The Viennese Girl

by Jenny Lecoat

  Taking a last look at the picture story she had created, she tiptoed back up the steps to the seafront and across the main road. She hurried past what had once been the People’s Park, now the headquarters of the Organisation Todt, walking as quickly as her legs could carry her, looking around her all the time. At the same time, she couldn’t help but enjoy that fresh air and savour the scent of the ocean and the evergreens. She took in the glory of the stars, the majesty of the cumulus clouds scudding across the sky, and tried to imprint it on her mind. It would be a long time before she saw all this again.

  She reached the narrow entrance to the alleyway that ran behind the terraced backyards of West Park Avenue and, with one final confirmation that no one was watching, scuttled down the passage until she reached the gate of number seven. Lifting the wooden latch, she let herself into the yard, crossed quickly to the back door and tapped four times as arranged. It opened immediately and Hedy stepped inside, shivering with cold and fear. Kurt was already standing in the kitchen, his features tight with anticipation. Dorothea hugged her briefly, then, without a word, closed the door and pulled across the heavy black bolt.

  9

  Kurt stood in the hallway of his billet, listening hard. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending how one looked at it – this was a creaky old house, and every footstep on the upper floors could be heard downstairs. Other officers were moving around, padding across their rooms, crossing to the bathroom, closing doors. This was a useful time of day, he figured, when those on night shift had already left, and the rest of his colleagues were taking advantage of this break to wash, write letters home or snooze on their beds. In about fifteen minutes Fischer and the rest would pile downstairs for their evening meal, prepared by housekeeper Mrs Mezec, a local woman who came in daily to collect laundry and cook for the officers. Evidently she was a cousin of the original residents who had evacuated in 1940, and considered this a way to keep an eye on the place. She only spoke if absolutely necessary, and pocketed her wages each Friday with a sullen nod. Most of the officers ignored her or made tasteless jokes about how grateful she’d be for their attentions. Kurt often sniffed his dinner before eating it, knowing full well what revenge he would take in her shoes.

  Strolling into the kitchen with what Kurt hoped looked like casual interest in tonight’s menu, he found Mrs Mezec stirring a pot on the stove, and smiled at her. She acknowledged him without anything resembling a greeting. Kurt adjusted the chairs around the kitchen table, as if preparing for a dinner party, then sat down.

  ‘What is dinner tonight, Mrs Mezec?’

  ‘Pork stew.’

  Kurt nodded with enthusiasm, wondering which poor local farmer had had their valuable porcine asset grabbed by soldiers and loaded onto a pick-up. Still, this meant there were likely to be further cuts of meat in the larder. Hedy had refused pork in the early days, but any such cultural taboos had long been discarded.

  ‘Sounds delicious. Oh, by the way, the window in the bathroom is jamming again. Would you mind taking a look at it, please?’

  She turned to him with a look that could sour milk. ‘I’m not a handyman.’

  Kurt beamed at her. ‘Of course not, but you have a … what is the English word … a knack.’

  Mrs Mezec laid down the wooden spoon in her hand and, without trying to hide the roll of her eyes, shuffled out of the kitchen to see to it. Kurt leapt up and opened the larder door, taking care to place a finger on the ball catch to prevent it making a pinging sound. It was dim inside, but as he suspected, a decent-sized leg of pork lay on the back shelf, covered by a sheet of muslin. All Kurt needed was a sharp knife to hack a slice off the front. He was about to take one from the drawer when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Damn it – he would have to sneak down in the early hours to compete his mission. He moved quickly to the sink and pretended to be washing his hands.

  ‘Evening, Neumann.’ Fischer was dressed smartly and smelled of scented soap. Where the hell he had got hold of something like that, Kurt could only guess. There were rumours that Fischer had now moved on from his pregnant married lover, and was now screwing the widow of some local aristocrat. ‘Waiting for dinner?’

  ‘I am. I’m starving.’ Kurt kept his tone light and playful. ‘Good day?’

