The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  Schmidt pinched his lips together, scribbling a few notes in a notepad. ‘When he spoke to his wife or whoever it was he was on the phone to, was he speaking Serb?’ asked Schmidt.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I just know his name was Zoran. He seemed like a decent guy. It never occurred to me that he was scoping the place out.’ I glanced at Frederik and then Schmidt. ‘I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘You weren’t to know, Max,’ said Frederik.

  ‘We’ll track him down,’ was the sum total of Schmidt’s response, but I couldn’t help thinking that what I’d told him had lowered his opinion of me. ‘Now,’ he said, fishing a clear plastic bag out of his coat pocket, ‘perhaps you can help us with this.’ He pulled on some plastic gloves and retrieved the book from inside the bag. My mouth went dry. It was Torberg’s Young Gerber. Of all the books they could have chosen. Perhaps I had left it sticking out slightly when I returned it to the library, making it appear as if it were begging to be taken, just like the subtly nudged card in a magician’s card trick.

  ‘It’s a first edition. I’m sorry,’ said Frederik, sliding back a chair to join us. I wished the state of the book was my sole concern.

  Schmidt opened the book at a page that was now marked with a red sticker, and swivelled the book around for me to see.

  ‘We can’t make head nor tail of it – nor why they chose to write in English,’ he said.

  A black felt tip pen had been used to scrawl across the two pages, completely defacing them. But what was far worse to my mind was the fact that the handwriting carried an unmistakable likeness to the handwriting on the back of the photograph my mother had left me. The childlike formations of each letter, paired with the deliberate aggression with which they were written spelt out: O kneels, rats die. Although the words were nonsensical, they jarred. I tried to pick through them to read the novel’s text. I looked again to make sure, trying to ignore the anxiety unfurling in the pit of my stomach. The author of the message had chosen the page where I had stopped reading: at the death of one of Gerber’s classmates.

  I shifted in my seat. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘On the doorstep,’ said Schmidt, his eyes darting from me to the book. ‘We can’t make sense of it. We want to hold on to it – get the handwriting analysed.’

  Frederik touched my arm. ‘I know a man who’s good at restoring these kind of things. I’ll get it seen to.’

  I looked at him, failing to register his offer to help. I couldn’t begin to tell them about the matching handwriting on the back of the photograph, nor could I tell them that I had been reading this book when I was last at the house and had stopped reading at the very spot where the message was penned. Had someone been watching me, or was it simply that the book had fallen open where I’d bent it back while reading? The rational part of me wanted to believe that an explanation could be found for everything. Yet it was the handwriting and the reference to rats that disturbed me.

  The echo of voices, one of them belonging to Vivienne, came from the hallway. I had spoken to her before I boarded my flight to try to lessen the impact of the news. Despite my protestations, she had insisted on coming to Himmelhofgasse. A police officer showed her into the kitchen.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, the shock blanched on her face. ‘Whatever next?’

  Frederik got up to leave. Patting my shoulder he said, ‘I’ll get this all cleaned up for you too – once the police are satisfied with their investigation.’

  ‘Please – you don’t need to do that.’

  He brushed off my faint rebuttal. Admittedly, I was grateful for his assistance. In London I would have known what to do, where to go, who to speak to. Here, in Ober St. Veit, Vienna, I had no idea where to start, no contacts to call, and I was reluctant to burden Vivienne with requests for help.

  ‘We’ll be done in a few days or so,’ said Schmidt. He returned the book to its plastic bag, then pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me.’

  Vivienne and I sat in silence for a while, both of us wondering over our own what ifs and whys. I tussled with the idea of confiding in her. ‘There was a message written in a book from the library,’ I said, pouring some water for her.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘O kneels, rats die.’

  She looked at me, quite perplexed.

  ‘It’s not just the message. It’s the handwriting.’ I took a sip from my glass. ‘I never showed you the photograph – but remember I told you about the writing on the back?’

  ‘Like a child’s, you said.’

