I inched towards the end of the corridor again, wanting, yet not wanting, to see the body again.
The light petered out, plunging me back into darkness. Fear crept up on me once more, paralysing my limbs. The dark inked over any remaining certainty I had. I wanted the light to return. I tried to sweep away my misgivings and began to count the seconds out loud to give me something else to concentrate on. One, two, three … Twelve seconds later, the light flickered on and off. I looked back to the stairwell, wishing for the assurance of a steady beam. But the light continued to sputter as though a moth was dancing around it, conjuring illusions out of the shadows, weakening my resolve.
I still couldn’t move.
Then I became aware of someone else in the corridor.
Through the flitter of shadows I struggled to see anything at first, and then … in the corner, I caught sight of … the light dimmed … and returned. It seemed … It seemed that a child was standing there. I quietly drew closer. It had its back to me. My fear ebbed away as I assumed it was a runaway, hiding in my mother’s cellar. I edged forward, careful not to frighten it away. Every flare of light threw the child into relief, only for it to be swallowed by fleeting darkness again. Yet with every step I became more confident of what I saw. I paused. If I had stretched my arm out, I could almost have touched it, but I didn’t want to chance it. It was a girl – I was certain it was a girl – trembling in the corner. An old-fashioned dress hung from her frame. She seemed thin, malnourished. She didn’t turn around, but I could feel her presence close in on me, her sadness filtering through my bones.
She whimpered – at least I thought I heard a smothered cry. She seemed to cower further into the corner, her body shuddering.
‘It’s all right,’ I attempted to whisper, but my voice was hoarse. ‘Please don’t be afraid.’ My words failed to carry through the air. She didn’t move. It struck me then: was this another dream? I dug my fingernails into my palm.
The girl stopped crying; her body stopped shaking. She turned around, and I saw … I staggered backwards. The light blinked on and off, rendering her an abstraction.
‘Who are you?’ I tried to shout, but no sound came from my mouth. All I could hear was the perpetual thump of my heart.
Before I could call out once more, the light came on again, bringing me back to the house, the cellar, the present. There was no sign of a child, of another human being. Save for my breathing all was quite still. I had seen someone. I was sure of it: a girl. And when she turned around … I pinched my eyes; my hand was shaking. I glanced back to where I believed I’d seen her and approached the back wall. I touched the plaster, my fingers tracing her shape. I crouched down again to where I thought her body had lain. Although the chill lingered, the foul smell had disappeared and the corridor seemed quite empty. The change in air seeded doubt in my mind – that I had allowed my imagination to string me along, that I thought I had experienced something supernatural. As I returned to the stairwell, there was nothing, nothing that struck me as out of the ordinary – just dilapidated, forgotten rooms and a collection of junk.
The tremor in my hand persisted and I couldn’t rid myself of the foreboding that unfolded at the back of my mind. My exhaustion, my bereavement, had started to pluck at the fringes of my sanity. Enough, I told myself over and over again as I walked back upstairs to the study. But the slightest sound made me jump and in the end it took longer than it should have done to sweep away the mess. Once I had finished, I wearily left the photograph in its glassless frame face down on the desk, along with the dustpan and brush.
The following day I wanted to leave as early as possible. Daylight brought a little calm, but my mind kept drifting back to what had happened that night and the night before. I told myself that if I got out of the house, I would feel better, more normal.
I quickly packed up. Before leaving my bedroom, I glanced at my old model cars again. They still had their bonnets pointing towards the room. I shook my head. I decided to do a quick run-through of the house, checking windows, closing doors, making sure everything was secure. I did it without thinking, or at least I attempted to. Such was my wish to leave that I hurried through the house, avoiding the cellar and without a second look at the Schiele on the wall in the drawing room.
As I was leaving I noticed smudges of dried blood dotting the marble floor in the hallway. Blood from the small gash in my foot no doubt, which I’d forgotten about in the whirl of events. I found a cloth to wipe them away, but the stains seemed to impregnate the stone. Getting rid of them proved more difficult than I thought, and, in turn, I wondered whether I had left a trail of blood on the floor of the study. So it was, with the drag of reluctance, that I went back into that room.
