A Chosen Sparrow

by Vera Caspary

  “You never found out?”

  “I thought about nothing else, my thoughts and my dreams by day and by night were…” He could not go on. The words choked him. He sank into the high-backed bishop’s chair, sat with lowered head, eyes fixed on his pale hand. An eyelid twitched, lips were sucked in and spit out repeatedly. The sight of a man devouring himself is not pleasant; 1 closed my eyes. When I looked again he had crossed the soft carpet and stood before his locked shelves. My heart closed to his need. Not again, I thought, now now, never; that part of my life was over.

  Gerhard regarded the key sadly like a talisman that has failed. “These brought him back, the pictures.” His voice was like wind in an empty chamber. “I lived it all over. Again and again, then a thousand times. In this room…” His hand tightened on the key, the knuckles glowing like phosphorus. “After Mama died.” He had kept the books like shame, like dirty things, volumes of erotica, locked up and hidden behind green silk curtains; read at night,

  Stealthily, the photographs examined through magnifying lenses. Often, fearful that he had not locked the bookcase doors, he crept out of bed to make sure. At other times, returning from a journey through which he suffered the fear that some servant might have discovered the secret hoard, he would rush up to his study like a man pursued, examine the lock and, finding it untouched, fall into a state of nervous exhaustion. Sometimes, after a night with the books and memories, he was so shattered that he could not rise the next day, but lay as he had in the Swiss sanitarium, inert. On other days he took vows of abstinence, hid the keys, tried to forget where they were concealed. Nothing helped. No drug could induce sleep, no book or music soothe him to forgetfulness, no image drive out the visions. At this time he had no friends, gave no parties or balls, engaged in none of the activities of the sports-loving aristocrats of the neighborhood. Night after night in loneliness he had unlocked the secret doors. Anguish was recalled, nausea renewed so that he could recall the face, the voice, the scents…“Konni was very fond of perfume”…of those hideous-exultant nights.

  In telling about them he shuddered, fell again into one of his long trances. At last, “Konni was my weak side,” he said sourly. “I was weak, I never had a strong character. Mama despised him.”

  “Your mother knew Konni?”

  “They met. Once during the war we both had leave and went to Berlin. Together. He stayed at our house. Mama thought him a common little man.”

  “You told me he was so elegant.”

  Pale skin flushed delicately. “He came from an insignificant family, petit bourgeois from Cologne, They had a small shoe factory.” His color returned. His voice challenging, head raised in defiance of Frau Irmengarde’s snobbery, Gerhard said, “I admired him for having achieved culture and style in spite of that background. As you have, Leonora, in spite of your sordid childhood.”

  Both of us raised our eyes to the portrait, felt his mother’s strength as though she were alive and with us in the room. Had she looked down from the gilded frame while he studied the cruel pictures, eating his favorite sweets and sucking sugary fingers? Had she watched him dance or engage in other diversions with the man in the black silk gown? Or had he kept her ignorant, confining such amusements to other sections of the castle?

  Gerhard turned from the portrait of the dead mother to the living wife. “She wanted me to get married. Mama! When we were traveling she always looked the girls over. She would have loved you, Leonora.”

  “A Jew?”

  “Her prejudices were not common. And she never approved of Hitler.” I had heard this all before, but listened patiently, to the shivering voice. “You’ll remember,” he added, “when I left you that time in Vienna, when I stayed away? I came here, I sat in this room, I thought about you. I thought of you together, I often have, Leonora, you and my mother.” So there it was, his private game, showing us off to each other. Mama and Leonora. He had used me to prove to her that he could live like other men, take a wife. You see, he had told the dead, you see, Mama, I am doing what you always wanted me to. Better the Jew girl than the devil’s bitch.

