by Trudi Kanter
“I’ll have to think about that, darling. Maybe those boys are right. Maybe you’re too old for me.”
He shook me, kissed me.
The incident had worked wonders. Walter was his old self again.
“What happened to your car?”
“It’s gone.”
“What do you mean? Gone where?”
“They stole it, Trudi. They stole my beautiful car. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Walter, I don’t understand.”
“Well, my dear, when I asked Sepp if my car was ready, he said, ‘What car?’ ‘My car, my large, black, open-topped Fiat,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about your car. Who are you?’ ‘You know very well who I am.’ ‘Josef,’ he called to his pal, ‘do you know this fellow? His car?’ They laughed. ‘I have never seen you before, and I never want to see you again, understand?’ ‘I do, Sepp. I do understand.’ I walked away. You know what happened next. Enough for one day, darling. Enough. They took my beautiful flat. Today, they took my beautiful car. They made me scrub floors. What next?”
“This.” I kiss him.
My hand slips inside his shirt. I feel the hair on his chest.
Next day, Walter says, “Look at this.” He hands me a letter. I don’t look at it; I look at his face. His expression is serious.
“I don’t want to read it. Tell me what it is.”
“Just read it.” He is smiling now.
The letter is from Uncle Paul. The Home Office in London has granted Walter a three-month visa. The British consulate in Vienna will let him know when it is ready for collection.
We dance, we make plans. We wouldn’t change places with anyone in the world. We decide to celebrate, to take a chance. We’re crazy. For the first time in a long time, we dress up. He watches me pull my black linen frock over my head and tug at it. I step into my purple sandals, get my large, purple linen bag. Walter calls a taxi. We have everything we need for our escape. We are taking a risk. Is youth an excuse for insanity?
We are in a small, intimate restaurant in a quiet, non-Jewish district. The waiter, green waistcoat with wide, white shirtsleeves, a big, striped apron, shows us to our table. Walter has asked if we can sit in a corner of the garden, under an apple tree. On my left is a small, neglected rose tree. One perfect rose, the colors of crevettes. There is a Hungarian violinist. He plays well, goes from table to table. He asks us to choose a song:
Mei muaterl war a Wienerin
Drum hab ich Wien so gern
My mother was Viennese
That’s why I love Vienna
More people arrive. Which ones are the Nazis? Will they know we are Jews? I don’t want to think about it. Tonight, we will go wild. I drink wine, eat grilled veal. Walter orders a steak, cooked over charcoal.
“I used to love barbecues when I was a boy scout. We would cook our sausages over an open fire.” His hand feels for my leg under the starched tablecloth.
Apple blossoms fall into our hair, our laps, our food.
A blond child wanders from table to table, looks at me shyly. I pull a lock of my hair across my eyes, then slowly lower it. He runs away. He is about three or four, wearing tiny shorts and a blue pullover. Why isn’t he in bed? I look around. We don’t need to be afraid. These people are drinking, enjoying themselves. They don’t care about anything.
“Walter, turn around. There is a little white house up on the hill—tell me what it says to you.”
He looks, turns back to me, and smiles. “Never mind what it says to me,” he says. “I’ll tell you what it says to you.”
“So?”
“You think that the people living behind the white curtains don’t have to run.”
I kiss him. I don’t care who sees it. Damn them.
“There’s a moon coming up,” says Walter. The atmosphere between us is electric. His eyes are beautiful.
It was his idea to order a whole bottle of wine. I fall asleep if I drink more than a glass. He has to take me home and put me to bed.
Night and morning merge. I wake up with a headache.
4
“Who is he?” Walter asked.
“Who?”
“You know perfectly well who. The good-looking young man you talked to at Graben.”
“Oh, you mean Gustl! Gustl Waud. I’ve known him for years. He was a friend of Pepi’s.”
“Was?”
“Pepi didn’t want him around anymore after we were married. He was after me. He’s like that. Always after someone else’s girl.”