  Fischer grunted and threw the local paper onto the table. ‘Bloody waste of time. Had to attend the burial of those Allied seamen washed up on the beach. Bigwigs decided to send a guard of honour and a firing party, show “respect”. I ask you, what’s the point?’ Indeed, Kurt thought, considering how we treat them while they’re alive. But he kept his jovial expression pasted in place. Fischer gestured to the paper. ‘Think there’s a photograph in there somewhere.’ Kurt obediently took the paper and leafed through it while Fischer droned on. ‘What sickens me is that the Allies are placing sea mines all round the islands, trying to stop our supplies coming across from France, but top brass still insist we doff our caps when we manage to blow them out the water.’

  Kurt mumbled a passive agreement, but was no longer listening. There, in the middle of the paper, was a photograph of Hedy. It was a professional shot in a formal pose, and from her normal weight and creamy complexion he knew it must be an old one, presumably taken before the war. Perhaps she had had some portraits done as a gift to send to her family in Austria. Her hair, thick and lustrous, was swept back from her face; those eyes he knew so well were looking up towards something or someone to the right of the camera; and there was both a trace of a smile and a sense of sadness in her expression. But what drew Kurt’s gaze was the text above it in German, and the same lines in English below:

  NOTICE

  The German authorities are looking for Miss Hedwig Bercu (see photograph), typist, of no nationality, 24 years of age, formerly residing at West Park, 1 Canon Tower. She has been missing from her residence since November 4th, 1943, and has evaded the German authorities. Any person who knows the whereabouts of Miss Bercu is requested to get in touch with the Feldkommandantur 515, who will treat any information with the strictest confidence. Anyone concealing Miss Bercu or aiding her in any other manner makes himself liable to punishment.

  It was signed by the Field Commander, with today’s date.

  Kurt read and re-read the notice. Of course, he’d been expecting this. It was ten days since Hedy had effectively vanished from the outside world, and despite her efforts, it wouldn’t have taken the secret police long to trace her address once they decided to find her. What was worrying, though, was that the notice mentioned nothing about a suicide. Had they not found the clothes and the note? Did they not believe it? Or was not mentioning it here some kind of trap? He glanced towards Fischer, wondering if the Nazi had deliberately led Kurt to the paper, knowing he would see the photograph. Perhaps this was all an elaborate ruse to gauge his reaction. Kurt’s mind was still grabbing at possibilities when he realised Fischer was still talking to him.

  ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m saying, next time we should just chuck the bodies in a hole and be done with it. Either that or burn them for fuel. Damn freezing in this house!’ Fischer laughed at his own joke.

  Kurt thought about the crematoria at the camps and imagined punching Fischer across the kitchen. Instead, he folded up the paper and smiled. ‘Yes, it is. You know, an engineer friend of mine got hold of a load of logs last week. I’ll pop over there, see if he’ll sell us a couple.’ He held up the newspaper, opting for a double bluff. ‘Mind if I borrow this? There’s a picture in here of that missing Jew – this guy lives near the compound, maybe he’s seen something.’

  Fischer, giving nothing away, merely nodded. Kurt walked into the hall, took his greatcoat from the peg, and slipped quietly out into the night. If he jogged some of the way he could be at West Park Avenue in thirty minutes.

  ‘Okay, I am going to knock now.’ Hedy laid her ten cards on the table.

  Dorothea leaned over to look at them, and her face creased a little with emb
arrassment. ‘You need at least three for a run, Hedy.’

  ‘I have three – Queen, King, Ace?’

  ‘But Ace is low in this game, remember?’ Dorothea sat back in her chair with the kind of bright smile you’d give a child. ‘Never mind, let’s deal again. You’ve almost got it.’

  ‘Do you mind if we stop?’ Hedy heard the tightness in her own voice. ‘I’m a little tired.’

  It was a feeble excuse, but the thought of sitting at this table any longer, playing yet another round of this pointless game, set off a rising panic that was becoming all too familiar in recent days. As usual, it was accompanied by sweating, breathlessness and a barely controlled desire to run out into the street. It was all she could do to stay in her chair. Dorothea collected the cards and tucked them back into their pack.

  ‘You’re right, we’ve been playing for hours. Shall I see what we’ve got in the larder for dinner?’

