The Lost Prince (54 page)

Then she picked up the bow and began playing a melody from her
long-ago past, from her time in Vienna twenty years before, from another improvised group. “It is from Haydn,” she said.

Since the melody was unknown to the other players, but with vaguely familiar classical origins, they waited, listening to the deep rich strains of the cello. And then one by one the musicians found enough familiar to latch on to that soon the ragtag dream orchestra was playing together the song that more than half a century later in 1975 would be played before a hushed crowd in a football stadium in California and would become the most famous song of a decade. On and on the makeshift orchestra went, and they played until all the players, Eleanor leading and Jodl and his accordion right behind, all found tears running down their cheeks. Each witness, like the players, was lost in the rapture of the perfect harmony, each transported to an earlier, happier time.

It was, Eleanor told Jodl later, one of the most sublime moments of her life. “And of mine,” the retired policeman said.

THE TROUBLE BEGINS

T
he trouble began almost the very moment they crossed the Piave River near Treviso. They had been asked for their papers when they crossed, and although a few remarks had been made sotto voce, they were allowed to pass, and at least one young soldier wished them well. At the Piave River border, the place where only weeks ago the Italians had made their desperate stand, Jodl exerted his forceful presence. They encountered a definite change of mood. This was Italy and resentment of Jodl and suspicion of Eleanor were obvious. “We are going to have a difficult time here,” the retired policeman said. “The American woman is searching for her brother,” he said through an interpreter, and the border guard nodded that he had seen a number of civilians passing through on similar quests. “He is among the ‘disturbeds,’ she fears.”

The guard acknowledged that there had been Americans mixed with the Italians coming through on the medical trains. “It has been madness,” he said. “There are even Austrians. No one seems to care; the hopeless are the hopeless.”

Jodl gave him some American bills.

“Good fortune to you, Signora American,” he said to Eleanor, as he let them pass.

But as they were sitting at a bus stop trying to work out directions, a group of four uniformed men approached, and Eleanor could see from Jodl’s expression that this was to be the trouble he expected. Jodl had told her to be prepared. “These Italians were greatly humiliated by the retreat
from Caporetto,” he said. “And in the last days, when the Austrians were in disarray, they attacked and claimed a great victory. There is now much chaos in their ranks, and much face-saving. You can expect a mixed greeting, as you are traveling with one of the hated enemy.” Then, as an afterthought, he offered rather unconvincingly, “But we should be safe.”

The men were different from what they had seen before, dressed in new brownish uniforms unlike the threadbare look they were accustomed to. “This is the new Italy,” Jodl said under his breath as they approached. “The trouble begins.”

The leader of the group walked up to Jodl as if he were looking for him specifically. “Papers,” he said curtly in Italian, snapping his fingers with impatience. Jodl handed him his passport, and the officer barely looked at it before handing it to a short, rat-faced man beside him. “Military?” he said abruptly.

“I am Viennese,” Jodl said, hoping that the clarification would mean something. “I am a policeman,” he added. “Retired.”

The rat-faced man handed the passport back to the thin officer. “Deserter,” they heard him say barely loud enough to be heard.

“I am not military,” Jodl said, stiffening.

The thin officer stared at him for a long moment and then looked back at the passport, holding it up as if weighing its authenticity. “We get many deserters,” he said with a snide smile. “You will have to pardon us if we are a little suspicious.”

Jodl did not flinch. He looked directly at the rat-faced interrogator, who looked down, but the officer only stared back. “There were many deserters,” he said, “from your ranks.”

“As there were from yours,” Jodl said, in a momentary and uncharacteristic lack of discretion, this staunch man who seemed to judge human nature so well.

The officer looked them both over until the smaller man had a chance to collect himself. “Many cowards on your side,” he snarled. “Not much to crow about.” He looked at Paolo, the young driver, for a long moment. “You, the Slovene,” he said slowly, and Paolo showed no expression. “I suggest that you take your contraband automobile and depart at once.”

Paolo looked at Jodl, who stood grim-faced, then he looked at Eleanor. She was doing her best to appear unmoved, but her eyes betrayed fear and concern.

“I am sorry, signora,” the young man said, looking into her eyes, hoping for some kind of reprieve.

“It is all right, Paolo,” Eleanor said. “You have served us bravely and well. Now you must go.”

Paolo nodded his gratitude, then backed away slowly, still looking at her. “It has been an honor serving you.”

“You have done so very well,” she said. He turned and walked quickly to his contraband automobile, his limp more pronounced than ever before. No one seemed to notice as he grabbed the protruding wires and started it up. All attention was back to the Viennese as the car drove away.

The rat-faced officer gave a silent signal with his hand and the two other soldiers stepped forward, and each grabbed one of Jodl’s arms. Jodl reacted with a stiffness that Eleanor had seen before, and she watched in fearful anticipation as she remembered the hand that had shot out at the drunken man at the train station only days before. But Jodl did not budge.

“Are you arresting me?” he said.

At first, the officer said nothing, only looked him over again. Then he said, “We cannot have enemy residue wandering freely through our country as spies, can we?”

“We are not spies,” Eleanor said, her first words in the encounter. Jodl tried to silence her with the movement of a hand, but it was too late. The rat-faced officer spun around to face the affront and glared as if surprised to hear a woman speak. “I am an American,” she continued, “and I am searching for my brother who was lost in battle, on
your
side. This man is my assistant and interpreter.”

The officer looked at her coldly. “We are not arresting you,” he said as if issuing a warning.

“This man is not military,” she had the audacity to say. “He is not your enemy.”

