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Vienna only remained Vienna after the war the way a loved one retains a name after death. The city was divided into four quarters, each occupied by the troops of one of the victorious. Hietzing, Margareten, Meidling, Landstraße and Semmering were occupied by the United Kingdom. Leopoldstadt, Brigittenau, Wieden, Favoriten and Floridsdorf (the district near which my father's factory was located) by the Soviet Union. France took Mariahilf, Penzing, Fünfhaus, Rudolfsheim, Ottakring. The United States occupied Nebau, Josefstadt, Hernals, Alsergrund, Währing, Döbling. If Vienna was cut into four, like a cake, the inner-city 'Hofburg' was the cherry on the top, chewed and left on the plate for all to share. As the saying went, it was worse than four elephants in a rowboat.
Each nation's flag was to be seen in its assigned sector, but curiously, that wasn't what made a nation's presence felt most. The flags were like children sticking their tongues out at us — annoying, but to be expected. The armed troops were humiliating less for their official duties than simply for the way each soldier couldn't help but gloat: they were the winners, we the losers. It reminded me of the medieval sculptures over portals of cathedrals. The pope, bishops and financial supporters of the artwork are giant-sized, and below, one happens to notice the procession of men who don't reach their knees but are more significant than they initially seem, for it's thanks to this strain of tiny men that anyone can appreciate the grandeur of the first.
The encumbering aspect of it, at least to me, was the cultural invasion. From one day to the next, unusual smells filled the streets. Vienna just didn't smell like Vienna any more. These came from the American fried breakfasts, the British fish and chips, the French cafés, the Russian bistros (a Russian word the French were quick to pick up on), as much as from the windows of private dwellings one walked by, these given over to the military for their married housing. Don't get me wrong: on their own these smells weren't bad, they just weren't ours. Incomprehensible languages mixed in with utensils caressing plates, glasses kissing glasses. Even the laughter was not our own — you could tell it apart from a mile away. Maybe because we had nothing to laugh about.
Foreign languages were popping up on street signs, in shop windows and movie houses, on toilet doors. Foreign currencies were being scribbled down on the price boards of Wurst stands and the windscreens of old Mercedes, the American dollar particularly. Menus in restaurant windows bragged: 'We speak English'; 'Ici, nous parlons français.' Not only were the Russian words beyond guesses, so were letters of their alphabet. I must say, though: the written languages were never as irritating as the spoken. It was one thing for a city not to smell like your own any more, but for Vienna not to sound like the city I grew up in sent a dagger through my heart. German was my mother tongue, the language my mother spoke to me as a child, and as dear to me as she'd been.
These were the languages of the victors and they knew it. There was a note of self-esteem in every word. The Americans were known for speaking loudly. Maybe their way of speaking was more perceptible from far away because it was so nasal. If some of our Germanic language came out of our throats, I'd say a good deal of theirs came out their noses. The other nationalities could be loud too, especially after a few drinks, and Americans, British and Russians were well known for those. A joke went around. How do you know if an American officer has been drinking? He can't walk straight. How do you know if a British officer has been drinking? He tries his best to walk straight. How do you know when a Russian officer has been drinking? It's the only time he can walk straight.
They stuck out like sore thumbs — the British with their blushing schoolboy complexions, the French kissing every other French person they came across on both cheeks like windscreen wipers, the Russian men smacking each other on the old pucker. I knew I'd never get used to it. Big cities such as New York have known the phenomenon. Chinatown brings to mind China more than the United States, but this was a progressive development. Imagine waking up one morning and overnight your whole neighbourhood has transformed into another country.
Our country, by the way, was Austria again. We were no longer a province of the German Reich. Austria had been declared independent (some few would have the nerve to say 'had declared itself independent') before the end of the war, when the tide had turned against the Reich. Most Austrians preferred to change shirts at that time — to whitewashed shirts at that — and to act as though Austria had been unwillingly invaded by the Reich rather than welcoming the annexation with open arms. To this day, Germany is the bearer of the war guilt. The truth is, we were the hind leg of the beast, not the white rabbit caught in its mouth. Another joke that went around: 'Why is Austria so strong? Because it makes the world believe Beethoven was Austrian and Hitler German.'
