Vienna, Austria
March 25, 1941
Monika Graf walked past St. Stephen’s Cathedral and eyed the Nazi flag draped down the front of the Hotel Strauss, celebrating the superiority of the Aryan race. The flag, and others like it, hung from many iconic structures, staining a city of architectural masterpieces—curved Art Nouveau buildings accented by sculptures and Baroque palaces built with columns and colonnades. Perched beside the Danube, the river twisting around it, Vienna was founded in genius, home to Beethoven, Mozart, Hayden, and Strauss, their masterpieces silenced by Nazi boots thumping down cobblestone streets.
Her view of the eight-hundred-year-old cathedral, its spire cutting through clouds to reach the hand of God, was marred by a Nazi patrol marching past it—providing a stark contrast of good versus evil to the enlightened soul. Two policemen, chosen for their willingness to intimidate any who crossed them, wandered the square around the church, determined to find suspicious activity—whether it existed or not. They ignored four Hitler Youth who were taunting a gray-haired woman selling Bibles to benefit the church and focused instead on an older man who shook his head with disgust while he briskly walked past them. Monika looked away as she approached. It was best to avoid eye contact and show no interest, intent on reaching her destination.
A slight woman in her mid-thirties, she inherited her olive complexion from her Italian mother, along with dark eyes and black hair that rested on her shoulders. Born in Innsbruck, she had married wealth, her husband Armin serving as Chief of Staff to Max Kern, a highly capable Austrian general. She’d seen little of him since Germany had invaded Poland eighteen months before, starting a war that the entire world would gradually enter. And now, as fighting continued, Monika feared she would see her husband even less.
She continued past the Hitler Youth and avoided the marching soldiers. As she turned the corner on the north side of the plaza, she saw two little girls cleaning the cobblestone with toothbrushes. It was a common punishment for Jews, usually not for what they did but because of who they were. Authorities continually harassed them, often assigning menial tasks that created the greatest humiliation. The girls were young, seven or eight at most, and Monika wondered if they were sisters or two random children impacted by a world at war, their innocence stolen forever. A bucket sat between them, a German soldier paced nearby, and three Jewish women dressed in the latest fashions also cleaned the street. One used a silk camisole she may have worn the night before, the second a mink stole, the third a beige blouse that was torn and tattered from rubbing the stone that made the plaza that wound around the cathedral.
Monika pretended to study radios displayed in the nearest shop window while she furtively eyed the girls, their faces smudged, their dresses soiled. She heard Mozart faintly playing—Symphony 41—the beauty of the moving melodies overshadowed by the ugliness in the street. Across the plaza, a long line of Jews waited at an emigration center, once a Jewish jewelry store long ago emptied of its contents. They came from all walks of life—a rabbi with a long white beard, a yarmulke perched on his head, several men in work clothes, families with well-dressed children, and couples holding hands.
Jews hoping to emigrate were a familiar sight in Vienna—almost half of the city’s population had left in the last few years, encouraged by authorities to do so. But it was only those who could afford the exorbitant fees that had gone—doctors, dentists, lawyers, and famous Jews like Dr. Sigmund Freud. The poor and frail remained, vulnerable and afraid. The residents acted as if Jews were invisible. They ignored them, united in their hatred.
The shop door opened, and a man with gray hair and black glasses stepped out. “May I help you with anything?” he asked.
Monika smiled. “No, but thank you,” she said. “I was only admiring your merchandise.”
“I’m Heinrich Hahn,” he said as he motioned to the store. “This is my shop.”
“It’s very nice,” she said. She assumed he was a pleasant man—at least he acted like one—but she didn’t want to be bothered.
“We have a large selection to choose from,” he continued, proud of his store and all it contained. He paused, waiting for her reply. When none came, he turned to the line of Jews and the women and children cleaning the streets. “It never ends, does it?”
She shifted her gaze to the two little girls, wondering if she could somehow protect them. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. She cringed, hating how they were treated, but quickly recovered. Showing compassion for Jews was dangerous—even when they were children.
“Where do you think they’re going?” he asked, not noticing her reaction.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Most of Europe is fighting.”
“What if you had to guess?” he asked, as if he knew something that she did not.
She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say—or why he would say it. “Anywhere that will take them, I suppose—Switzerland, Spain, Portugal. I’ve been told that some book passage on ships to Palestine. But I don’t know much about it.”
“I do,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Few actually emigrate nowadays. They only think they do.”
She thought his comment strange, but didn’t comment. Maybe he knew what others did not. “Where do they go?” she asked.
