by Vera Caspary
I had barely enough breath to whisper, “Thank you.”
The boss smiled.
Wolfy had kept on his overcoat, a beautiful new garment made entirely of chamois skin. His face was deeply tanned, his hair streaked with a band of gold, his smile worn like a permanent feature. “How are you, dear Leni? As well as you look, I hope.”
Again, coldly, “Thank you.”
“And will you do me the honor of taking a glass of champagne with me and a few friends who are admirers of your artistry?”
Within me thousands of insolent, angry words were crying to be let out, but my employer stood there with a benevolent smile and all I could say was that I could not drink while I worked. I asked Wolfy to express my regret to his friends and thank them for the compliments.
“Sorry, Leni. They would have enjoyed meeting you. Good luck and a Merry Christmas.” Almost carelessly Wolfy added, “May I give your Christmas wishes to our friend?”
“Where is Gerhard?”
“You don’t know!” He smiled benevolently as upon an idiot child. “We’re spending the winter in Egypt.” A graceful hand stroked the chamois skin coat. “The weather is delightful there. He does enjoy the sea-bathing.”
“He has not come to Vienna with you?”
“I’m here only for a few days to look after some business matters for him.”
“Is the other one with him, too?”
Wolfy offered the blandest smile. My boss was close beside me and Wolfy cast a discreet look in that direction. “What pleasant memories we have, Leni. So many good times and so many other things,” he laughed with cynical archness, “that it’s better to forget.”
He bowed again and left. When I came out for my final appearance of the evening I looked for him among a group of aristocratic young men, all very much alike with their hair cut short to make their heads look small and tidy and narrow jackets cut in the English style. There was an empty chair at their table, I noticed, and beside it a stand with the champagne cooler. These young men applauded when I returned to the table upon which my zither waited, gave flattering attention to my singing.
This is the most popular part of the program, held to the end so that customers will stay and order more drinks. At midnight the Neues Wien might be the Altes Wien, so traditional is the music. A few songs are modern but most are the old ones that praise the city, wine and the waltz. The audience becomes fond of me when I sing these songs; I am theirs, I belong to Vienna like St. Stephen’s, like the streetcars, the Prater, the pastries. When it is very late and the customers have drunk plenty of wine they forget that this is a chic night club and all of them together, sausage men in business suits, radiantly blond or incredibly redheaded women, gay boys in tight trousers sing: “Wein, Wein, nur Du alein”; “Geh, Mach die Fensterl auf”; “Mei Mutterl war ein Weinerin.” They know the songs well, tunes and lyrics are as familiar as the bridges over the Danube Canal; “Vienna, Vienna, Thou Alone”…they learned these songs from their mothers; “Open Wide the Window”…I learned them from my mother, too…“My Little Mother Was a Viennese”…she taught me these tunes and these lyrics before she died in the prison.
When the club closed that night I was nervous. Litzi dragged behind me on the leash sleepily. The street was empty, no taxi waited. With the lights of the night club turned off, drivers expected no more passengers from this quarter. I walked toward the Kärntnerstrasse. In the pastry shop window stood the marzipan castle. A streetlamp cast upon it a beam of pallid light. There it stood, Liebhofen in almond paste, absurd but evocative.
On a miniature easel beside the confectionery monument a card announced: sold. Who could have bought such a thing? Some patron of the Neues Wien, a member of the new rich who wished to impress his children’s friends? Some extravagant, insane aristocrat who lived in the past and wasted precious schillings on costly toys for his spoiled children? Or Gerhard, to entertain guests at a masquerade party? Such nonsense, such affectation, such fear of the real world. What is a castle, Mutti? I know now, I have had my castle and am done with it. Within the castle they lock gates to guard lonely pride, they keep weapons sharp against enemies who threaten fortified prejudices, they treasure secret torments. A castle is a place for guilt. Poor Gerhard (even while he enjoys the winter sea-bathing of Egypt) remains a prisoner with his unshakable habits, his hidden love and the infirmities of indecision. He is a sad man, I am sorry for him, but it is not good to be soft about these divided people. Until that night I was sentimental about him but suddenly, looking at that absurd castle, I knew I could not forgive a man who would inevitably use his wealth and influence to keep the prisons standing, the songs of cruel victory bellowed in the taverns, to let Stompfers scheme, Immls profit, Wolfy contrive and Konni wait for restored glory.
A hand touched my arm then. Startled, I jumped backward, whirled around and saw, thrust close to my face, a pair of waterlogged eyes, cavernous cheeks, a deformed jaw. My heart went hollow. Whining, the poor man informed me that he had lost one hand and half his chin for the honor of our country. For the love of dear God and dear Austria, dear Fräulein. With effort I smiled so that this poor victim should not see me shrink from his deformity. I gave him the first note I found in my purse and heard his quavering voice ask dear God to bless the dear young lady. As though this easy charity were instantly rewarded, a miracle came to pass in the shape of an empty taxicab.
Under the door of my apartment I found an envelope. It was a cable from San Francisco. Extravagant with words, Victor told me he had received an advance payment from the publisher, felt rich and could come to Vienna if I wished him to celebrate the New Year with me.
“Oh, darling, darling Litzi!” I said and kissed and kissed and kissed my dog’s shaggy head. Then I poured milk into her bowl and made myself a cup of chocolate and went to bed for the first time without bolting the door and fastening the safety catches on the windows. For a long time I lay awake, suddenly (in that dark and silent room) glad. Not just relieved of fear and self-pity, but actively aware of my living self. Surely it had been inefficiency or error on the part of some petty official that had saved me from the sealed trains, the concentration camp and death, but I can think of it only as a miracle. For what? Delights and disillusion, starvation and opulence, injustice and good fortune, perverse and real love, beatings and caresses, kindness and evil; a life as garish and contradictory as the tormented saints and merry devils of a baroque church column. God is life, child. I do not know God, I cannot make a prayer, but I can promise with all the truth that is in me that I will never again forget one brutal moment; and that I will not allow comfort nor complacence nor even compassion to keep me from shouting out against those sentimental, self-pitying murderers. They try to show penitence in many ways, offer charm, kiss hands, practice skills, lure us with luxuries, urge us in the name of decency and good manners to bury the infamous past. Not me! I am a chosen sparrow. And even one small bird can keep the guilty from peaceful slumber through the haunted nights.