Those first days weren't pretty. There were lynchings in the streets. The months that followed were heavy with finger-pointing: Nazi here, Nazi there. More than once a Nazi, in order to save himself, accused a Resistance activist of being one, and this latter was eliminated with no questions asked. A good percentage of the population remained tightlipped, fearing that it was just a question of time before the Nazis would be back in power. Vienna reminded me of a big circus. The few who'd walked the tightrope, who had taken a sole inflexible path in life, had fallen, and perhaps would rather have fallen than compromise their sense of morality. The trapeze artists had entrusted their lives to others. Some had survived, some hadn't. The jugglers fared best, tossing one government away for another, whichever seemed best at the time, whichever was at hand. No thought was involved; thought could make the ball fall; just toss, toss, toss. Better for the ball to fall than the man. I myself had started out the strong man and ended up the freak. Our whole country was looking at itself in distorting mirrors.
If only our house had been one street down we would've been in the American quarter, which was considered by far the best to be in. Unfortunately we were on the edge of the French quarter, the second-worst. It was common knowledge that the French were broke and stingy, at least with us Austrians. They got their hands on the imported provisions first, mainly from the United States, used up whatever they needed for their fine cuisine, then when our turn came around there was a food shortage. We were deprived of vital products — butter, milk, cheese, sugar, coffee, bread and meat. The French weren't prepared to deprive themselves for us — wouldn't dream of making their coffee weaker, limiting themselves to one sugar cube per coffee. They needed extra butter for their cooking; who cared if we had none for our breakfast bread?
The detail we Austrians talked about most as we waited in endless queues, our quotas already promising not much, only to arrive at the head to find stocks exhausted, was the bottle of wine propped on too many a French table for lunch and dinner. After the first year I overheard a lady going on about a report that had been made. For thirty or so tons of sugar and fresh meat the troops had consumed, our population had consumed zero. But I also remember a man who proclaimed other statistics. Those of us in the queues were all ears. He read out loud from a monthly, raved on that 200,000 of our civilians had consumed 50 cows, pigs and sheep and 100 chickens, whereas 20,000 of their soldiers had consumed something comparatively phenomenal like 400 cows, pigs and sheep, and 10,000 chickens! Even if I'm a little bit off on the figures, one gets the general idea. Of the four nations, only France had been occupied by the Reich, including her utmost pride, Paris. They were out to fill their bellies as much as get even. Maybe it wasn't as vindictive as it sounds — France had known hunger and now dined and sipped wine as an overdue right.
It could've been better, but it could've been worse, much worse. The Russians were famous for a policy of 'one of everything per person' — spoon, knife, chair — and all 'excess' property was confiscated and sent back to Russia. Schwarzenbergplatz was renamed Stalin Platz, and a twenty-five-metre monument was constructed there that first summer, on top of which stood a bronze figure holding a red flag and an automatic weapon across his chest. This 'Unknown Russian Soldier' quickly became known to one
and all and even had a name, the 'Unknown Plunderer'.
Not only dwellings were stripped, but civilians also, in the most brutal of ways. In the Russian sector hot spots, bars, dance halls were reopened and curfews ignored. Word went around that Austrian women were being taken at gunpoint to 'escort' Russian men and raped, and apparently so were Austrian men by Russian women. Dysentery and sexual ailments spread, typhus became epidemic. Incidentally, the Soviets had sent so many of the cars and trucks they got their hands on back to their homeland that the dying had to be toted to the hospitals in wheelbarrows. The death rate in those days was something. I suppose the Russians had their reasons for exacting revenge — they liked to justify their own crimes down to the pettiest, by citing the twenty million of them killed in the war and their greater homeless masses.
I didn't go through the Russian zones if I could avoid it, although people were free to do so, because one was prone to be taken for labour without warning — a day or a week, it didn't matter to them. Everyday life there had a flair of Russian roulette. What a contrast with the American sections, where traffic signs indicating a 25-mph speed limit were put up left and right to promote safety, even on endless streets such as Währingerstraße! Such American laws were not only passed, but also strictly reinforced, for small fish and big alike.