  He turned from me and walked to the window, brooding over the circumstances and choices that had shaped his life. I see him now as he stood there in the velour dressing gown, a shadowy silhouette against the moonbright sky. He looks down upon his park, his woods and meadows, his tennis courts, his boats and private shore; tormented in his girdled robe, play-acting the feudal role, pretending to dominate the enemies who possess him, torn by the nuances of a divided nature. I see myself, too, robed and girdled, the fantasy figure of a prison child’s dream. I am ashamed that I had accepted such compensation, that I had considered that castle and its rich life my just reward, that I had received privilege complacently, as an aristocrat accepts his birthright. Waif’s choice, the gratification of a child’s dream. Betrayal had been inevitable. Along with the castle I had taken its master.

  In the name of love.

  “Love me, Leonora.” It came from a distance like a voice in a dream, a sudden piercing of layers of consciousness. No longer a girl dazzled by the crimson, white and gold decorations of a grand hotel suite, I allowed myself to sneer at the sentimental plea. “It strikes me that you are not too desolate. What about your dancing partner? Doesn’t he love you?”

  “Leonora!”

  “I am tired of being treated like an idiot. I know that you did not meet this man yesterday. It has been going on for a long time, has it not?”

  Gerhard lowered his head. No doubt he had assumed this position when his mother had questioned him with haughty righteousness. Mumbling a bit, he said that the Count von Mefistdorf appealed to the weaker side of his nature. He had tried several times to rid himself of this influence, but the Count was a powerful and stubborn man.

  “How long has he had this influence on you?”

  “Several years,” replied Gerhard but he did not give the exact number.

  “I suppose there have been others.”

  “No others.” He licked dry lips. “I am being honest with you, Leni. He was the only one.”

  “Was he the one who telephoned from Rome?”

  “Rome?”

  “That night in your hotel. Your devil’s bitch.”

  “Oh, yes, that.” Gerhard frowned, tried to look lordly and aloof as he explained that the phone call had been the attempt of a desperate man to reinstate himself. “I was through with him, I’d sent him away. He was in Rome en route to Egypt.”

  “You sent him away. After you met me?”

  “Before. A few days before I came to that place where you sang. I’d seen your picture in the magazine and came to find you.”

  “But he, this man…he heard about me and called you from Rome?”

  A brief nod answered, the click of a dry tongue. How, he asked, was a man to remember trivial details? I answered as dryly that it seemed rather remarkable that such trivial details as our supper parties had become important news in Rome. “No doubt your friend had a way of getting reports about you and the Jew girl.”

  “That’s very crude,” he said with a grimace.

  “That’s what he calls me, the Jew girl you married to spite him. Did you?”

  Gerhard’s shoulders rounded like a tortoise curling beneath his shell. His voice sought a low key that gave contrast to my shrillness. “He’s gone.”

  “He has! To Rome again? Or Egypt?” Female, outraged, I demanded in a voice of curdling shrillness, “And when will he come back?”

  “If you love me, you will try to help me.”

  Tears broke the tension. It is always anger and exasperation that weakens me in this way. I cried like a fool, wondering if my husband asked for my love to exorcise a phantom, to rid himself once more of the need for his devil’s bitch, to appease his mother’s spirit or merely to keep up his legend, lord of the castle with his exhibition lady. Was love possible? Had it a place in the velvet-lined tower? I saw our marriage as hopelessly deformed. Words and promises, indulgence
s and gifts cannot perform the miracle of healing.

  “Help me,” Gerhard said and, humbly, several times, “I need you.”

  The words attacked my weakness. Anger receded. No one, not my dear Elfy nor stubborn Martin nor sturdy Victor, had appealed in this fashion. I had been taken in because the need for love lay buried within me, too; I needed to be needed. Until Gerhard had offered me his weakness (along with costly gifts and viands and the promise of a castle) I had seen myself as victim, orphan, cared for in charity, unnecessary. “I need you, Leonora.” Waiting in humility, this man was not my liege lord and master bending his pride to seek forgiveness. He was a child in search of the mother who would be gentler with him, more tolerant than the imperious lady in diamonds and rimless lenses.

