Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler

by Trudi Kanter

  We made the rounds. Churches, monuments, palaces—Walter knew all their stories: the year they were built, by whom, how long it had taken to finish them, everything. I looked at his lovely happy face, saw how proud he was to share all this with me.

  “And of course you know our Stephansdom,” he said, pointing at the cathedral. “It marks the center of the city. Do you know anything else about it?”

  I didn’t, and I was too hot to care. “Tell me,” I said.

  “It was built in 1147; completely destroyed in 1258 by a fire—it was so hot it melted the bells. Incredibly, in 1290, it happened again. That same year, the complete rebuilding began.”

  I was tired, longing for a cold drink, and remembered a café in a side street. Almost in front of the door stood a horse, staring stoically ahead. I have always been afraid of horses and I pulled Walter away.

  He walked in front of me, toward the car. I looked at the perfect shape of his head. The thought that he was mine made me feel unbearably happy.

  The magnificent State Opera House, Vienna’s pride. Walking up marble stairs, across inlaid marble floors. Waltzes by Lanner and Strauss. The whisper of silk crinolines still lingers. The ceilings, painted by artists of centuries past, are lit up by rows of crystal chandeliers which spark off tiny lights. Millions and millions of them. Like diamonds. Like a fairy tale. Every evening at the opera is a glittering, unforgettable occasion. Especially just before midnight on New Year’s Eve, when the bells of St. Stephan start to ring out.

  Walter showed me the nineteenth-century parliament building. “Lit from inside, it looks like Brussels lace,” he said. We looked at the Karlskirche, with its domed copper roof that has turned green—the oldest baroque building in Austria. The Votivkirche, its soaring spires rising into the dark sky. We went to the fairground. Finally we sat down in a garden restaurant, ate Vienna sausages, drank iced lager. Then through fields and woods stretching down to the Danube. Flowering trees, the old-fashioned amusement park, and the famous Ferris wheel. The Danube—never blue, but a lovely, old, busy, dirty gray river, cutting Vienna in two.

  His arm around my shoulders, Walter asks, “Have you ever taken a cruise down the Danube to Wachau?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go together. You will see the loveliest river valley in Europe. Imagine—old castles perched on craggy rocks. Gilded baroque churches dotted across the green banks. It’s fabulous in spring, when the trees are in bloom. I know you will love it.”

  We were young, and the world was ours. Viennese music and all the people who loved it so much were ours. In the morning they sing; upstairs, downstairs, on the bus, in the metro, humming in the streets. Up on the fourth floor a window cleaner whistles the Radetzky March.

  The Austrians love wine, women, and song. I remember the white wines. Easy to drink, they flow too easily down your throat. Fruity, dry wines, delicious with chicken fried in bread crumbs.

  We walked some more, until I could go no farther. My face red and hot, my hair in a state, my feet sore, I cried.

  “I’ve had enough, Walter. I need to sit down.”

  He apologized, pinched my cheek, and took me to a tavern in a cellar next to the cathedral. It was cool there. The food was good, the wine chilled.

  Walter loved small, intimate bars. There were many of them all over Vienna. He took me to his favorite.

  How many girls had he taken there before? Beautiful girls.

  He calls for me, looking handsome in his navy blue mohair suit and white shirt. I have been to the hairdresser. I try to look my best.

  The bar is enchanting. Dark red velvet curtains, bright red linen tablecloth. Candlelight reflected by mirrored walls. The pianist plays romantic music. We dance very close to one another. In the dim light my eyes meet the veiled eyes of the man dancing next to me. The pianist’s gaze burns through my clothes.

  Walter notices. He falls silent. We never go there again.

  4

  I waited for Walter in his flat. Until I took the receiver off the hook, the telephone rang constantly. Girls. There would be little notes when we got into his car outside his building: I still live at No. 7, Susie. I waited, Lilli. Cheri, encore? Hughette. The telephone number of a young lady called Carolle.

  No wonder, my darling, no wonder they were after you. No wonder. Your eyes, the blue of African violets, dark hair, graying at the temples. Your slightly olive skin, smooth all over your body. Your sweetness, kindness, decency. You did flirt, trade on your good looks, but not like a rogue. Good-naturedly, for fun. Of course I was jealous. You grinned at girls, a twinkle in your eye.

