I think of what he has told me about all the cemeteries in Vienna. Of the coffins in the Michaelerkirche, where the floor level has risen because of all the mouldering bones. Of the way the city is built above the dwellings of the dead.
‘Well, the Viennese certainly seem to like a good funeral,’ I say.
He nods. But I sense that that isn’t quite what he meant.
‘I’m going to read you something,’ he says.
He pushes the blankets back, gets up, hunts through his books. His naked skin glimmers palely in the light of the lamp. I think how strange and disconcerting I found his body when I first saw it. Yet now I love looking at him, and all the detail of his body – the lilac veins in his wrists, the shadowy pattern of hair on his chest, his cock hanging long and graceful like the rest of him. But he’s rather serious tonight. I wonder why he’s so serious. It’s as though just talking about this, thinking about it, has induced this solemn mood.
He pulls a book from a pile.
‘This is Thomas Mann, a German writer.’
‘Yes, I know who he is. We studied The Magic Mountain at school.’
He opens the book, flicks through.
This must be the look he has on his face when he’s teaching – concentrated, purposeful. I picture him instructing a group of medical students. Imagine him – animated, intense, moving his hands around as he speaks; imagine the students listening, rapt. Then I picture a woman in the group: she’s gazing at him greedily, pushing the sleek raven hair from her face; her mouth is shiny as redcurrants, she runs her tongue over her lips— Stop it, I tell myself.
He finds the right place in the book. He sits on the mattress and reads to me.
‘Thomas Mann wrote this in 1914,’ he says. ‘“This world of peace, which has now collapsed with such shattering thunder – did we not all of us have enough of it? Was it not foul with all its comfort? Did it not fester and stink with the decomposition of civilisation?”’
It’s cold in the bed without him. The sense of safety I felt has entirely left me. I pull the blankets close against me.
He reads on, his voice rather quiet.
‘“Morally and psychologically I felt the necessity of this catastrophe, and that feeling of cleansing, of elevation and liberation which filled me, when what one had thought impossible really happened…”’
When he reads those words – cleansing, elevation, liberation – I think of Rainer in the Rose Room, when we talked about The Mock Suns; when I said that the poet’s vision was like the end of the world, and he said, A world remade. Is that so terrible, Stella? I remember the strange light in his eyes when he said that.
‘It makes me think of Rainer,’ I say. ‘Of something Rainer said.’
Harri looks at me with a small, troubled frown, but says nothing.
40
I pull on my coat. As we go downstairs, the door to the flat bangs back and Lotte bursts in. She’s been to see Gabi, her friend. Eva follows, looking weary.
‘Stella. You can’t go now.’
‘I’m sorry, Lotte, I have to. I’m going home for dinner.’
‘But I’ve only just come in … And I’ve got a secret to tell you,’ she says.
‘Ooh. Can you whisper it?’
Lotte pulls my head down towards her.
‘There’s a new rocking horse in the shop. D’you want to see him, Stella? You do, don’t you?’
‘Well…’
‘Mama, Stella wants to see the rocking horse. Can we go and see him? Please?’
‘Lotte – I have to start cooking—’
‘Please.’
Eva shrugs and acquiesces – as people usually do when Lotte wants something.
Lotte grabs Harri’s hand.
‘You can come too,’ she tells him.
We follow Lotte downstairs. Eva unlocks the door that leads from the staircase into the shop.
She doesn’t turn on the main shop light; the only brightness comes from the window display. But as we stand there, everything is briefly illumined, as the headlights of a passing car sweep briefly over the shop, and I look around it with delight, this room of beasts and princesses. A witch’s cobweb skirt shivers in a little movement of air.
Lotte takes me to one of the rocking horses. He’s black and shiny and rather fierce; his teeth are slightly bared.
‘He’s very splendid,’ I tell her.
‘His mane is real,’ she tells me. ‘It’s made from real horsehair.’ She turns to her mother. ‘Can I get up on him, Mama?’ she says.
Eva takes away the wedge that steadies the horse.
Lotte climbs up on the horse, and rocks. Her rocking has a gentle beat, like the beat of a heart. Harri slips his arm around me, and we all stand there for a moment, watching Lotte.
Something scratches at the edges of the peace in the room, some little sound or sense of movement from the street outside. I feel my skin prickle. I turn. But it’s nothing – just dark shapes outside on the pavement, where people are walking past, completely shadowed where they enter the pools of black between the street lamps. I hear their approaching footsteps, which slow as they near the shop window; maybe the people have paused to admire the window display. The footsteps move on a few paces, then stop at the door to the shop. This is odd. Surely they must realise that the shop is shut for the night?
All this happens in such a short space of time, these thoughts moving rapidly through me.
