from the little freighter. Might he take Bubbe Rosenfelt with him to Cuba? Out of the authority of the Americans?

Trump dabbed his lips on the white linen napkin and addressed Bubbe over the racket of fourteen voices that all seemed to be talking at once. “Well, I’m no fairy godfather, but if you’d like to go to Cuba—”

“Cuba?”

“We have arranged for the ship to be resupplied there. We are also attempting to acquire temporary landing certificates for the passengers—”

“Cuba?” Bubbe Rosenfelt raised her pince-nez to her nose in disbelief. “Could I see them there? The
baby
?”

All conversation stopped mid-sentence. Thirteen sets of eyes locked on Trump. He could do that? He could take Bubbe to Cuba to be with Klaus and Maria and the children?

“We are still negotiating with the Cubans—a little awkward, since all the immigration big shots are in Evian. But we can do our best, if you’d like.”

Bubbe’s eyes shone brightly in the Shabbat candles. “The Lord is good,” she whispered. “I’ll pack. Right after I help with the dishes.”

33

Snow White’s Cottage

The Rolls Royce crept slowly over the rutted land. They had, in fact, traveled much longer than the promised hour—not because they had covered a great distance, but because of the condition of the roads. At last Tedrick pulled back the green velvet curtain on his side of the car and opened the window slightly. Murphy followed suit, grateful to be able to breathe fresh air at last.

The roadsides were lined with stands of beech tress for miles, and then the gnarled trunks of giant oak trees gleamed like silver sentinels in the reflection of the headlights. The countryside rolled gently.
More gently than the Rolls
, Murphy thought wryly. He had the sense that they would come upon the characters of Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
just around the bend.

“Are we lost?” he asked at last.

“Only to the world, Mr. Murphy. Actually you are in the center of New Forest.”

“Crown lands.” Murphy searched his memory for whatever musty textbook information he had about this section of England.
Ancient Royal Hunting Grounds
was all he could come up with. As if to confirm his memory, they heard the distant, ghostly baying of hounds. Murphy shuddered slightly as he remembered tales of Sherlock Holmes and
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. “You have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Tedrick,” he joked.

“Purely unrehearsed, I assure you,” Tedrick answered. “We just passed the kennels of the New Forest hunt. The hounds tend to bay if an automobile passes on the lane at night.” He dumped the ashes of his pipe out the window. “Natural alarm system against poachers or intruders.”

The driver maneuvered the car over increasingly bad roads, turning onto lanes that were little more than old carriage tracks. Crossing over a barren ridge, Murphy looked out over a dark, wooded valley below. Other names returned to his memory:
Boldrewood. Mark Ash Wood. Knightwood, where ancient oaks measured twenty feet in girth.
Indeed this man Tedrick enjoyed the drama of the mysterious, the sense of the medieval.

“How much longer?” Murphy asked, trying not to sound like a kid in the backseat.

In answer to his question, Tedrick raised a massive arm and pointed to the edge of the wooded valley. A single light shone. And then as the car moved closer, Murphy could see that the light was one window, then two.

“Elisa’s requirement was privacy,” Tedrick explained. “We have tried to meet that requirement. A small hunting cottage. Quite remote, and yet comfortable—except for a lack of electricity. There are ample oil lamps. I doubt you will notice the lack.”

Murphy considered how he might reply to that, but thought better of it. “If there is no electricity, then I assume there is no telephone. No radio.”

“Privacy,” Tedrick repeated. “Three days, and then we will send a car for you. You’ll make it back to Southampton in time to catch your steamer to France.”

Murphy considered that he would be able to jog to the cottage much faster than the car was moving. He did not take his eyes from the lighted windows. There, within that solitary halo, was his galaxy.

The cottage was of white stone with a thatched roof and heavy, time-blackened beams. Windowsills and doorjambs were all crooked; Murphy could see the light emanating from the cracks as if the cottage could not hold it. Yet another car was parked to the side of the cottage, and at the sound of tires the door opened and Elisa stepped out.

She stood framed in the doorway. A cream-colored cotton skirt and blouse gave her an almost golden glow in the lamplight that shone behind her. She put her hands on her hips like a farmwife waiting for her tardy husband to come home. Murphy felt as if he could not breathe until she was in his arms. Before the wheels stopped, he was out. She moved toward him, and they met somewhere between the darkness and the light. Kisses and tears mingled together, and Murphy forgot that anyone was with them, watching this reunion in the woods of Titania. Here was magic. He buried his face in the nape of her neck and inhaled the sweetness of her skin. She kissed his ear and tangled her fingers in his hair with careless, joyful passion.

“Elisa.” He managed to say her name at last.

She laughed. “You missed me.” This was a fact, not a question. Then she pushed him back a bit and looked around. No one remained outside with them. Murphy could see four men gathered in the front room of the low-ceilinged cottage. There was a fire in the open hearth, although it was not cold outside.

Murphy drew a deep breath of frustration. “How do we get rid of them?”

“I have arranged everything.” She stood on tiptoe and cradled his chin in her hand as she kissed his mouth again. Then she stopped short. “Your nose!” she cried.

“Your hair!” he replied. “You cut it. Like Myrna Loy. I like it.”

“Does it hurt?” She seemed overwhelmed by the green and purple blotches that were only now fading from his face.

“Only when I try to kiss you too long.”

At the sound of their laughter, Tedrick ducked and put his head out to call them. “We’ll have to be going soon,” he remarked in an almost military manner. “The rector is already three hours later than we told him.”

“Rector?” Murphy asked.

“Remember I told you Tedrick said our wedding ceremony was not legal,” Elisa responded. “We’re not officially married.”

Murphy shook his head, trying to clear his mind and comprehend what she was saying. Maybe they
had
entered an enchanted forest, after all. There certainly didn’t seem to be any other rational explanation.

“You don’t think I would spend three days alone with you without being married, do you?” Elisa smiled up into his eyes.

He was lost. Nuts about her. Anything she wanted. He would marry her again and stay in this cottage as royal game warden if she wanted. “Since we’ve already had our honeymoon, do you mind if we go for the short version of the ceremony?”

***

Only embers remained glowing on the hearth. Night sounds surrounded the little cottage. The hooting of an owl. A million crickets. The song of a nightingale.

“It sounds like this back home in the woods,” Murphy said quietly as Elisa lay in his arms. “When I was a kid, we used to go out camping. There are woods just beyond the farm. My brother Terry and I would pitch Pop’s old pup tent and camp out there like we were Yukon explorers.”

Elisa answered with a sigh and smiled in the darkness as if they were there now, a few hundred yards from Murphy’s house. “And then what did you do?”

“Roasted hot dogs and pretended it was big game. Told stories. Talked about the places we wanted to go when we grew up. Funny, I feel closer to home tonight than I ever have before. Clear across the ocean with you beside me, Elisa, I am closer than I ever was last week in New York or fifteen years ago in that tent with Terry.” He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. “You are home to me.”

“And the two shall become one flesh,” Elisa whispered. “And you are
home
to me, Murphy.” She lifted her face to kiss his chin and then pressed herself against his side. She ran her fingers gently across the tape that still encircled his ribs. “Does it hurt?” she asked.