  There was a photograph of a beautiful woman in the drawer of your desk.

  “Who is she, Walter?”

  “A past love.”

  That was all you said. I wanted to ask: How long ago? What color is her hair? Her eyes? Her complexion? Is she tall, slim, with beautiful legs? Beautiful hands? Is she a threat to me? But I didn’t.

  * * *

  I am civil to him, but I don’t like him, Walter’s so-called friend. Poldi interferes. He wants Walter to marry an heiress, a young woman living in the same building. Poldi is clever. Romanian. He is a short-legged, broad-shouldered little man, head three sizes too large, glittering black eyes. He is overdressed. Poldi means trouble.

  “Trudi, Walter asked me to talk to you.” My heart misses a beat. “Mira tried to commit suicide.”

  Mira? Who is Mira? The girl in the photograph in Walter’s desk?

  “Who’s Mira?” I ask. He watches me, savors my shock. I am strong. I will deny him that pleasure. The yellow walls of my sitting room are turning around. The patterns of the blue Chinese carpet explode. I remain cool.

  “She is a divorcée,” he explains, “and for the last two years, on and off, Walter was having an affair with her. Until he met you.”

  “Why has Walter never told me about her?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it? He didn’t want to upset you. He tried several times to break it off with her, but she wouldn’t let him go.”

  “And now? What is going to happen? Is he going back to her? Why has he sent you? Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”

  “She is dead.”

  Good.

  No. I mustn’t think that. It’s terrible.

  But it is good. Now she can’t take him away from me.

  Or can she? Will her death come between us?

  Finally I realize Poldi is still talking. “Did you hear me, Trudi? She’s dead.”

  * * *

  When I heard the full story from Walter, I was angry at first. Very angry. And then sorry. But what a trick.

  Mira lived with her widowed mother on the fourth floor of one of those big old buildings in the center of Vienna. It was Easter Monday. After lunch her mother went to visit her sister. Mira was going out, too and asked her mother to make sure she was home by seven at the latest, telling her it was important because she was expecting a telephone call and might not be able to get back in time for it herself.

  But Mother was late. She came home and found Mira on the bed, unconscious, a letter next to her. A few sleeping tablets on the pillow, the empty bottle on the floor. She rushed out to get help and accidentally locked her keys inside the flat. Easter Monday. No locksmiths. Eventually, the fire brigade arrived. Their ladders didn’t reach the fourth floor. They had to use a battering ram on the heavy front door. Mira was still alive. Four hours later she died in the hospital. Poor, beautiful Mira, whom I never knew. Her plan didn’t come off.

  Walter holds me tight. Should I cry?

  It took a lot of tact, patience, and love to reestablish the equilibrium that had existed between us before the tragedy.

  5

  I have influenza. Walter sits on the edge of my bed, holding my hand. He is not afraid to catch my cold. I am hot. I shiver.

  Red roses. Lots of them. Walter is generous; he always gives me red roses. Their color matches my Bokhara rug, contrasts well with the blue walls, painted to look like moir
é silk. The roses stand in a tall crystal vase. I like to see the long stems in clear water.

  Mother arrives unexpectedly. I know she likes him, and why not? He is kind, tactful, modest, well behaved. Mother adores beautiful people. She sits on a chair at my little desk, still glamorous, very chic. Her famous dimpled smile appears. It is used only for special people.

  Walter looks at me. We exchange smiles. They get on well, Mother and Walter. I am happy, but hot. Their voices are faint.

  “Trudi.” Walter’s voice brings me back. “May I come tomorrow?” Good God, what a question!

  I nod and fall asleep. Mother is still there when I wake up. She smiles at me.

  “Has he gone?” I ask.

  “Yes, darling,” she says. “Don’t worry. He will be back. You know, Trudi, when I saw those eyes, I knew.”

  “Knew what, Mother?” We laugh. “Would you like a drink? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want anything. You rest. I’ll stay. Later on, I’ll make you a hot drink.”