There are sudden loud voices from the street, a spurt of raucous laughter. I have a quick sharp sense that something is terribly wrong. The letterbox clatters: the startling noise makes me flinch, let out a small scream. I hear Harri swear beside me. Something is hurled through the opening – a bottle full of fire. There’s a hot dangerous stink of petrol. The bottle shatters, with a flare of flame, a roar of burning, the rag soaked in petrol setting fire to the floor, the flames rearing up, reaching out towards us. Vast shadows gesticulate wildly over the walls.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes. Eva is calling out in a language I don’t recognise. The fire on the floor is a live thing, the livid flames grasping like hands, violent orange, blue-tinged, menacing. Out of the corner of my sight, I have a quick, startling vision of Lotte: her mouth wide open, the leaping flames reflecting in her eyes. The heat of the fire sears my skin. I’m transfixed; petrified.
Only Harri is moving. He runs to the fire bucket, flings sand onto the fire. The sand glows red, and at first I think that it won’t be enough, the fire will rage, the shop will all be consumed. But as we watch, the fire fizzles and dies. Harri stamps on the remnants of flame. Then it’s all over very quickly. There’s just the stench of petrol and burning, and the black burnt scar on the floor.
I hear Eva’s breath rushing out – as though she’s been holding it in all this time.
Rage seizes her.
‘I could kill them. I want to kill them. Don’t they get it? Don’t they know we have a right to be here?’ Her hands are clenched into fists, so you can see the white of the bone. ‘That Vienna is our city too? That we belong here?’
Her voice is fierce and shrill. I’ve never seen her angry like this.
Harri goes to hold her.
‘It’s all right, it’s over,’ he says.
‘No, it isn’t, Harri. It isn’t over. It won’t ever be over … I hate them.’
She pulls away from him. As though she can’t do these two things at once – can’t have her arms round her son while she’s still in the grip of such rage.
‘I hate them,’ she says again, more quietly.
We stand there for a long moment. The air has a choking smell of petrol and charring.
Then Eva turns towards me.
‘Thank God you were with us, Stella.’ Her voice sounds odd: I can hear how dry her mouth is, and I know that the anger has gone from her now, leaving only the fear. ‘If you hadn’t been here—’ She stops, as though her throat is obstructed. She tries again. ‘If Lotte hadn’t wanted to show you the horse, t
he shop would have started burning and we wouldn’t have known. We wouldn’t have realised until too late. I don’t know what would have happened.’
I think of all the wooden toys – how quickly the place would have burned. I think of Harri in his attic. If he’d been up there and the building was burning, how could he have escaped? My fear is a hand that presses in on my heart. As though it’s still happening.
‘Thank God you were here,’ Eva says again.
I don’t know how to respond. Her saying how grateful she is just makes me feel ashamed. I wasn’t any use at all – I didn’t even think to put the sand on the fire. I didn’t do anything.
I put my arms around Lotte and lift her down from the horse.
‘Why did they do that, Stella? Why did they try to burn down our shop?’
Like me, she’s shivering – not crying.
‘They’re just stupid boys who like to make fire – who think it’s fun,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll call the police,’ says Harri.
‘No.’ Eva is urgent. ‘No, Harri.’ She puts her hand on his arm. ‘I want to leave it,’ she says.
‘We should. You know we should. We have to.’
‘No.’
She keeps her hand on his sleeve. I sense that this is part of an old argument between them.
‘We should try to forget about it,’ she goes on. ‘Try to put it behind us. There’s absolutely no point in reporting it to the police. No point at all. They’d never catch them,’ she says.
She’s brisk; she’s in control again. She rolls up the sleeves of her dress, and goes to fetch a bucket and mop.
I don’t understand her. Surely the police would stop the people who did this?
Then I remember how they talked and laughed, and didn’t even bother to run away very fast. As though they felt invincible.
‘I’ll stay. I’ll help you clear up,’ I tell them.
‘No, darling. You’re expected at home,’ says Harri.
‘Well, then, I’ll walk home on my own.’
‘No, Stella. You can’t do that. I’m coming with you.’
‘I’ll be perfectly fine. You’re needed here. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take a taxi,’ I say.
‘Well, if you’re sure…’
He kisses me. He goes to help his mother.
But out on the street, I find I’m not fine at all, in spite of my protestation. I’m trembling, jumping at shadows.
As I sit in the taxi, it’s all still so vivid in my mind: the searing heat, the smell of burning; the nightmare vision of flames reflecting in Lotte’s wide eyes.
41
It’s roast pork knuckle for dinner. I know it will be delicious. But I look at my plate, and then put my cutlery down.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave it…’
Rainer and Marthe both glance towards me, concerned.
‘Stella, my dear, what’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?’ asks Marthe.
‘No, not really…’
My voice is hoarse.
‘Do you have a sore throat?’ she asks me.