  I could not easily yield. Pressures had been too firm. With as much dignity as sniffles and red eyes would permit, I said, “Please let me think. I need time, I must be alone to think,” and went off to my room.

  Moonlight polished the earth. Below my window the lake stretched like a silvery sheet, and in the distance white peaks sent out brilliance as dazzling as at noon. Owls hooted, crickets played secret violins. Clear in my senses, confused in mind, I moved about the room like a sleepwalker until at last I forced myself into bed. The door opened soundlessly on oiled hinges, the tall figure stood white, uncertain, silk pajamas gleaming in slanted moonlight. I lay still. Diffident and silent, he came closer, bringing to my bed his need for solace. I remained quiet. When he dared to lie down at the edge of the bed I did not order him to leave, nor turn away. He stretched his arm toward me. In my throat a pulse hammered. I could not say that I would forgive, but neither could I reject a creature so haunted and so vulnerable. Like the mother of a prodigal I condoned, allowing him to lie beside me in an imitation of peace.

  VII

  As I look back at my life I wonder if it will ever become normal like the lives of girls who grow up in the houses where they were born, marry men of the same class and live in the world of their parents. Have so many remarkable things happened to me because I had no background to give me stability, no gemütlichkeit to cherish, because I was never taught such normal things as pleasing the neighbors or worrying about money?

  The story should have ended here, like all the tales about the lucky goose girl who comes to live in the castle. Unhappily there is another chapter. It began the following day on a morning of such clarity that the crests of distant mountains seemed hardly farther than the length of one’s arm. On the green slopes the flowers of early autumn raised their gold and purple heads in rebellious beauty. After the turmoil and anxiety I had slept late, so that I looked out at the world with fresh eyes.

  Hansi telephoned. “So you stayed another night? What did Gerhard have to say for himself?”

  “Really, Hansi, I don’t wish to talk about it now. Not on the telephone.” It was an excuse. I did not know what I meant to tell her.

  “Liebhofen is so large, I do not know whether your staying there would be interpreted as condoning. I’ll ask Dr. Heinz Holtz. It would be simpler if you would speak to him yourself, dear.” As I did not say anything Hansi chattered on. She had a message for me from Victor. “Perhaps,” she giggled, “it would be better not to talk about it on the telephone.”

  Someone knocked at the door. I expected my husband, but saw Suzi with a spray of orchids from the greenhouse and a note telling me that Gerhard had important business which would probably take him away for the entire day. “I’ll be with you as soon as I am finished dressing,” I told Hansi and wondered at my urgency in getting Victor’s message at a time when I felt so necessary to Gerhard.

  Half an hour later I was at my favorite table at the Schatulle Bar, enjoying a second breakfast, watching the two Josefs. I noticed how tenderly the Austrian Sepperl measured sugar into Pepe’s coffee, how these two laughed together like children in love. Hansi sat with me. She begged for news of my talk with Gerhard and asked if I had learned anything about his dancing partner.

  “Please, Hansi, what is that important message you have for me?”

  “Answer my questions first,” she teased.

  “Count von Mefistdorf,” I said grudgingly.

  “Von Mefistdorf?” pondered Hansi who is as concerned as the Almanac de Gotha with old pedigrees and titles, “I’ve never heard of the family. Where does he come from?”

  “I really don’t know. What message did Victor give you for me?”

  Hansi persisted, “Von Mefistdorf sounds like a made-up name. What else did Gerhard tell you about this scoundrel?”

  “Only that he has gone away.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Rome, perhaps. Or Egypt. How much have you told Victor?”

  “Do you think I have betrayed you?” Hansi leaned across the table to plant a light kiss on my cheekbone. “I have only told him you have had a severe shock.”

  “But surely he must have asked you what happened.”

  Hansi’s mouth, painted the color of fuchsias, gathered itself into a pout. Under her brilliant suntan makeup the wrinkles were like lines on a map. “Victor has been worried about you since they told him you could not speak with him. He would like you to have coffee with him at his aunt’s house where you can talk privately, but if it is inconvenient for you to drive to Salzburg he will meet you wherever you wish. He asked me to telephone your answer.”