  I close my eyes. I remember my parents and I walking alongside a cornfield. I was a little girl. It was a summer’s day; I could almost hear the air vibrate with heat. Brushed by a sudden breeze, the ripe fruit inside the heads of corn rattled softly, like maracas. At the end of the field stood a huge oak tree, still clad in its leaves. The grass underneath was losing its green. I ran backward and forward, picking cornflowers for my mother. Poppies, daisies, and a few stems of golden corn.

  She smiled when I gave them to her. I loved her. A love that lasted all my life. Suddenly I realized how beautiful she was. Soft face, warm hair, shaded gold; large eyes, the color and sparkle of well-cut sapphires. I saw that people smiled at her; I was envious and tried to copy her. I tried, like her, to walk with a slight sway of my hips. I didn’t succeed and was upset. No one looked at me.

  Mother was aware of the glances from passersby and occasionally turned her head to look at Father, with a big grin and a twinkle in her eye. Arm in arm, they laughed together, talked together, walked together. No one looked at me.

  The wind rustled in the trees. Leaves fluttered.

  I adored my dark-haired, dark-eyed father. He came from a long line of jewelers. He was a specialist in copying and restoring antique jewelry. He had taste, style, and the beautiful, long, slim hands of an artist. He walked with a beautifully straight back until the end of his days.

  He could do no wrong in my eyes. I always took his part, even against my mother. Yet when I had an argument with her, he would stab me in the back, staunchly on her side. But no matter how many times it happened, I felt no bitterness. My loyalty to him never failed. They were lovebirds—but lovebirds can’t live without each other. If one of them dies, the other dies, too. Not so in their case. Life had decided differently.

  I recovered from the fever. Walter and my mother became friends. She adored him.

  6

  February 1938: Walter, some friends, and I walked across Graben. A young, shabbily dressed man shouted at us. He cursed us, baring his teeth. We took no notice and walked on. He smelled of drink. He shouted after us, “Jews! Dirty Jews!” and raised his fist. Walter swiveled around, jumped at him like a tiger. The man ran.

  A small bomb exploded in a telephone kiosk. It caused hardly any damage, but it worried me. Austrians were not normally aggressive. Was it wise to go to Paris now? To produce a new collection? Walter advised me not to change my plans. Everyone persuaded me to go.

  At the beginning of March 1938, I flew to Paris to do my buying for the coming season. There, the main topic of conversation was the trouble in Austria.

  I sat in a bistro, having coffee and croissants for breakfast. I saw the headline in the previous day’s Paris-Soir: DR. KURT SCHUSCHNIGG LOSES HIS FIGHT. I bought a newspaper. The Germans were ready to march into Austria, just waiting for Hitler’s command.

  Alone, scared, I ran back to my hotel and started to telephone. My friends and business contacts confirmed the terrifying news.

  “No, no, madame,” said the young lady at the blockmaker’s. Her black eyes opened wide in shock. “Ne revenez pas à Vienne, madame! Jamais! C’est impossible. C’est très, très dangereux. Restez ici, madame, chez nous.”

  My buying agent, Monsieur Roubach, an elderly, kind man, spoke English. He had never forgiven the Germans for emptying his precious wine cellar.

  “Oh no, madame,” he said. “Never can you go back to Vienna. Never!” He sliced his hand across his throat. “Grrr!” he said, and his head began to tremble. “You will stay with us! Yes? Madame Roubach et mes enfants, they will have honor.”

  Madame Paulette and her directrice were my friends. “Out of the question,” Paulette said authoritatively, putting her manicured hand under my chin. “We wouldn’t let you go.” Her normally businesslike voice was warm. “So young,” said the directrice. Her watery blue eyes were sad.

  Early next morning, I booked a car and Monsieur Roubach for the next two days. I told him to arrange appointments back-to-back, during lunchtime and after hours. I visited every leading house, bought all the materials I needed, and met with all my fashion contacts to hear what they were thinking.

  Then I telephoned my friend Marie-Louise, a model at Patou. I knew that she was having an affair with a minister in the French government. She might know something about Hitler and Austria.