  ‘The writing in the book – it matches the handwriting on the back of that photo.’

  Vivienne stared at me, creasing her brow.

  ‘I’m almost certain.’ Even though the photograph had been lying in my desk drawer undisturbed for a few weeks, the writing was imprinted on my mind. ‘And the book …’

  A loud thud, like the sound of a box falling to the floor, interrupted me. I looked at Vivienne.

  ‘Perhaps one of the officers is upstairs. I’ll go and check,’ I said, heading into the hallway. ‘Is everything okay?’ I called out. A few seconds passed without a response. I stepped outside, spotting Schmidt by the gate with one of the officers. He drew his cigarette from his mouth and dropped it to the floor, squashing it with his shoe. ‘Is one of your men upstairs?’

  He jogged up to me, shaking his head. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We heard something,’ I said, stepping back inside. ‘I’ll take a look – it’s probably nothing.’

  I headed to the stairs. My hand went to the banister, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. And when I took the first step, I hesitated. Doubt re-entered my head. I peered up to the gallery again. It was probably nothing, just as I had told Schmidt. I carried on, glancing ahead of me and over the edge of the banister.

  On the first floor gallery I came to a halt, face to face with more of the thieves’ destruction. Pictures hung askew, a vase lay half broken on the landing. I tracked their handiwork. The damaged banister looked like a dismembered body. I picked my way around the debris, moving from one room to the next, each one with its door flung wide open, the violation plain to see. The last room was my own, where the damage felt worse than an intrusion. My model cars, camera, books and other possessions had been strewn across the floor; drawers were cast out, a couple of them had been upended. My bedding, some of it ripped, muddied, soiled even, lay heaped on the carpet. I stood there with my back to the doorway, taking it in. And as I did so, a chill ran down my spine. I wheeled round, my joints stiff, almost unyielding. Only the vacant doorframe met my gaze. Yet I couldn’t help feeling that someone was watching me.

  I walked back out on to the gallery to find Schmidt and Vivienne looking up at me from the hall down below.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Schmidt.

  It took me a few seconds to acknowledge his question. I shook my head.

  ‘And the second floor?’

  A crash resounded through the house.

  Vivienne’s hand went to her chest. We all stood stock-still, staring up at the second floor gallery. Silence enveloped the interior. Glancing at Schmidt, I moved towards the staircase. He silently motioned to me to stop, but I ignored him and carried on while he shuffled Vivienne away. I began to climb the stairs, my hand sweeping the wall, the noise loud enough to carry in the hush of the house. I was quite alone, and although I knew my solitude was momentary, I sensed a change in the air, the way it lingered about me. It had something to do with the house, its silence drifting through the interior, mirroring the stillness that had wrapped around me in the cellar. My resolve faltered. I stopped midway. I thought I heard something other than the brush of my hand against the wall. I tilted my head to the ceiling and took another step up. There it was again: travelling back and forth above me. It sounded like it came from the attic. And as I listened, it took on more force and speed, stuttering along the floor, east to west across the house. There was something els
e too, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it: a sound akin to murmurs, snatches of voices in the walls.

  I continued up the stairs, fighting against the play of my imagination. With each tread, I pictured the attic as it should be: light pouring through its high window, boxes, shelves, old furniture my mother couldn’t bear to dispose of, forgotten toys. An ordinary room: that was all it was. I came to the second floor. The doors to the three bedrooms were open, throwing funnels of light on to the landing. Each one had been left untouched.

  I noticed, then, the sweeping to and fro above me had ceased.

  The door to the attic stairs remained closed. I inched towards it, the floorboards creaking shamelessly under my shoes. I wavered in front of it for a moment, picturing someone hiding up there, a notion I couldn’t shrug off. As if to confirm my suspicions, I thought I could hear the faint patter of footsteps; in my head, the image of a child flared up. A lost child. That child. Perhaps, then, it wasn’t a trick of the light, or my state of mind. My hand gripped the handle.

