Read Online Vienna Prelude by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene
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pilot in the last battle above the Argonne. Elisa was proud of him—proud that the guests around their dinner table had been among the great men of Germany. They came less and less often lately, but still no one denied that Theo Lindheim was a great German patriot, even if he was a Jew.
Elisa passed unnoticed through the shoppers and climbed the familiar stairs to the mezzanine. She could have greeted every clerk in the store, but they were all busy, and she was too preoccupied to make small talk. They would want to know about school in Vienna and what her plans were. Some even would have asked her about her romance with Thomas von Kleistmann, and that was one topic she could not face—not now.
Christmas was supposed to be a happy time, full of love and laughter and friends. Her relationship with Thomas was one thing her father’s status as war hero had not been able to save. There was a law now in Germany that the blood of a pure Aryan could not commingle with that of the defiled Jew. It was not a matter of religion, they had explained to Thomas. It did not matter that the Lindheim family were baptized Lutherans. A little water could not wash away their Jewishness. As an adjutant on the staff of Admiral Canaris, Thomas could not continue to see Elisa. He had been told this in a very polite and logical tone; there had even been some sympathy in the voice of the officer. But the law was on the books, and violation was punishable by severe prison sentences.
Elisa shook her head slightly to brush away the thought. She had denied herself the luxury of self-pity while she had studied and practiced in Vienna. The solitude of the practice cubicle had been filled with the passion of her music alone. In Austria no one ever stopped to question her heritage. She was beautiful and talented, a violinist of great potential, according to Professor Ryburg at the Academy. She had lost herself in a world of music and hard work. Letters from Thomas von Kleistmann had been burned unopened rather than returned to him at the risk of Gestapo interception. In Vienna she had not had the time to miss him.
Now, at this instant, in the familiarity of Berlin, she found herself searching the faces of the young officers in the store and hoping against her own will for a glimpse of Thomas. She almost regretted that she had come home to Berlin for a few days of shopping before the family took their December holiday in the Alps of the Austrian Tyrol. Certainly there were no terrible edicts against love in Austria. Those laws had only come with the dank rain of the swastika’s thundercloud.
Elisa drew herself up. Perhaps she would not come home again until all this had passed away, as her father and Thomas von Kleistmann believed it would. She would stay across the border and fall in love with whomever she wished. She would play the music that was now forbidden for Jewish musicians in Hitler’s Germany. The sound of Mozart followed her up the stairs—a reminder that it was against the law for her, a racial Jew, to play “German” music in public. Even in her own father’s store.
A tall, strong-jawed Wehrmacht soldier smiled and touched his hand to the brim of his cap as he passed Elisa. She lifted her chin and looked the other way, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of even a glance.
The taxi driver was wrong , Elisa thought. More than Jews still shop at Lindheim’s. But a great many fools come here.
Elisa was well aware, of course, that legally, technically , Lindheim’s was no longer a Jewish store. Theo Lindheim had the foresight to pass the control of the store on paper to a select group of his German business friends. His office still remained where it had always been on the second floor, and decisions were still relayed to him; but the names of five Aryan board members kept the store on good terms with the Nazi government. Even though it was illegal to export “Jewish capital,” Elisa had overheard her father and mother discussing
Elisa passed unnoticed through the shoppers and climbed the familiar stairs to the mezzanine. She could have greeted every clerk in the store, but they were all busy, and she was too preoccupied to make small talk. They would want to know about school in Vienna and what her plans were. Some even would have asked her about her romance with Thomas von Kleistmann, and that was one topic she could not face—not now.
Christmas was supposed to be a happy time, full of love and laughter and friends. Her relationship with Thomas was one thing her father’s status as war hero had not been able to save. There was a law now in Germany that the blood of a pure Aryan could not commingle with that of the defiled Jew. It was not a matter of religion, they had explained to Thomas. It did not matter that the Lindheim family were baptized Lutherans. A little water could not wash away their Jewishness. As an adjutant on the staff of Admiral Canaris, Thomas could not continue to see Elisa. He had been told this in a very polite and logical tone; there had even been some sympathy in the voice of the officer. But the law was on the books, and violation was punishable by severe prison sentences.
Elisa shook her head slightly to brush away the thought. She had denied herself the luxury of self-pity while she had studied and practiced in Vienna. The solitude of the practice cubicle had been filled with the passion of her music alone. In Austria no one ever stopped to question her heritage. She was beautiful and talented, a violinist of great potential, according to Professor Ryburg at the Academy. She had lost herself in a world of music and hard work. Letters from Thomas von Kleistmann had been burned unopened rather than returned to him at the risk of Gestapo interception. In Vienna she had not had the time to miss him.
Now, at this instant, in the familiarity of Berlin, she found herself searching the faces of the young officers in the store and hoping against her own will for a glimpse of Thomas. She almost regretted that she had come home to Berlin for a few days of shopping before the family took their December holiday in the Alps of the Austrian Tyrol. Certainly there were no terrible edicts against love in Austria. Those laws had only come with the dank rain of the swastika’s thundercloud.
Elisa drew herself up. Perhaps she would not come home again until all this had passed away, as her father and Thomas von Kleistmann believed it would. She would stay across the border and fall in love with whomever she wished. She would play the music that was now forbidden for Jewish musicians in Hitler’s Germany. The sound of Mozart followed her up the stairs—a reminder that it was against the law for her, a racial Jew, to play “German” music in public. Even in her own father’s store.
A tall, strong-jawed Wehrmacht soldier smiled and touched his hand to the brim of his cap as he passed Elisa. She lifted her chin and looked the other way, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of even a glance.
The taxi driver was wrong , Elisa thought. More than Jews still shop at Lindheim’s. But a great many fools come here.
Elisa was well aware, of course, that legally, technically , Lindheim’s was no longer a Jewish store. Theo Lindheim had the foresight to pass the control of the store on paper to a select group of his German business friends. His office still remained where it had always been on the second floor, and decisions were still relayed to him; but the names of five Aryan board members kept the store on good terms with the Nazi government. Even though it was illegal to export “Jewish capital,” Elisa had overheard her father and mother discussing
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