  “I’ll go to Salzburg.”

  “I had better go with you,” said Hansi.

  “That is very kind of you, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather see him alone.”

  “You must be very careful, darling, or you will not get a schilling of alimony. Your husband will find some excuse. Believe me, I know what I am talking about.”

  I was worn to death with Hansi’s obsession to have me make a profit from the situation, so I thanked her again and hurried away. My appointment with Victor was hours away but I was too impatient to wait at home, so I drove to Salzburg, sat through a manicure and shampoo, ate a leisurely lunch, bought a pale green parasol, a beaded purse, and a box of chocolate Mozart balls for Frau Nemecek.

  She lived beyond the city in a small old-fashioned house painted yellow with white windowsills and a carved balcony frilled with flowers. White curtains danced in the wind that afternoon, the small garden was tidy, a spiral of smoke rose from the chimney. Frau Nemecek welcomed me with outstretched hands. She wore the gray Loden skirt and coat which is her usual costume and had a scarf tied over her gray hair. She expressed regret because the doctor, her husband, was making calls at his patients’ homes and could not greet me, spoke of the brilliant weather and of her sorrow at her dear nephew’s departure. These duties ended, she asked to be excused. The next time I paid her the honor of a visit she hoped to receive me more graciously.

  Nothing could have been more gracious than her tact in allowing Victor and me to spend the afternoon alone. From the garden we watched her stride along the road with a rolled umbrella. I can still see the pattern of shadows under her pine trees and the iron garden table with the peeling crust of paint which Victor picked at with his thumbnail. On one side rose meadows gilded by summer sunlight and lively with farm people gathering hay, calling to each other in robust voices. On the opposite side, across the river, rose the city hill with its domes and steeples and the fortress as its crown.

  “You’ve had some trouble, Leni?” Victor’s voice invited confession. “Is there any way I could help you?”

  “In marriage there are always difficulties,” I said. “It was unfortunate that Hansi was witness to an unpleasant scene.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  We both became silent. A cloud slid over the sun. At once the temperature fell. Vic hummed a tuneless song and picked at the flaky yellow paint. “There’s something I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind changing the subject.”

  “What is it?”

  “I wanted to ask the other day, but you lost
patience with me.” This time he waited for some excuse from me, or protest. “I wonder,” he tried to judge my mood with a quick look into my eyes, “whether you’ve ever heard your husband talk about a man called Hempel.”

  “Oh! You’re still making investigations! Was this your important reason for wanting to see me?”

  “Why are you so angry? I asked a simple question. Is the name familiar to you?”

  “I’ve never heard of Herr Hempel.” Since I had rejected Victor’s interest in my problems, it was not consistent of me to become angry because he had turned the talk to his own interests. Nevertheless I remained stubborn and withdrawn.

  “He was a close friend of Gerhard von Richtgarten Metzger, Oberleutnant in the Reichswehr.”

  “Gerhard had many friends.”

  “Lieutenant Metzger was a constant visitor at Hempel’s apartment in Paris. On the Avenue Niel.”

  My face had grown hot and I felt a sweat mustache break out on my upper lip. My hands, tightly clasped in my lap, had also dampened. In a firm but tense voice I said, “You don’t have to be afraid to talk to me about these things, I’m not a child. I know my husband has had men friends. It is not such a rare thing. In Germany it was quite common and,” I raised my head and spoke sturdily, “probably in many other places. In America, too, no doubt.

  “In fact,” I added, “we have talked about it, Gerhard and I,”

  Victor nodded. Probably Hansi, unwilling to betray the secret openly, had hinted at the situation; or perhaps Victor had heard the whispers.

  “I am not the first woman in the world to be married to that kind of man. In classical times it was the common practice among aristocrats,” I persisted in taut irritability. “Gerhard is quite normal otherwise, but he was driven to it by the war and loneliness.”