“So why did you talk to him for so long?”
“We were talking about old times. About American quota numbers. He’s waiting for his. He was jealous of our connection at the consulate. Anyway, how do you know how long I spent talking to him? You weren’t watching me the whole time, were you? Are you jealous? Good God! Jealous of Gustl Waud!” I laughed.
“Why not? He’s your type.”
“Oh, Walter, you’re lovely when you’re jealous.” Still laughing, I ran into the kitchen.
* * *
“Miss,” said the clerk at the American consulate, looking at me with bullet gray eyes set in a square face. “We are overrun with people like you. They all want to know what has happened to their visas. Our New York office is swamped with inquiries. You just have to be patient.”
Patient? When our lives are at stake?
I couldn’t sleep. Why hadn’t we heard from the British consulate either? Surely Walter’s visa should have arrived by now? My divorce from Pepi—I couldn’t leave Austria until that came through. To get a divorce from abroad would be extremely difficult. It could take ages. And the money for my parents? I would have to leave them enough for at least six months. And when—and how—would I get them out?
I touched Walter’s hand. He was asleep. I always had to reassure myself that he was there. Funny that Walter should be jealous of Gustl. One of the few people I disliked. Selfish. Mean. Conceited. Manufacturing soft drinks had made him a rich man. I heard the chime of the clock in the sitting room. It was three a.m. Walter rolled over to me.
“Why aren’t you asleep, darling? Something wrong?” A big yawn. He snuggled closer.
“I’m counting my worries.”
He turned the light on. A glow spread over his face. It looked so young. To hell with my worries. To hell with money, visas, and divorces. To hell with everything, as long as I had him.
“What are the worries?”
“Nothing, darling, nothing. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Come closer.”
When we woke up, Walter didn’t say, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” He said, “What worries?”
I told him. And I told him more about what Gustl had told me. “You know, Walter, he is clever. The moment the Germans set their first boot on Austrian soil, he withdrew a huge amount of money from the bank. He used some of it to buy diamonds, and he keeps them in a hidden safe with the rest of the cash.”
Two days later, the telephone rang. “Trudi, you have to help me!” shouted Gustl. “My quota number hasn’t arrived yet. I have enemies, Trudi. I can’t sleep. If the doorbell rings, I pretend to be out. Help me, please. They are coming for me. I’m a nervous wreck. Talk to that man who helped you. Maybe he will do the same for me. I’m willing to pay for it. Whatever he wants, as long as I can get away quickly. Can you talk to him?”
“I’ll try,” I said, knowing full well that my connection was already back in America. “Meet me tomorrow at Demel. Two o’clock.”
“What did he want?” Walter asked.
“He’s in trouble. He wants me to help him.”
“I bet.”
“Walter, I have to.”
* * *
“Well, Trudi?” Gustl’s voice was shaking. The hand holding his cigarette was shaking.
“He’s agreed,” I said. “But he wants a lot of money.”
“That’s all right. Never mind the money. It means my life.”
“He promised to put your applicat
ion at the top of the pile.”
I was taking a gamble, but nothing would be lost if the papers didn’t arrive soon. If they did, it would seem like my doing.
Two days later, a jubilant Gustl telephoned. “The letter from the consulate has arrived! I’m safe—I’m leaving as soon as possible.”
A miracle, another miracle, I thought. God, dear God, thank you. I wondered whether Gustl would pay me. He did. At once. He didn’t say thank you. I didn’t care. I had asked for the exact sum my parents would need for the next six months. They would be financially secure.
I didn’t feel guilty.
5
I was in Hiess, the luxury department store downstairs from my apartment, buying a present for my mother. The window displays were beautiful. A salesman greeted me; I had often seen him in Demel. Dark, Spanish-looking. He showed me Austrian pigskin handbags, English wool scarves, Swiss watches, Italian silk. Gold jewelry—very chic, very expensive.