  Hedy stared at her new housemate, mystified by her stoicism. As if they might open the larder door and find shelves groaning with cold chicken and homemade tarts, and it were merely a matter of deciding what accompaniments to serve. Her unrelenting cheeriness, the determined avoidance of any alarming thought or memory, baffled Hedy; once or twice she’d actually wondered if Dorothea was quite right in the head. Just the other night, Dorothea had pulled the wireless from the cupboard under the stairs, and they had crouched in the doorway listening to the BBC news at the lowest possible volume, poised to thrust it back into its hiding place at a second’s notice should anyone knock on the door. The news was depressing, the main headline being the Allied defeat in the Dodecanese. Yet at the end of the broadcast, Dorothea packed the wireless away and returned immediately to her movie scrapbooks, humming a jolly American big-band tune to herself, as if none of it had really touched her. The melody sawed at Hedy’s nerves like cheese wire as she tried to occupy herself looking up the island of Leros in Dorothea’s old atlas.

  Hedy also noticed that Dorothea had begun to duck any mention of Anton, although Hedy had seen her kiss his photograph on her way up to bed. Hedy was only allowed to mention his name in the context of the past, and even then only happy memories were acceptable. Any talk of local trouble was closed down too, whether it was last week’s night-bombing raids that almost shattered the windows, or public notices about the salt shortage. Conversely Dorothea would drag her adored movie stars into any conversation, as she did the imagined lives of the knitted dolls she kept on her bedroom windowsill. She introduced them to Hedy one by one, explaining the stories behind their names, and gazing into their expressionless woollen eyes as if she could read their thoughts. Sometimes Hedy looked at this overgrown, delusional kid and had to remind herself that this was the same woman who had bellowed patriotic songs into the faces of hostile Germans at the quayside.

  She realised that Dorothea was waiting for an answer to her question.

  ‘Of course,’ Hedy replied, ‘let’s take a look.’

  When Kurt had first suggested Dorothea’s house as a hideout, Hedy had dismissed the idea. For one, she was certain Dorothea would never agree to such a dangerous arrangement on a permanent basis. And she would go crazy, she pointed out, finding Dorothea’s company difficult enough over a couple of hours.

  But Kurt had put up irrefutable arguments. Practically no one on this island could link the two of them, as they’d only been seen in public together a handful of times. Neither of them had any friends who might drop round or ask awkward questions, and with Anton away there was plenty of space. In any case, what alternatives did they have?

  Dorothea said yes. She hadn’t hesitated for a second, even when Kurt had spelled out the risks to her quite openly. On the night of Hedy’s arrival, she seemed excited by the idea of a houseguest, flitting from room to room finding spare blankets for the old single mattress she and Kurt had hauled into the attic space through the tiny hatch. Beneath the eaves she had pushed back old packing cases and ancient, mouldering rugs to create a bed area, and placed up there a precious candle in a holder and a few books to read. Hedy could move freely around the house during the day, so long as she stayed away from the windows. Should anyone unexpected come to the door, a carefully placed dresser beneath the attic hatch and a short hook-on ladder would enable Hedy to climb into her hiding space and have the cover back within half a minute.

  Hedy concentrated all her efforts into trying to feel grateful, but the reality of her new imprisonment was already taking its toll. Her new sleeping arrangements, despite her host’s best efforts, were a particular torture. The pitch black when she blew out the candle was a nightmare; every settling sound of the house manifested as the scurry of a mouse or rat, and locating a precious match to allay her fear was nigh impossible. Hedy had taken to sleeping in her clothes as the space was so cold, and calls of nature either risked a catastrophe with a bucket or simply had to be ignored till daylight. She had started napping in the front room during the day to compensate for her sleepless nights, but was jolted awake by every footstep or raised voice on the street outside. For the first time, Hedy was starting to feel more anxious about the condition of her mind than of her body. A sense of obligation and gratitude kept such thoughts buried, and in any case she didn’t want Dorothea fussing over her any more than she already did. But knowing that the one thing that would calm her would be a stroll in the fresh air, knowing that even this simple pleasure was now out of bounds, made her want to curl up into a ball and scream.