I saw the dustpan and brush, which I’d left in an untidy heap, intruding on the neat order of my mother’s desk. Tiny remnants of glass stuck to the brush’s bristles, catching the light coming through the gap in the curtains. I picked up the brush, intending to shake the splinters into the wastepaper basket under the desk, when my gaze strayed to the space next to the brush. The photograph wasn’t there. I scouted around the room, catching sight of it propped back up on the bookshelf, sandwiched between two other ornaments. I stepped over to the photograph and just stared at it, wondering. I knew what I had done with it. I remembered trying to keep my actions mechanical. Then again, I had been certain of what I’d seen in the cellar, but that had been scrubbed away by my niggling doubt and the starkness of daylight. This hesitancy on my part, my inability to differentiate between what was real and what was not, what I did versus what I imagined, cut away at me. All I could think of was my grandmother’s depression, her breakdown, her reported psychosis. Had it struck me? My hand went to the desk. I steadied myself, closed my eyes, tried to breathe. My grief, the realisation I had lost my mother: that was the root.
I didn’t want to stay any longer. I abandoned the study there and then, grabbed my things and left the house. I walked along the driveway, gripping the handles of my holdall, my eyes fixed on the gate.
Don’t look back.
Yet the more I told myself not to look back, the greater the temptation grew to do the opposite. As my hand went to the latch, I couldn’t help it. I glanced over my shoulder. My gaze tracked over the front of the house, up towards the first floor, then to the window at the far right. I squinted, unsure of what I’d seen. But only tree branches were reflected in the glass, like thin, spindly silhouettes. I stumbled back, staring at the window, but there was nothing there, just glass and a glimpse of a curtain, plain and still. A knot tightened around my chest. My hand quivered as I slid the latch and yanked at the gate, wanting to get out. It slammed shut behind me. I didn’t turn back a second time. The church spire peeping above the trees on Wolfrathplatz kept my focus. From there, Vivienne’s house was a stone’s throw away. Of all people, she was the one who could make everything right again.
I went through the small gate on Veitlissengasse and up the steps to the entrance of Vivienne’s house. Painted bright primrose, it appeared out of place beside the towering Omani Embassy residence next door. Their juxtaposition would normally have brought out a smile in me; it didn’t this time around. As I pressed the doorbell, I noticed the persistent tremor in my hands. I clenched my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms to bring it to a stop. When Vivienne opened the door I hugged her, almost unwilling to let go.
‘Whatever’s happened?’ she asked, steering me through to her drawing room where I slumped down on the sofa.
Like my mother’s place, Vivienne’s home had retained the same look and feel I recalled from my childhood, despite the years. The faint rose scent, the furniture, the scatter of green velvet cushions on the armchairs and sofa were so much a part of her, as were the photographs and ornaments. Best of all was the fireplace that, during the winter months, lent the room an orange-hued comfort. While my mother’s house carried the air of a stuffy museum, Vivienne’s felt like a proper home, a space to be lived in ra
ther than admired at arm’s length. In all, it kindled nostalgia for my childhood years, when I was protected under the wing of my mother’s closest friend.
Vivienne had made an apple strudel, a favourite of mine. It was as if she knew I needed that kind of comfort. She waved away my offers to help, so I simply watched her as she served me a slice along with some tea. She was quite sprightly despite her age, like my mother had been, and well dressed too. Even though Vivienne had lived unattached for as long as I could remember, I still had the occasional flicker of surprise that she had remained a spinster. I never really knew the reasons for the lack of men in her life. I knew she’d had her misfortunes, generalised in her own words as small nuisances. And as a result, she continued her life as if they had never happened, refusing to kowtow to bitterness or regret.
The sweetness of her dessert melted in my mouth. ‘It’s as good as ever,’ I said, a grin breaking out on my face.
She nodded, but her eyes remained wary as she studied my face. ‘Bad night?’
I didn’t reply.
‘And the smile vanishes again. Tell me, Max.’
I pushed around the remnants of pastry on my plate, unsure of what to say. ‘The house – it’s not the same. It’s like she’s there – I could smell her perfume.’