  It was locked like before. I leaned in, listening out for the faintest sound. But there was nothing. I twisted the handle to the left, then right, shaking it, forcing it to give way, yet it still held fast.

  I banged on the door. ‘Is there anyone there?’ I called out.

  Silence.

  I banged again. ‘Is there anyone there?’

  I stepped back, staring at the door, wanting a response. It came, or at least it seemed to, in the form of a muffled cry. I crouched down and put one eye to the keyhole. The figure of a child was edging its way down the stairs.

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ I whispered. ‘Please don’t cry.’ I thought back to that night in the cellar. It could be the same child, the girl.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Schmidt as he and one of the officers came up to the second floor landing.

  I turned to them, my jaw set. ‘There’s someone in there.’ I pointed to the door. ‘It’s a child. I heard her. We need to get her out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. The door’s jammed.’

  Schmidt and the officer exchanged puzzled looks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We had no problem getting in earlier,’ said Schmidt. ‘We had a quick look, but it seems no one’s been in there for a while.’

  ‘That can’t be,’ I said. To illustrate my case, I tried the door. It sprung open with little effort. Light teemed through the window at the back of the attic, flowing down the staircase. I stared at the door handle, then at my hand, then at the officers. ‘How’s that possible? I swear, it was stuck.’

  A look of wariness stole across Schmidt’s eyes. I turned my back on him and ran up the stairs into the attic, determined to find the child hiding away. But I found nothing out of the ordinary. To one side lay an old bed with an iron bedstead; on either side of it stood two armchairs shrouded in white sheets. A wardrobe and an old chest stood next to the window; the wardrobe doors were open, revealing nothing but a rusted metal rail. On the other side of the room was a crib, naked without its linen and muslin, and an old leather trunk, its chestnut patina faded and scratched. Perched on top was a forlorn-looking puppet theatre. A number of wooden crates with books, papers and photo albums peeping out of them and packed round with straw lay stacked against the wall closest to the door. In the centre of the room lay four or five similar boxes. One of them had fallen over, its contents spilling out on to the floor. Oblivious to Schmidt and the other police officer, I walked around the room, seeking out hiding places – behind the crates, under the bed, inside the wooden chest and wardrobe – disturbing the layer of dust that had lain dormant before my arrival.

  My search was futile. There were no signs of a child, other than the old relics of nursery furniture and playthings. In all, there was little to suggest the presence of anybody living there, concealed or otherwise, past or present. And no indication of entry or escape.

  I turned to the two men, who were watching me from the top of the staircase. Against Schmidt’s advice, Vivienne had sought us out and squeezed her way between him and the police officer to join me. She looked about her, then put her arm around me.

  ‘I swear I heard a child.’ I turned to Vivienne. ‘You heard her too.’

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘You see!’

  ‘I heard something fall. It was this box, that’s all.’ Her voice was quiet, almost faltering. ‘I didn’t hear a child, Max.’ She lowered her eyes.

  Schmidt cleared his throat. ‘We’ll be downstairs.’

  I kept my back turned, wishing only to hide my embarrassment at having created a melodrama. Yet all the same I couldn’t understand how the door could simply open without force when only moments before, it held fast. In the brief time I had been alone at the attic door, I was quite certain of what I heard: it wasn’t just the travail back and forth, but the footsteps, the hushed weeping. Was this episode a by-product of my hangover? Or was it, when added to my other experiences, a symptom suggesting something far worse? As Schmidt and the officer thundered back down the stairs I kicked one of the crates.

  ‘Max …’ Vivienne reached for my hand.

  I shrugged it away. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s me, Max. Remember? You can tell me.’

  I crouched down beside the fallen wooden box and set it back upright. ‘What’s happening to me, Vivienne?’ I hoped she didn’t notice the tremor in my hands as she knelt beside me, her hand rubbing my back as she used to do when I was a child. I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s like my … What I see and hear … It makes me think of what happened to my grandmother.’

  ‘Enough, Max.’ Her quiet response was as gentle as her hand on my back.