***
Elsa didn't come out and ask me, but I could snatch at her questions in the air. I could feel one on the tip of her tongue, the way I could her eyes on me whenever I brought her boiled water (as a sanitary precaution) for washing or drinking. If I was sprucing up her chamber she took advantage of my inattention to scrutinise me freely. Sometimes I made as if I were looking out the window, offering her my better profile. She looked straight at it, but when I turned to her she lowered her eyes, to keep from me a look too ambiguous for me to understand.
Perhaps she was picking up on how troubled I was, and was asking herself why, and if there might be any consequences for her. Maybe she was grateful for what she thought I was doing for her — or sincerely worried about me, feeling guilty. You see, I was expecting my father home any day, and if I imagined the best, I also imagined the worst. I could see his hand on my shoulder, declaring how wise I had been to wait for him before I took it upon myself to make any decisions concerning Elsa. I had done well not to inform her of the events in case she did anything rash. Congratulations, son, you did a fine job of taking care of your grandmother, Elsa, the house: I'm proud of you. I know it wasn't easy with the loss of your mother. You've been brave.
Or . . . upon setting eyes on her he'd step back, appalled, ask why on earth she was still closed up in that wretched place. Where in the world was my mother? Elsa, in all her innocence, would explain. In front of her, he'd strike me across the face. Not caring how I felt, he'd set her free. She'd lose trust in me. I'd lose my chance with her.
Was there any way out? Could I chance telling my father she was already gone? Would he check? Couldn't I come up with some reason for her to keep extremely still? Could I get him to postpone the truth a few days? The time I needed to convince her? But I decided I couldn't trust him to understand my feelings: the risk was too great that he'd ruin it for me. No, no, I had to tell her before he came home.
Elsa drank her soup from the bowl. In her strenuous efforts to be polite she struck up the most banal conversations a person could conceive of, centred mostly on the vegetables — where I'd found them, was that a potato she tasted, that was nice, oh a pea. Next to hers, the words I needed to get out of my mouth felt preposterously heavy. They weighed already in my mind, were inappropriate to let out in such a light, thin atmosphere. They'd go crashing to the floor. If I got up the courage to take her by the hand, stare deeply into her eyes, she'd surely paralyse me with her expectant look, one eyebrow lifting as if to say, 'Yes? What is it?' Could I say something so important that my life depended on it in a matter-of-fact way? 'Oh, by the way, speaking of vegetables, did I mention that I lied about winning the war? We lost. So you don't have to be sitting there like you are with me, wasting your time, drinking that watery, tepid bowl of soup. I'm sure your parents have prepared something nicer — in fact, on your way out, why don't you just throw it in my face?'
How many times I tormented myself with a blank page. Dear Elsa. My pen stopped. 'Dear Elsa' was banal, the wrong prelude to what was to follow, a few light notes on a flute before attacking with a trombone. She'd block her ears. If I let myself go with a grand overture, referring to her in a way truer to my feelings, she'd be on guard before she got past the first line. Besides, coming up with suitable terms of endearment was a problem in itself. They came off as over-used, shallow; they might have worked for the first lovers who used them, centuries ago, but by now were old songs whose too-familiar melodies had washed away the meaning of the words. Even I rolled my eyes in considering them.
Out of the blue one day, Pimmichen threw a fluffy disc at me. It was soft and fragrant. I think she used it to put powder on her face. 'Come on, you can tell your grandmother, Johannes. I've seen and heard it all before.'
'Tell you what?'
'A little birdie tells me someone's on your mind. A girl?'
'Where'd you get that crazy notion?'
'When a boy your age gets that melancholic look on his face, bobs his knee up and down because he'd rather be somewhere else than with his grandma, it usually means Cupid's arrow has found a resting place in the left side of his chest.'
'There's no girl, Pimmi.'
'She's rejecting you?'
'I mean, I don't know any girl.'
'You can't fool me. I've seen more of the past century than you have this one. My eyes are bad but I'm not blind. Loneliness is something altogether different. You'd sulk, your feet would drag. You'd be looking vaguely for something but wouldn't know what. No, you're agitated — someone precise is on your mind. You stare out the window and concentrate so much you stop moving. I've been watching you.'