‘It’s only natural, Max. I felt the same too.’ She dropped a slice of lemon into her teacup. ‘It’s hit you, hasn’t it?’
‘But I don’t feel better for it.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
I put down my plate. ‘I don’t know how to put it. I can’t concentrate, I’m forgetful, I feel exhausted almost all the time. It’s like it accentuates things I hear or see. Makes me think …’ I didn’t know how much I should tell her. She nodded, so I continued. ‘There were doors and windows open that I’m sure were shut. Objects seemed to have moved. Half the time it feels as if my mind’s on autopilot, like I’m elsewhere. God, I don’t know, Vivienne, it’s like – with my grandmother and the way she apparently went. What if the same thing’s happening to me?’ I looked up at her. The softness in her eyes didn’t hide her worry.
Before I could go on, she said, ‘You just need a proper break.’
‘Do you think Mama started to go that way too?’ My mother’s desire to engage with Oskar Edelstein, this long-lost acquaintance from her childhood – was it all just a fruitless whim, I wondered.
‘What nonsense,’ Vivienne said. ‘Annabel was perfectly fine. She took her own life, yes. But it wasn’t due to madness.’ The three grooves between her eyebrows deepened, then faded away. ‘Don’t rush back into work. Stay here if you like, for as long as you want.’
I said I’d think about it. Trying to change the subject, I turned to what I’d do with the house. ‘Perhaps I’ll hold on to it for a little while at least – maybe make some changes, then sell it.’ A few tea leaves had escaped from the pot into my cup. I swilled them around with what remained of the liquid, thinking of the cellar back at the house.
‘Are you trying to read them?’
I let out a wisp of a laugh. Vivienne took the cup from my hand and placed it back in its saucer on the coffee table. I told her about my venture down into the cellar on the hunt for a paltry dustpan and brush, but I didn’t mention what I thought I had seen.
‘It’s uninviting. Such a waste of space. Why did she keep it like that?’ I asked.
‘Annabel never liked it. She said something about a bad experience. When the house was left to her, she eventually ripped out everything below and just used the rooms for storage. She would send Ludmilla whenever she needed anything from down there.’
My heart thumped a little quicker. ‘What do you mean, a bad experience?’
‘Something about a game of hide-and-seek.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose those sort of things stay with us.’
Gently, I pressed her, but she just said, ‘It’s nothing, really. Your mother never went into detail and it didn’t feel right to push. She would have told me if she’d wanted to.’ Vivienne moved on to other things. ‘I presume then you’ll transform the cellar.’
I nodded. ‘And I’m getting an alarm fitted.’
At this, Vivienne chuckled. I loved the sound of her laughter. The babbling brook was how her friends, my mother included, referred to it.
Seeing my furrowed brow, she said, ‘Annabel used to joke that her presence would be enough to scare away any thief. But I suppose – just in case. There’ve been a few robberies in the last year or two. There’s now a nightly police patrol – it’s put people at ease.’ She looked out the window, then squeezed my arm. ‘The weather’s still fair. Shall we go for a stroll? It’ll do us both good.’
I patted my stomach. ‘I should work off this cake.’
Vivienne shook her head, rolling her eyes. It was our usual act: her feeding me, my jokey protests. This time, they grounded me. She made me feel better about myself and her words helped to nudge my doubts away.
We left her house to enjoy the good weather. Adjusting her pale green shawl over her coat, she turned and smiled as she closed the latch on the gate before looping her arm through mine. There were only a few people out and about. One or two nodded to Vivienne as we walked past them and only a single car drove by as we headed towards the top of Ober St. Veit. She liked to play the local historian, pointing out the houses that belonged to old acquaintances and regaling me with tales of people long gone. I knew all of this, but I liked the way she wove her stories. No doubt that’s why she went down well at the Albertina as she led groups from one exhibit to the next.
Later that afternoon I readied myself to leave for London, while Vivienne went about her domestic chores more quietly. The hallmark humming that normally accompanied her movements didn’t waft through the house that day; no kind of music did for that matter. She had a love of opera, a passion she shared with my mother, and in Vivienne’s home her favourites often played in the background throughout the day. I remembered during my mother’s funeral how she had wept when two sopranos sang ‘Agnus Dei’ from Verdi’s Messa da Requiem. Now it was as if the act of listening to an aria was too painful for her.
