A Chosen Sparrow

by Vera Caspary

  “Who isn’t?” It was apparent that Irene had not loved her mother. Resentment was as fresh as if the Berlin aristocrat were alive and able to chide the rebellious daughter. “She,” Irene’s voice gave a touch of frost to the pronoun, “reigned like a Niebelung princess in that imitation Gothic palace and treated her consort like a peasant clod.”

  “She was never vulgar,” said Gerhard primly.

  “Pardon the blasphemy. She was a saint. Perfection.”

  Gerhard’s flesh became blue-white. Freckles stood out like small suns. His sister’s jibes caused him to retreat into boyish sulks. He accused her of adding American crudeness to the vulgarity she had acquired from association with the wartime riffraff of Berlin. She shouted, he whispered; she jeered, he withdrew. Once, in a white fury, he whispered in a smothered voice, “If you ever speak of that again,” and Irene roared, “Don’t kid yourself. The leopard can’t change his spots so easily.” They had not noticed me come into the room. I tried to leave quietly but Gerhard saw me and commanded me to stay. For once Irene became meek, and asked if she might have a cock-tail.

  These were not comfortable evenings. I was glad when Irene informed us, abruptly, that she would fly back to America the next morning. Gerhard told her not to expect him to rise early and accompany her to the airport but offered the use of his car which the chauffeur had brought to Paris a few days after we had arrived.

  “Thanks for the kindness,” Irene said coldly. “Are you sure you can afford it?”

  “As long as you don’t expect me to pay your hotel bill,” he retorted. They argued about money constantly, often over small sums that one would not expect a rich person to notice.

  I rose early the next morning and waited in the car until she came down. “How adorable of you, Leni. And the drive back from Orly is so dreary.”

  “It’s a small thing to do for a sister who has come thousands of miles to greet me. Thank you, Irene.”

  Before the plane left she took me in her arms, touched her cheek to mine in a kiss that would not smudge the color on our lips. It was a cold kiss, but she allowed herself a small show of feeling when she pressed me close to her bony body and whispered, “Be good to him, Leni. God knows he needs it.”

  At the hotel I found Gerhard pacing the salon. “So you did the family honors. You’re very sweet, Leni. Irene doesn’t deserve it. She left me her bill, the bitch. Look in your bedroom. You’ll find something—”

  He had bought the loveliest of all gifts, a baby poodle so young that she whimpered all night for her mother. I held her tight against my body, whispered pet names and fed her sweetened milk from a nipple. I called her Litzi. When Gerhard asked why I had chosen the name I said it was a favorite of mine, but did not tell him that Litzi was the name of Frau Mayr.

  That night he decided to go back to Austria. “The car’s got to go back anyway, we might as well go with it. I’ve spent too much money, we shall have to be careful.”

  I was glad he made that decision. It gave me a chance to see France and Switzerland and the western part of Austria. At this beautiful season poppies burned red in fields of mustard, and blossoms stood in clusters like Christmas candles on the chestnut trees. It was a happy journey; the puppy lay curled in my lap; my husband was very kind and would often stop so that I could enjoy some picturesque sight or historical monument. Yet I felt that his nerves were strained and it was only on the surface that he was a happy bridegroom. Although I tried not to think about unpleasant things I could not keep myself from wondering about that part of his nature which he guarded so closely, the whims, the secrets, the hidden spots which the leopard could not change.

  On the last night of our journey…in Innsbruck, it was…I became sentimental, thinking that the next night would be spent in the first home that would be my own, a house where I would not merely be accepted out of charity but needed for the things I could give; and made a vow to be a worthy wife, tender and tolerant of my contradictory bridegroom. Excitement kept me awake. At dawn, wrapped in a fleecy robe, I sat beside the window watching the sun change the colors of snow peaks and sky, and wishing that for once my husband would wake early and get done with his routines of bath and breakfast and dressing and that we would travel swiftly so that I would have daylight for my first sight of Liebhofen.