I couldn't help but smile. 'Maybe there is . . . someone.'
'Big secret?'
Tempted to play with fire, I gave in to a fraction of a nod.
'Good for you. A family of your own is exactly what you need. In my day, we were old enough to start at your age. I won't be here forever. You don't have your mother any more, and your father — God knows in what shape he'll be in when, I pray, he comes home. Children are a great remedy for all the disillusion in life.'
'Slow down! Who said anything about children?'
'You're right. Let's get to the starting point. Does she love you?'
'I don't know. As a friend maybe.'
'That means no. Is it your face?'
'What's wrong with my face?'
'Nothing. And don't you forget it!' She contemplated me, very pleased for some reason. 'Where'd you meet?'
'I can't say.'
'So it's all very secret . . . Mmm. She must be married?' Her mouth indicated disapproval.
'No. Not at all.'
'I know. She is a nun?'
'A nun?'
'She loves someone else?' She caught the downcast look on my face. 'I see . . . Was he courting her first?'
'Ach! Yes.'
'And you want to take her away from him? That could be complicated . . .'
'They haven't seen each other for years.'
'Because of the war?'
'Well . . . yes.'
'Why didn't you come to me sooner? You know, I can be of help in these matters.'
Observing her exceedingly wrinkled face, I knew she could be of no help. She was too mellowed for such sentiments.
She read my mind. 'Don't you fret, Johannes. I remember well the intricate workings of the heart. In fact that's all I seem to remember. My, my. Love.' Pimmichen's face took on that queer glazed look of someone near-sighted trying to behold the details of a faraway landscape without their glasses. She tapped her lips and snapped out of it. 'Now, let's see. Will you have the occasion to see this girl again?'
'If I go and see her.'
'But if you didn't go and see her, she wouldn't go out of her way to see you?'
'It's complicated.'
'It's important for me to know.'
'She can't come to see me.'
'Why? She lives too far away?'
'She's not allowed to.'
'Strict parents. That's good. She obeys. I suppose they don't mind if you court her? You come from a respectable family on my side, you know, and wealthy, too. Our assets and accounts are still nothing to sneeze at — don't you ever let anyone overlook that!'
'She doesn't care much about those things. That's what makes her different from what people always say about . . .' Feeling my face flushing, I covered my mouth, coughed.
'Women? Yes, well, did you ever consider she might not know just how you feel about her?'
'She knows.'
'You've admitted it to her?'
'On occasion.'
'Hmm, that wasn't good. You're still too young, too honest. You'll never get her like that. Honesty isn't the best policy in affairs of the heart. My advice is to take less interest in her. She knows she's got a hook in you, but she's keeping you in the water, hanging on the line. You're nothing but a second choice, in case the other fish doesn't land in the boat. She has to feel as if you're getting away in order to take any interest. If you keep circling around the hull gaping up at her with googly fish eyes, how can you expect her to wind in the reel?'
'Should I make her jealous? Make her believe I've got someone else?'
'If it gets to that, as a last resort. But bear in mind that you don't have to fake it — there are plenty of fish in the sea. Throw one fish in, fish ten back out, as the saying goes.'
I began formulating the details of a dream girl, to make Elsa realise what a prize catch I was. So far I only had bits and pieces of her — blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect nose, pretty smile, which I combined to form an Aryan face, but, when I closed my eyes to imagine it, I found it was generic, not real. Maybe it would help if I gave her a name. Gertrud, Ines, Greta, Claudia, Bettina — that one wasn't so bad. Bettina. 'Sorry, Elsa, I mustn't keep Bettina waiting in Volksgarten.' 'I'd love to stay longer, but I really must run. The sun could harm Bettina. You know, she has fair skin, as only blondes have.' 'Please, tell me again what Nathan said about blue. I wanted to tell Bettina because her eyes are that colour, but whenever I look into them, I forget all I was going to say . . .' The fantasies grew grotesque. Bettina developed into a world champion, though which sport would unsettle Elsa more remained undecided — diving, skiing or gymnastics?
Caging Skies Page 13