  There was also the unsolvable issue of food. As Hedy’s ration card could no longer be used, they were now forced to survive on a single ration, plus whatever extras Kurt could provide on the days he made it to the house. The two women were now as dependent on him as Kurt was reliant on their sense and security. Sometimes, in her fitful afternoon naps, Hedy dreamed of a three-stick tripod, bound with twine and trembling on a wasteland, whipped by a wind that threatened to send it flying into pieces. Then she would wake with a shout, and when Dorothea asked if she was all right, would pretend it was a childhood dream of monsters. She never knew if Dorothea believed her, but no further questions ever came.

  The coded knock at the back door alerted them both. Checking at the kitchen window, Dorothea nodded that it was Kurt and hurriedly let him in. Hedy ran to him and hugged him, fighting disappointment when she saw he was carrying nothing more substantial than an evening paper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kurt said, reading her thoughts. ‘Fischer came down at the crucial moment. But I’ll try and get down to the kitchen later tonight. I thought you should see this.’

  He showed her the notice in the newspaper. Hedy read it several times and stared at the picture. It had been taken in 1939, and the physical changes in four years shocked her; she wondered if Kurt was thinking the same thing. She folded the paper and handed it back.

  ‘We knew this was coming. Maybe they haven’t found the clothes and the note yet. It’s not like people are using the beaches.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can you stay a while?’

  Kurt shook his head, despondent. ‘I’m meant to be out getting logs, I need to get back.’ He stroked her face with his fingers. ‘Do you have enough food tonight?’

  Hedy made a titanic effort to smile. ‘We’ll manage. Don’t worry.’

  Kurt kissed her lightly on the lips then slipped out into the darkness of the alleyway and was gone again. Hedy felt a strong urge to weep, but choked it down. Dorothea’s fingers fluttered on the back of Hedy’s neck in an attempt to comfort her before propelling her towards the larder.

  She opened the door. ‘Right, then – what do we have here? How about a nice mashed swede with a boiled potato?’

  ‘But there’s barely enough for one.’

  Dorothea laughed pointlessly. ‘You boil the water and I’ll cut the swede up, all right?’ While Hedy ran freezing water into a pan, Dorothea took the vegetable and began to slice it on a wooden board, her hands pushing the knife expertly through the flesh, softly humming to he
rself a melody that Hedy vaguely recognised. She turned to Hedy. ‘You know that one?’

  Hedy forced herself to answer. ‘It’s from a movie, I think?’

  ‘Top Hat – Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. It won the best song of 1935. Did you see the film?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  The phrases from the newspaper notice were running through Hedy’s mind. Missing from her residence … evaded the German authorities … concealing Miss Bercu … liable to punishment … Dorothea’s knife kept disappearing into the swede, the slices falling one after the other, helpless against the gleaming metal. Over and over the blade sawed its way through the pale flesh. Hedy felt bile rise in her throat and realised that even tonight’s meagre meal may be beyond her.

  ‘Did you know,’ Dorothea was saying, ‘that Ginger Rogers had to fight the director to wear that dress? You know, the beautiful one with all the feathers? But she won, and it looks amazing, the most beautiful gown in any movie. When we’ve had dinner, I’ll show you a picture. And I’ll show you some of the other gowns of hers. She’s got such style, don’t you think? Would you like that?’

  Hedy heard her own voice from the end of a long tunnel, as she forced out the smallest smile and replied, ‘Yes. Yes, that would be fun.’

  Kurt stood still on the pathway, his eyes skyward. All over the compound, workers had stopped to do the same, transfixed. The plane, clearly visible in the blue winter sky, climbed then dived, displaying its RAF roundel to the world. Anti-aircraft guns could be heard firing at it from every direction, and when smoke began to pour from its rear end, there was a gasp as everyone thought it had been hit. Kurt held his breath, waiting for the plane to tumble towards them, taking out houses and civilians in its path. But the plane turned to climb again, and the letter ‘V’ began to form in smoke in the sky.

  The muttering around the compound grew to a full-throated hum as questions were thrown, one to another. Was it the beginning of a daylight raid, or just a warning of worse to come? Then, when the plane shut down its smoke and sped away northwards towards the English coast, most agreed it was probably a Christmas message of support for the islanders from Mr Churchill. Good for him, Kurt thought to himself, though an airdrop of food parcels would have brought these people a lot more joy.