He eyed passing pedestrians—women, children, and older men who were veterans of the last war but too old to fight the new one—and then studied the soldiers guarding the Jews. “I was in Linz to buy stock for my store,” he said. “Just outside the city, I saw a camp with stone walls and lookout towers manned by soldiers with machine guns.” He leaned closer, whispering. “It was filled with Jews.”
She tilted her head. “If it had stone walls, how do you know it was filled with Jews?”
He didn’t answer her question. “A quarry is nearby.”
Monika wasn’t sure she understood what he implied. “Are Jews working at the quarry?”
He shrugged. “They must be,” he said. “We do have a labor shortage. Most men are in the military—unless they perform a critical function.” He eyed her cautiously, as if he didn’t know whether to continue. “I’m told some Jews have been worked to death.”
Her eyes widened. The image of men toiling until they dropped made her nauseous. “I know nothing of this,” she mumbled. “Nor do I want to.” It was too horrific to be true. But why would he tell her if it wasn’t?
Hahn eyed her warily. “You seem surprised.”
“It’s the children who worry me most,” she said, nodding her head toward them. She avoided the Jews. Everyone did. But now she was interested, listening to stories that had to be lies while she watched children scrubbing streets, guarded by soldiers. “They’re innocent. They don’t deserve this.”
“They’re orphans,” he said. “I see them all over, rummaging through trash cans or begging on the streets.”
She looked at the girls scrubbing cobblestones, wondering if he spoke the truth. “Where are their parents?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The police probably took them away,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many Jews don’t do as they’re told.”
“And the children are abandoned?” she asked, unable to believe it. “How can anyone expect them to fend for themselves?”
His eyes narrowed. “Who cares?”
“I think everyone does,” she said. “They’re innocent children.”
“You’re too kind,” he said. “I think of them much differently. Everyone does.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant. “Excuse me?” she asked, head cocked.
“They’re vermin,” he said with disgust. “Just like their dead parents.”
Monika’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t appear sympathetic. She might be arrested if she did. “Yes, of course,” she said. “All of Vienna agrees.” She stepped away, pretending to admire merchandise in an adjacent shop window.
Heinrich Hahn approached an older woman and described different radios he had for sale. Monika eyed him warily, afraid he might summon a policeman because of how she had reacted. Or had he not paid attention? She turned toward the street. She would leave while he was distracted.
“Halt!” a soldier shouted.
Her heart raced as a young man wearing spectacles ran toward her. He had come from the group of Jews waiting for visas. A soldier lowered his rifle and fired, the sound echoing off the hallowed walls of the cathedral.
Monika gasped, her hand to her mouth. The Jew fell ten meters away, his spectacles thrown on the cobblestone, blood staining his jacket. She started toward him, hoping to help.
“What happened?” Hahn asked as he touched her arm.
“I don’t know,” she stammered. “The soldier shot him for no reason. Why would he do that?”
“Because he was running away,” an older woman in a plush hat said sternly.
“Running from what?” Hahn asked.
“Something he shouldn’t have been doing,” the woman said, her lips curled with hatred. “But who cares? He’s a Jew.”
Monika eyed those around her as a crowd quickly formed. No one seemed alarmed, even though most moved close to buildings, not sure what had happened. They showed curiosity, not compassion. None were pale, as she was, her stomach queasy, disgusted at the loss of life. The Jews waiting for visas stayed still, afraid to move. Parents protected their children, moving in front of them so they couldn’t see. The adults were used to being mistreated; most had seen death. They pretended nothing had happened, looking away from the soldiers or down at the ground, their gazes averted. The women scrubbing the street continued to do so, but the two girls didn’t know any better. They stared at the bleeding man, fear on their little faces.
A soldier trained his machine gun on the Jews, his back to Monika, as the rest hurried toward the man who was shot. She looked at the girls and then back to the soldiers. Those around her were focused on the Jew dying in front of them. No one was watching her, not even Heinrich Hahn. But why would they? And then, without thinking of the consequences, she rushed toward the girls.
“Hurry,” she hissed, looking around wildly as she reached out her hand. “Come with me.”
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John Anthony Miller
John Anthony Miller writes all things historical—thrillers, mysteries, and romance. He sets his novels in exotic locations spanning all eras of space and time, with complex characters forced to face inner conflicts—fighting demons both real and imagined. He’s published twenty novels and ghostwritten several others, including Another Soul Saved. He lives in southern New Jersey.
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