Now the rat-faced officer held up his hand to silence the impudence and signaled to the men, who tightened their grip. Again, Jodl did not move but stiffened further.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, and he held out the indispensable briefcase. “This is the lady’s,” he said. “It contains her personal effects.”

The officer said, “Well, we shall have to have a look,” and he reached for the briefcase, the briefcase that held the American dollars, the lifeline. Time seemed to stop in that moment. Eleanor stood frozen.

Jodl’s fist was tight on the briefcase handle. “Her personal effects,” he said distinctly. “Personal feminine effects.” Again, everything stood still. And with that the officer stared at the briefcase for a long moment. Everything froze. Then he pulled back his hand and gestured to allow the transfer from Jodl’s hand to Eleanor’s.

“The American lady will have to be escorted safely to Venice,” Jodl said with an authority that certainly did not come from his current position as a very compromised prisoner, and the officer said nothing. They led Jodl away to a waiting automobile, and one of the soldiers stayed beside Eleanor as she watched the door close and then the automobile drive slowly away.

A new sense of peril seized her in that moment. Ever since leaving Trieste they had become aware of the martial law that seemed to sweep up soldiers and stragglers at random and try them and execute them on the spot, even now since the armistice. “What one does not wish to be in this hellish countryside,” Jodl had said to her grimly back in Udine, “is a military prisoner.”

Who these supposed officers were and where they were taking this man she had grown to depend on so was now totally uncertain. She collected herself enough to speak. “I need help getting to Venice,” she said, obviously trying to be strong.

The soldier beside her looked her over with a salacious smirk. “We shall see,” he said in a way that did nothing to diminish her feeling of vulnerability.

I must get to Venice,
she thought, and raised herself to her full height, allowing as little of her feelings of desperation as possible to show. “I am an American,” she said suddenly with an assertiveness borrowed from her brave companion who had now disappeared. “Are you the one who will help me, or do I need to find someone else?”

Everything froze again. The officer, startled again no doubt to hear such authority from one in her position, stared for a moment. Neither Eleanor nor the officer breathed.

“You are right, madam,” he said suddenly, and then snapped an order at an enlisted man standing some distance away. “Corporal, bring the automobile, and see that this American lady gets what she wants.”

The corporal rushed away and soon an Italian automobile had driven up and she was ushered into the backseat. “This should serve you,” the
officer said, “and you will tell the driver to take you to the train station. The trains will take you where it is you need to go.” Her feeling of immense relief could barely suppress the companion feeling that she was abandoning Franz Jodl.

Considering all she had to worry about, she gave little thought to being a woman traveling alone. At the train station in Venice, a porter told her that a gondolier would take her to a hotel for a tip. “In Venice,” the cheery man said, “you can find anything for a tip.”

And so she found herself out of harm’s way, in a gondola on the Grand Canal in Venice, probably the most romantic location in the world, on her way to a tourist hotel, an irony not lost on her in her dire situation.
Just imagine that you are Henry James,
she told herself, and she formed a plan.

After she had been delivered to a small hotel and had parted company with the soldiers, she did her best to settle in and take care of her disheveled appearance. With her companion’s life in the balance, she could hardly enjoy the essential short but very warm bath or the thought that she now found herself in one of the world’s most beautiful cities.

She stood at the window for a moment, transfixed by the vista of narrow streets, canals, and in the distance a piazza she had read of in novels and heard described by countless visitors.

She did what she could to clean and press her dress and to straighten her hair, to regain at least some proximity to a woman in charge. She knew she had to act quickly if she was to save Jodl, who might already have met a terrible fate. Then she asked to be shown the American-owned Bank of Italy, the largest bank in Venice, and was granted an appointment with an official, a well-dressed Italian man with what she thought was the proper arrogance. “Can you cable New York City?” she asked.

“Of course, madam,” he said, heartily making clear his surprise that she even needed to ask.

“I must send this message.” And she handed the man the words she had carefully written out on a piece of bank stationery.

“Are you sure of this address?” the man asked suspiciously, as if her careful handwriting was not completely clear and legible. “And the addressee?”

“I am certain,” Eleanor said, nodding, without apology, as if her position
and request were a natural part of the clear crisp Venice morning. “That is correct. He is a personal friend,” she said to add a note of authenticity. And the banker looked her over for an instant, not certain that he believed her or that he would proceed. Then he turned and disappeared into a spacious side room.

The New York cable was to the most powerful man in America, son of the most powerful man in the world, Mr. John Pierpont Morgan Jr.

A Very Well-Placed Nephew

I
t was late afternoon when she received the message at her hotel.

She had spent the day by herself in her room, uncertain what to do, sure that at least for the time being waiting for word from New York was the only course of action available to her. If nothing came within twenty-four hours, she would try something different, but exactly what that would be she had no idea. How, in these moments of anxious waiting, she felt the split in her personality, the logical and systematic thinking of Dr. Freud and the innovative and spontaneous impulses of her friend Jung, caught between the two, always wondering how each would handle the situation, always wishing for their great skill of detached objectivity, always aware of her weaknesses of being overly anxious and connected.

Twice during her long wait, aware of the extraordinary setting in which she found herself, she went out for a walk, once along the Grand Canal and once into the Piazza San Marco and into the basilica, which in other circumstances would have been for her a source of awe and wonder. There in the darkened space, surrounded by candles lit by penitent Venetians, she sat alone on a cold wooden pew, trying to assuage the feelings of helplessness. In that moment in the cavernous basilica of San Marco in one of the most beautiful and historic cities in the world, she prayed that her mission would end successfully and soon, that she would rescue Herr Jodl from his predicament, find Arnauld in one of the Italian hospitals, and return home speedily to Boston and her family.