I found her in the kitchen staring absently out of the window. She almost jumped when I reached out to touch her on the shoulder. Her eyes were moist and I knew she’d been thinking of my mother again. I hoped my news would bring her a little cheer.
‘I just got a call from the agency,’ I said. ‘They’ve found Oskar Edelstein.’
Vivienne didn’t smile, she just nodded in response.
‘Why is finding him so important to you?’ I asked.
Plucking a loose thread from my sweater, she said, ‘It’s my way of remembering your mother.’
OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1938
‘You’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing, when you said you would.’ Mama’s voice has gone all wobbly and it’s too high pitched.
Annabel hesitates at the door before pushing it open: Mama had given strict instructions to Maria that Annabel was to go downstairs to say goodnight before they went out to dinner, and here she is. She bites her lip, then leans in closer, pressing her ear to the door.
Papa’s pacing again. ‘What am I supposed to do, mein Schatz?’ he says. ‘We’re powerless. Hitler and his men are running all over the government. Besides, do you want to run the risk of them shutting the Trust down?’
‘But the Zuckerkandls, Elias, the Edelsteins, others – they’ll need our help,’ Mama says.
‘Bertha has her brother-in-law so she’ll be fine. As for Elias – he’s got people in London.’
‘And the Edelsteins?’
‘His money will buy them a ticket out.’
‘Sometimes, Sebastian, you can be so …’
‘Yes, mein Schatz?’
Mama and Papa have been arguing more often recently. Annabel doesn’t like it. Normally they stop bickering when she comes into their room, but she heard Oskar’s surname mentioned and now her curiosity is piqued.
‘You know very well you have influence,’ Mama says.
‘And you know very well, given the men you sleep with, you have more.’
Annabel jumps at the sound of a sharp slap. Tears well in her eyes and she sinks down on to the floor, cuddling her knees.
She sees Eva trotting up the stairs and the maid that’s like a sister to her crouches beside her.
‘Fräulein Annabel, whatever’s the matter?’
Annabel collapses into the young maid and hugs her, feeling Eva’s arms wrap around her. She doesn’t mind the smell of onions and starch mingling with the faint odour of something else on Eva’s cotton dress. She could breathe it in forever.
The door to Mama and Papa’s room opens. Mama steps out, dressed in a backless peacock-blue silk gown which Annabel would normally ooh and ahh at, but not today. The effect is lessened anyway, for Mama’s graceful face is pinched, cool. The Snow Queen, Annabel thinks to herself.
‘Why Annabel!’ says Mama. Her fingers hover over her mouth, lingering there for a moment. Papa emerges, touching the splash of pink on his left cheek with his ungloved hand. It’s Papa’s comfort Annabel wants, but it’s as if she’s invisible to him. His gaze passes over and beyond her, and it’s like he’s hit her, just as Mama had struck him.
Before Annabel can go to him, Mama draws her away with great urgency and says, ‘There’s no need to cry. Come here, meine Maus.’ Annabel doesn’t want to have any of it. She shrugs away from her and runs upstairs to her bedroom, rubbing her tears away with the back of her hand. Wanted, but not wanted. Why does it have to be like this?
‘Get back downstairs, Eva,’ is the last thing Annabel hears. It’s Papa’s voice and it booms so loudly she thinks she feels the house shaking.
CHAPTER SIX
In all honesty, I was relieved to hear that Oskar Edelstein was still alive, and I hoped the discovery would close the loop on my mother’s last request. The agency told me he lived in London. It had been quite easy to track him down, but they said that he came with a health warning. It became apparent during their research that he was known as a difficult character: he fought for what he believed in, sometimes going to extremes. When I pressed them, they said he had been locked in a few battles on behalf of his family, but they wouldn’t divulge more. Everything I needed to know had been included in the report they would email me. In the meantime, they gave me a contact telephone number and wished me good luck. Difficult characters didn’t faze me – there were plenty of them at work. And of course there was my mother; everyone else paled in comparison to her.
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