  ‘I was starting to feel okay again and now … now this.’

  ‘When something happens – a death, an act of violence – it impresses itself upon us in different ways. Our senses are heightened: you smelled your mother’s perfume when you returned. You said you felt and heard things. I still hear her chattering away. Do you see that?’

  ‘I want to.’

  She got to her feet. ‘Would it help to … see someone?’ she asked, flipping through an old album she had plucked from one of the nearby boxes.

  ‘Christ! No. No way.’ The very act of seeking help felt like defeat, even though I knew I was being sabotaged by ill-feeling, self-doubt and the tail end of emotions that my mother’s death had brought about.

  She tucked the album back into the box again. ‘Do you want a moment?’

  I nodded and managed a half-smile. Her footsteps faded away as I tidied up the remaining things: news articles, photo albums. I had little desire to look through them. The faces and references, mostly anonymous, failed to stir my interest, until I came across a thick notebook. It had a piece of frayed red ribbon tied around its mottled deer-hide cover. I loosened it and flicked through the coarse pages: the book was filled with sketches and neat handwriting that matured towards the end. Tucked at the back were three newspaper clippings; browned and brittle, they carried a whiff of papery mould. While I didn’t read them in full, I did notice circles drawn around three names with two digits written above them:

  36

  Elena Markovic

  35

  Christine Hintze

  37

  Josef Frank

  ‘Max?’ Vivienne’s voice floated to the upper reaches of the house. I slipped the articles back into the notebook and re-tied the ribbon. Taking the notebook with me, I got up and made my way down the stairs, closing the attic door behind me. I paused for a second, deciding whether or not to try the door handle again. The door opened without effort. I tried again: it responded with no hint of it sticking. A test wouldn’t be a valid test without trying a third time. The door opened as smoothly as before. I pushed it further back and glanced up the stairs again. Vivienne’s laughter sailed up from the entrance hall, followed by Schmidt’s laugh-cum-smoker’s cough. For a moment I wondered wheth
er the joke was on my account. I stopped myself there. Vivienne wouldn’t do such a thing. I could only wonder at myself – the ease with which I paired seemingly innocent sounds with images in my head, making me overreact, making me look cartoonish in the eyes of Schmidt and his men.

  But then there was Young Gerber and the writing inside. It was less the message and more the handwriting, the assault of the letters matching the writing of You knew on the photograph’s reverse. I needed to lay out everything I had experienced, to map out each detail, sifting the elements that were fact from those that made little sense. A thread of explanation had to be found. It didn’t require a therapist or medical treatment to figure it out.

  What I still couldn’t decide was whether to tell Vivienne about it all. I didn’t want to worry her with my stories and theories, things that might lead her to believe I was disturbed. But still, she might be able to answer some of my questions. That would be the extent to which I’d let her in.

  OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1938

  Annabel sits at her table in the nursery, scribbling in her notebook. The date, 15th April, is written at the top, followed by a couple of lines, but then she wobbles. Letting her pencil run free is her way of stemming her tears. After all, she promised Mama she’d be brave. Mama said that Oskar would be back in no time at all, but Annabel doesn’t understand why he had to leave in the first place. She can’t fathom why everyone’s talking about the Edelsteins’ trip. She’s seen Mama cry. Papa hasn’t been around for the last few days. If he were around, he would make things better, that’s certain. Mama would stop crying, everyone would stop whispering and being all jittery, and she’d be allowed to go to the orphanage with Mama. She likes it there. She’s been going more often now she has no one to play with. The house felt emptier without Eva, but at least Oskar had still been around then.

  ‘And now he’s gone too.’ Her pencil stops. She presses the tip into the book and the lead crushes. Her lips tremble and Annabel can’t help it now, as she grabs another pencil and knifes it through the paper soaked with her tears. Then she takes the page and rips it out of the notebook, and now she can’t stop as she slashes out the next, and then the next, stopping at the one with her sketch of Eva. She takes one look at it and rips it away just as Maria walks in.