  IV

  We came to the castle at twilight. Towers rose out of the mist like magic turrets in old and faded picture books. Except on the sunniest days morning and evening mists hide the narrow peninsula so that Liebhofen seems to hover dreamily above the Sternsee. Beyond stretches Altbach, a fairy-tale village with flower boxes spilling summer color over windowsills and balconies while, beyond the grouped red roofs, rise the bright and the dark greens of meadow and forest. It is almost too pretty to be real, too picturesque, too reminiscent of stories about elves and princesses and dragons. Underneath this glowing surface the fairy tale is infinitely corrupt.

  Schloss Liebhofen, according to old maps, engravings and Latin documents, has stood nine hundred and forty years. The last of its ducal owners died during the First World War and the estate was sold to a family of Bavarian profiteers. During the Second War it was taken over by the Luftwaffe for officers on holiday, later occupied by the local Gauleiter, his family and followers. At the war’s end the Gauleiter and his family fled, but the followers stayed on until they were evicted. Much of the fine furniture had been burned as fuel, brocades and tapestries were torn, damask stained. Valuable carpets had been carried off, as well as candelabra, porcelains and silver. For several years Liebhofen remained the home of bats, mice and spiders. The park was as neglected as the interior, paths overgrown, shrubs ragged and vines hanging from the branches like witches’ hair.

  When my husband and his mother first saw the old place they were homeless as their family mansion with its high waif and park was in the Russian zone of Berlin, and their estates in Saxony had been confiscated. They had spent several years abroad, but wanted to settle again in a German-speaking country, had hoped to find a home among the mountain landscapes of Bavaria. Nothing had been further from their minds than a castle in Austria. Like so many North Germans, Frau Irmengarde von Richtgarten Metzger considered our people stupid, our language slovenly. When a house agent in Munich told them about Schloss Liebhofen they barely listened to the description of an Austrian castle in a sad state of disrepair. Only the price had been attractive. At that time the Austrian schilling had been low, next to the Spanish peseta the cheapest money in Europe, They could not have found anything in Germany for many times the cost.

  In fine autumn weather the Salzkammergut can be unbearably beautiful. Fallen leaves lie upon the ground like a blanket of gold, shadowed lakes are of deep green and deep blue between the peaks of high mountains whose shining swords pierce a bluer arch. On such a day Gerhard and his mother saw and became enchanted by the castle’s ravaged beauty. At once they made up their minds to own it but, with the deep respect of the rich for money, bargained shrewdly before they signed the papers. From that day their lives were dedicated to the labors of restoration. Mother and son worked together, traveled together in search of appropriate furnishings and ornaments, fought like a married couple over hinges and draperies and old iron candle sconces.

  Before the work was finished Frau Irmengarde became ill and died. Although she was not Catholic, Gerhard had her buried in the private plot beneath the castle’s chapel. “Liebhofen is her monument.” In this spirit he continued the work of restoration, considered her taste in selecting every ornament, tapestry and piece of furniture. Their labors had been confined to the western section of the castle where new bathrooms had been added, central heating extended, modern refrigerators and other electrical miracles installed. When I came to the castle there were plans drawn for the restoration of the old halls and dungeons of the eastern wing and, later, I heard a lot of talk about this mysterious east section.

  Our rooms were in the western tower, Gerhard’s suite at the top, directly below it my b
oudoir, dressing room and bedchamber. A small secret staircase wound between our bedrooms. Gerhard thought this a charming conceit and showed it to me with the pleasure of a boy who imagines he is living in a fairy tale.

  “Who used this lovely suite before you married me?”

  “Friends.”

  “They must have been very good friends to share your tower.” Coyly I added, “Your mistress!”

  He looked angry. I said, “Forgive me, a good wife does not ask questions about her husband’s bachelor days,” and offered penitence with arch humility like a prostitute flirting with a policeman.

  I did not always find it easy to please my fastidious husband. By nature I am not humble, but early experiences taught me that protest was a luxury I could not afford. As a child my only asset had been the wistful eyes of a starving waif. After my marriage, in my Paris dresses with sapphires in my ears, gold on my arms, an emerald on my hand, I still wore the look and practiced the attitudes of a waif.