I couldn’t afford any of it. I was poor now. I bought two small mother-of-pearl frames for my photograph. I was going to give one to my mother and one to Pepi’s mother. It would be a sad present, an indication of what the future held.
The salesman walked me through the store, with its pale green walls and thick carpet. The back was far removed from the shopwindow, but I could see natural light. Where from? I looked up and saw a large square of thick glass in the ceiling.
* * *
When I was a child, my parents always told me that if I was in trouble or afraid of something, I should immediately look for a policeman. This advice had been drummed into me so deeply that even after the Nazis arrived, if I thought someone was following me in the street, I looked for a policeman, despite knowing that the law didn’t protect me anymore.
But someone else was protecting me. Janos, the porter in our building, was a Party member, and he always told me about things he thought might affect me. He would tell me which districts should be avoided on a certain day, and warned me about certain people of my acquaintance who were in fact Nazi spies. He told me to be inconspicuous, to look poor, to wear no makeup, and to try not to be seen with Walter. Walter was the reason why, that day, he wanted to speak to me in private.
We were in my apartment, where no one could overhear us.
I looked out of the window. There was no romance for me in Vienna’s buildings anymore. They were just buildings.
I knew that Janos had something important to tell me, and I knew it couldn’t be good. His dark brown eyes avoided mine; plump fingers ran through his thick, dark hair. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had short legs. I remembered my father explaining to me that God gave the Austrians short legs because Austria is a mountainous country.
“Janos, come on. Out with it.” I smiled. “What’s the bad news?”
“They’re looking for your chap. They’ve been here, asking questions. ‘Who is she? How long has she lived here? Who lives with her?’ I told them you live alone. They wanted to know if you were Jewish. I told them I didn’t think so.”
Janos looked at me, afraid he had upset me. He had. He saw my fists clench.
“Don’t worry, Frau Miller. They believed me, I know they did. They told me that they had been looking for Walter at Stubenring, but he didn’t live there anymore. Someone must have given them your address. Don’t worry, please, I’m sure they believed me. They won’t come again.”
I felt ill, and must have looked it. As Janos left, he invited me downstairs, saying his wife would make me some of her wonderful coffee. But I didn’t want to leave the apartment. After he had gone, I went straight into the bathroom, which lay at the back of the building. I opened the window, craned my neck, and peered out. There it was: the glass roof of Hiess’s skylight. It covered the whole area of the shaft, about five square meters. I squeezed through the small window and stood outside. A breeze cooled my flushed cheeks, dried my tears. When Walter came home, my plan was in place.
He walked in, beaming, and presented me with a bouquet wrapped in tissue. Dear God, let him always give me red roses, wherever we may be.
I told him about Janos’s visit, about the men who were looking for him. And then, with an attempt at a lighthearted tone, I told him about my discovery of the glass roof outside the bathroom window. “It’s big enough for us to dance on!”
But Walter would not be diverted.
“That’s bad news,” he said, taking off his glasses and polishing them. “If they’re looking for me, I will have to find somewhere else to live. I’m putting you in danger just by being here.”
“Rubbish! No one is putting me in danger.” I put my fists into my pockets so he couldn’t see them. “They don’t know that you’re here. And if they do come back, you can step out of the bathroom window. They’ll never find you there. Who would imagine that anyone could hide outside the window of a first-floor apartment? Here is the safest place for you, believe me. It’s a miracle. Another wonderful miracle.”
“They’ll be able to see me!” Walter shouted hoarsely.
“They won’t!” I shouted back. “If you stand very still, close to the wall next to the window, you will be out of sight. But it won’t come to that. They won’t come back. And even if they do, they won’t find you. I promise. You’re safe with me.”
* * *
They did come back—two of them. Janos brought them up. He got Steffi from the workroom. She had instructions to tell them I was asleep.
“Is anybody living with Frau Miller?”
“No one,” she replied. “This is a millinery business.”