  In the late afternoon of 9 March, I waited for her outside the Café de la Paix. I sat on a small metal chair at a round metal table, a little stove next to it, as with every Paris café when the weather is not yet warm.

  Marie-Louise strode across the rue de la Paix. Her understated elegance was dramatic. A tight-fitting gray tweed suit molded her sleek, sexy body. A sable scarf protected her from the slight chill. We embraced, happy to see each other. We ordered coffee and aperitifs. As always, Café de la Paix was busy, people coming and going, shouting at one another in different languages.

  “Trudi,” she said, “you must stay in Paris. You can’t go back to Vienna. Whatever happens.”

  So she knows, I thought.

  “There is no choice. I want you alive. Stay with me. Don’t worry about money.”

  “How can I stay here?” I asked. “Walter and my parents are in Vienna. If they are in trouble, I want to be with them.”

  “Trudi, darling. We’ll think of something. Maybe Pierre will know what to do.” Her smile would have cheered the saddest person. It didn’t cheer me. I envied her fresh, rosy complexion. Her security. Large emerald and diamond earrings matched her green eyes.

  I returned to my hotel. After a little rest, a bath, and a change of clothes, I went out again. I wanted to walk through Paris by myself. To see its people, its shops. Feel its freedom. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

  7

  It was twilight. I walked toward la place de la Concorde. Hundreds and hundreds of black lampposts surrounded it. Octagonal glass shapes. Old-fashioned, romantic. They shimmered, sparkled; they took me into another world. It was impossible to imagine that, once, the guillotine had stood there. On the left, the green gardens of the Louvre. On the right, the flowering gardens of the Champs-Elysées. I found a quiet corner to stop and take it all in, maybe for the last time.

  I walked up the Champs-Elysées, past majestic buildings and beautiful shopwindows. Café after café, people sat outside, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves. An endless stream. The comparison with what was happening to people at home was unbearable.

  I arrived at Le Rond Point.

  A young couple, hand in hand, was mesmerized by the four fountains. They seemed to have forgotten their baby girl in the pram. Black eyes, black curls, white coat with pearl buttons. She was fascinated by the twinkling drops of water and glittering lights. I tickled her under her chin. She closed her soft baby fist around my finger and cooed. Her tiny presence changed my mood. Maybe it won’t be as bad as everybody thinks, I thought. Please God, help us.

  I was tired and hungry. Fouquet’s, the fashionable place to g
o, was close by. At the next table was a young American couple who looked as though they were on their honeymoon. People spoke Spanish, Italian, German.

  “Mademoiselle?” asked the waiter. I ordered omelette aux champignons, a salad. Melon.

  “Et pour boire, mademoiselle?”

  “Du bière froide.”

  I ate some bread and excellent unsalted butter. My omelette arrived. Deliciously hot, beautifully presented.

  I walked on, past la place de l’Étoile to l’arc de Triomphe. Majestic. Dignified. I missed Walter’s explanations.

  Early next morning Marie-Louise told me that her friend the minister would do everything in his power to get permission for Walter and my parents to come to France. She urged me again not to go back to Austria. To bring my family to Paris.

  I telephoned Walter. My eyes filled with tears when I heard his voice.

  “Trudi, darling.”

  “Walter, speak up. I can’t hear you. Hello! Hello! Walter? Hello! Hello—hello!” The line went dead. I dialed again.

  “We were interrupted,” he said. “Tell me how you are.”

  “Walter, you must come to Paris. At once.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Please come. Come as you are. No time to pack.” My hands were shaking. Tears ran down my cheeks. “Walter, please. Listen to me. I’ve seen the papers. The French papers. Schuschnigg has lost. You’re in danger—”

  “Nonsense,” he said. His voice was calm.

  “The Germans are preparing to march into Austria! It’s certain.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic! Do your buying as usual, and come home. Come home to me.”

  “For God’s sake, listen to me!”

  Walter did not answer.

  To go back to Vienna now would be a great gamble, yet I knew Walter would never survive on his own. He was no fighter.

  I boarded the night plane to Vienna. I looked through the window of my plane. Down there was Paris—drama, fashion, elegance.