  A waif has much to learn before she can become mistress of a castle. Things which now seem trivial were of vast importance in the strained months when I dedicated myself to the task of becoming a rich man’s wife. The only servant I had known was old Pepperl who had been more intimate with the Mayr daughters than their own mother. Gerhard frowned whenever I ran to fetch things for myself in order to save Imre, our limping butler, a journey up the long flights of stairs, and I was scolded severely for becoming friendly with my own maid, Suzi, a natural confidante, close to my age and with a sympathetic nature.

  My husband also wished me to be a sportswoman. Three mornings a week there arrived on a shiny motorcycle the riding master in boots, stock and bowler hat. I was nervous on the horse, not at all adapted by nature to handle a spirited animal. To help me overcome timidity Gerhard told me a story about his own youth. The first time he had been taken out with a shooting party, he had vomited. The confession was made with difficulty. He remembered too ardently the horror of his mother at hearing how her son had disgraced himself at the sight of a bleeding pheasant. A practical woman, she had engaged professionals to drill into him the proper skills and reverence for sportsmanship. “You see,” he concluded proudly, “what I am now.”

  The morning after this confession Gerhard made me promise never to repeat this story. He was mortally afraid of having his weaknesses exposed. Because he was so vulnerable to such attacks upon his pride, I made a greater effort to conquer my fears. Gradually the timid rider and nervous horse became friends and I could sit calmly enough upon the saddle to pretend I enjoyed the sport. It was my sincerest desire to please my husband in every way.

  I was well rewarded. For example, when, after many lessons and a stiff examination in the mechanisms of a motorcar, I was granted a license to drive, at the door next morning I found a small white convertible car with red cushions. It was mine with papers to prove the ownership. How proud I was and how ecstatically I explored the country with my equally proud dog on the seat beside me. I had never felt so free as on those dreamy excursions. Such escape was not often possible. Gerhard was very possessive. He wanted me with him every hour of every day. A man who has been single for thirty-nine years finds marriage a heady experience.

  Often in the evening I was dressed in gowns and jewels he had selected and shown off like a rare discovery. The waif entertained countesses, flirted with titled men. To tell the truth, these aristocrats were dull, talked about nothing but horses, hunting, profitable marriages and ancient infidelities. My friends in Vienna had been brighter company and more sincere, but owners of a castle cannot invite ordinary people to dine at a table set with precious plate and antique porcelain. Not one of our guests was ignorant of the fact that their host’s mother had been born von Richtgarten.

  I must add that Gerhard told them about me without shame or fear of prejudice. All the fine ladies and gentlemen expressed horror and sympathy and each added a private history of sufferings caused by the war. A few had lost sons or husbands and a fine old Rittmeister had spent three years in a Nazi jail; but mostly these aristocrats uttered their saddest sighs over vanished grandeur and lost fortunes.

  When our last guest had departed, when the porter had locked the outer gate and the butler bolted the door that shut off the servants’ rooms, Gerhard and I were locked in the castle with all of our valuable possessions. The grave can be no more silent than Liebhofen on those windless nights. In our velvet-lined tower every board was tight, every hinge oiled, every mousehole sealed. The narrow staircase between our bedrooms was covered with a thick carpet.

  Sometimes the staircase door would swing open and in in the slanting beam of the stair lamp I would see a tall figure in white silk pajamas, elongated, unreal as an avenging angel come to demand payment for my pleasures and privileges. Often he stood uncertain, awaiting welcome, like a child who cannot be heroic in the dark. At such times I loved him best and believed my warmth would reach to the depths of the unknown anguish which caused so much uncertainty and torment in the man.

  Morning glittered over our private park. Later gathering clouds gave new colors to sky and earth. The sun’s rays tried to push through, but the clouds were too strong and there were too many of them crowding together. In violet-tinted light the hills were like patch quilts with small square fields of many hues, gray-green and blue-green, green-yellow and green-silver and, where the ripened wheat stood, golden. Against the changing sky the pine trees thrust their dark swords and in the distance rose bolder forests, taller mountains, piercing glaciers. In changing light the Sternsee showed as many hues as an artist’s palette. How could I fail to be happy in this beautiful world?