Walter stood outside the window, close to the wall. Not daring to move a muscle. Terrified. He had been stripped of his apartment, his car, his possessions; now he was forced to stand on a roof outside his own home while people hunted for him. I wondered at that moment whether he wished himself dead.
I waited for twenty minutes after the men left, but they didn’t return. Still, I hesitated to give Walter the good news; I could picture his face, the humiliation in his eyes. Would I be able to help him? This time, love might not be enough.
I went to the bathroom window and climbed out. There he was, against the wall, my good, clean, wonderful Walter. Loved, respected, and admired by all. The son of a great inventor. The grandson of the chief rabbi of Prague. My Walter.
I sat down on the glass roof and made him sit down next to me. We didn’t say a word. I didn’t look at him. I put my head on his hands and held them in my own. Cozy sounds of pigeons. It grew dark. One by one, lights were turned on. The glass roof was lit from inside Hiess. We sat on a sea of light. Dirty clouds swept the sky. Smoke rose from chimney pots. People started cooking their evening meals. I loved Walter more than ever. I dared not imagine what could have happened. To see my Walter taken away, head held high, looking straight ahead. To exist in a world that did not contain Walter seemed pointless.
I wanted him to sit there for as long as he wanted to. No one had the right to call him inside.
6
Divorce laws in Austria were straightforward and reasonable. As long as both parties agreed to terminate the marriage on the grounds of incompatibility, a divorce would be granted. It was a little more difficult with a Jewish marriage. Couples were asked to come three times to the Jewish Kultusgemeinde—the office in charge of Jewish affairs. There, attempts would be made to persuade them to give the marriage another chance. If, after three visits, the couple still insisted on divorce, permission for the dissolution of the marriage would not be withheld.
I telephoned Pepi and asked him to go there at once and explain that we needed our divorce urgently.
I asked Walter to find out from the British consulate what was happening with his visa. He also wrote to his uncle in London, asking him to go in person to the Home Office.
Pepi was successful; he persuaded them at the Kultusgemeinde to make a great exception. We were to call there three times the following week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
On Monday
, just before eleven a.m., we arrived there arm in arm. Pepi holds the door open for me. The room is bare. Practical. Not what I was expecting. In front of the window is an impressively large desk. Files and papers are arranged in neat piles. There is a desk chair with arms on one side; two small chairs on the other. A hard, uncomfortable sofa runs along one wall. We have to wait. Pepi holds a chair for me to sit down before sitting himself. I had forgotten how well-brought-up he was.
He goes to fetch coffee and returns with it in two cardboard cups, making a funny face with round, comical eyes. We stop laughing when the desk’s occupant arrives. He is tall, thin, with scholarly features, a prominent forehead, and a sardonic smile. He speaks of matrimony, of its happinesses, its shortcomings, about the duty of every married person to keep the “unity of two people,” to keep their marriage alive. His voice is cold. Monotonous.
Pepi and I look at each other seriously. The telephone rings. A long conversation takes place. Pepi paces around. Looks through the curtainless windows. I see his broad shoulders, his straight, slim legs.
The man replaces the receiver. He continues his sermon, repeats himself. He is boring us. He mentions our “tender years.” Pepi raises his eyebrows, looks at me out of the corner of his eye, lifts his shoulders. He is making me laugh; I have to hold my handkerchief in front of my mouth.
Afterward, he takes me to lunch at Graben. He walks in front of me down the stairs to the Bierkeller. Rustic furniture, candlelight. He knows that I like corner tables and leads me to the only one that is unoccupied.
RESERVED, reads the notice. My cool Pepi turns it facedown onto the red and white checked tablecloth. The headwaiter seems to appear from out of the ground, hissing, “Reserved, sir.” He takes the money Pepi pushes discreetly into the palm of his hand, pulls out a chair, and holds it there for me to sit down. He does the same for Pepi and leaves, taking the RESERVED notice with him.
I don’t know how a man as young as Pepi acquired such worldly manners.