  We had been lighthearted during our early morning ride, came from the stables arm in arm, laughing because the Altbach postman, who fancied himself an irresistible cavalier, bowed so elegantly from the seat of his bicycle. On the large table in the ground-floor hall the letters waited. Few people ever wrote to me, but I always ran for the mail hopefully. My attention was caught by a row of foreign stamps and an address in beautiful, old-fashioned script shaded like an engraving.

  “It’s for you. From Egypt.”

  Gerhard snatched the envelope out of my hand. The tic in his eye became uncontrollable. Silent and sullen, he turned and marched up the stairs. I did not see him again until the bell rang for our noon dinner.

  He sat in silence and ate little. I tried to woo him with chatter, but he seemed to hear nothing I said. As soon as the meal was over he offered a formal bow, said, “Mahlzeit,” and again disappeared. I drifted about the large rooms idly, too restless to practice the piano or zither, to listen to my records or concentrate on the French studies I had begun after my visit to Paris. At the hour of afternoon coffee there was no sign of my husband.

  Supper was very late that night. The servants had been sent off to their rooms and Imre had locked the door that led to their quarters. Only he stayed up to serve us. Cold dishes had been prepared and laid on beds of ice, casseroles kept warm on an electrically heated buffet. Fine Bavarian porcelain had been set out and the antique Bohemian wineglasses with ruby-red borders. Tall candles shed light upon a centerpiece of the sacred orchids which were taken from the greenhouse only for sacred occasions, and we drank two of the finest wines from the cellar.

  My husband was in a better mood, as gentle and kind as when he had first wooed me. “We’ll have our coffee in my study,” he said.

  Liqueurs, chocolate and sugared fruit had been set out. Imre brought the coffee and bade us good night. Gerhard asked me about the prison again. It was a repetition of the old scenes in the elegant Vienna restaurant where he had regaled me with delicious foods and wines, and I had entertained him with tales of cruelty and starvation. I had thought he was through with that ugly business, but his lust seemed greater than before. “Go on, go on,” he urged whenever I paused to take a recess from the ordeal.

  Time seemed endless. The tower room grew cold.

  Gerhard was careful with small expenses, refus
ed to have central heating turned on so early in the autumn. A fire had been laid in the old tiled stove, but the butler had not been ordered to light it. Wind circled the tower; rain beat against the windows. From the paneled wall his mother favored us with her frosty smile. The portrait showed her with bare shoulders, sparkling necklace and jeweled eardrops. A high sweep of white hair above a tall brow gave Frau Irmengarde regal grace, but the pince-nez painted too realistically gave her a commonplace look like a picture in an optician’s window. Gerhard knew it was not a good painting but kept it for sentimental reasons in a room to which guests were never admitted.

  “Go on, go on,” he begged when I faltered.

  I went to sit beside him on the couch, leaned against his shoulder, hoped for an endearment or a change of mood. It seemed futile and boring to repeat what he had so often heard, but I was afraid to remark it because he had once punished me for protesting.

  “Go on, go on,” he commanded, his fingers like cold metal on my arm.

  I tried to obey. My memory went dead. It was not an act of conscious will. My mind could not move backward or forward but seemed solid and immovable, and I heard a single word echo and re-echo in the hollow chamber. What the word was I cannot remember; I recall only the painful effort to grasp at thought of some kind. It was like the effect of a strong drug. Perhaps I did manage to murmur that I could not remember; perhaps Gerhard said, “This should remind you.” In retrospect I feel it was like that. What remains is the secret smile as he left me to cross over toward the closed and curtained sections of the bookshelves. Bluebeard had shown a peculiar smile when he unlocked the cupboards where the bodies of previous wives were hidden. The companions of my husband’s lonely hours were thus introduced.

  Although no one but Gerhard had ever touched these books they were shabby from much handling. Pages had been turned again and again. Moist fingertips had dulled glossy paper. The pictures remain alive in me. I saw them often. Dark walls of concentration camps, barbed wire, gun turrets, white bones on black earth, bodies heaped like refuse on a dump, charred bodies fresh from the ovens, bloody bodies hanging like slaughtered calves on iron hooks; and worse, the living bodies crouched naked in the wind, men’s backs doubled under shattering weight, children more pitiful than the dead. And wounds, whips, clubs, faces.