‘No, it’s nothing like that … It’s because of something that happened, when I was out,’ I tell them.
It’s hard to speak, as though the words are solid things in my mouth.
Marthe leans towards me, solicitous.
‘Tell us what happened, Stella.’
So I tell them.
‘I have a friend, and his mother has a toy shop, and tonight someone threw a petrol-bomb in the shop…’
I’m trembling again, remembering. I can smell the petrol, taste it: the fumes are still in my throat. It’s a taste of fear, of damage.
I glance up at them. They’re staring at me; they both look utterly shocked. I’ve alarmed them: I shouldn’t have been so abrupt, I should have prepared them somehow.
‘What, Stella? Threw a petrol-bomb? Where was this?’ Marthe asks me.
‘At Reznik’s toyshop, on Mariahilferstrasse,’ I say.
I see the look that passes between them. It’s only then that I realise what I have said, what I’ve given away. They know nothing about Harri.
Rainer’s eyes are searching my face. He has an expression I don’t recognise, can’t read.
‘You’re friendly with Frau Reznik’s son?’ His voice like the edge of a knife.
‘Yes. Yes, I am. He’s a doctor. He’s very nice,’ I say limply.
‘How friendly are you exactly?’ he says.
‘Very friendly, really.’ A feeling of foreboding closes in on me. The timing’s all wrong: it shouldn’t have come out in this way. ‘I’m sorry – I should have told you before. I should have introduced you. I was waiting for the right occasion…’
I look across at Rainer, expecting the understanding I am used to. But his eyebrows are raised, his mouth is drawn. He gives a curt, disbelieving shake of his head.
‘And how did you meet Dr Reznik?’ Marthe asks me.
Perhaps I should say I’ve only just met him – rather than revealing I’ve kept it from them all this time, letting them think I’m out with Anneliese, when really I’ve been with Harri. But I’ve hidden enough. I decide to be truthful; I feel too tired to pretend.
‘Well – we just sort of bumped into one another.’ I smile slightly, hoping to charm them with my story. ‘At the Kunsthistorisches Museum.’
Marthe is horrified.
‘Stella. You didn’t,’ she says.
I try to justify myself.
‘It’s true that we weren’t properly introduced or anything. But people don’t always bother with that nowadays, do they? And he’s a good person…’
Rainer’s face is white, his lips bloodless. I wonder briefly what makes him so pale, and see that it is rage. His pupils are tiny black pinpricks.
‘Stella. I can’t believe this.’
I hear all the cold fury in his voice.
‘It was really frightening,’ I tell him. ‘Somebody could have been killed.’
But it’s as though I haven’t spoken.
‘This should never have happened. None of it. You’ve made a terrible error of judgement, Stella,’ he says.
I don’t say anything.
‘For God’s sake. Can’t you be the least bit careful about the company you keep? Show some discrimination?’ he says.
Marthe winces; she doesn’t like God’s name being invoked. But Rainer doesn’t seem to care that he’s distressing her.
‘These things matter. Now more than ever. For Chrissake, Stella, why can’t you see that?’ he says.
He’s angry that I hadn’t told them before about Harri. Or maybe even that I have a boyfriend at all. Perhaps I was right when I felt he was in some way too possessive of me – that he wouldn’t want me to have a boyfriend. I think, briefly, defiantly: It’s 1937. He has no right to interfere in my life…
Yet I can’t let myself be too angry with Rainer and Marthe – when they have been so kind to me, and taken me into their home.
‘He’s called Harri,’ I tell them, trying to sound emollient. I have to make them see what a good man he is. ‘He’s very clever. He’s a psychiatrist.’ There’s a trace of pride in my voice. ‘He’s studied psychoanalysis with Dr Freud,’ I say.
I thought this would impress Rainer. But I glance at him, and see at once that I have badly misjudged this. His face is shuttered, his mouth as thin as the slash of a razor.
‘Stella – no.’
He brings his fist down on the table, so all the crockery rattles. Marthe flinches.
‘Listen to me. You want nothing to do with that deviant Jewish psychologising,’ he says.
His voice is dangerous. But I won’t give up.
‘But he’s told me a bit about it, and it’s fascinating,’ I say.
‘I don’t know what stupid lies you’ve been told. It’s degenerate. Obscene. It elevates all that is base in people,’ he says.
There’s a hard, fervent light in his eyes.
‘
That’s what people think, perhaps – but that’s really not how it is. There are lots of misconceptions about it. People don’t understand it,’ I say.
I’m trying to sound sophisticated, but my voice is frail, like a girl’s.
‘People understand it well enough, this so-called science. It glorifies the instinctual life. It’s sordid. That’s all you need to know about it.’ His voice is scathing, withering.
‘No, that’s not true. Really—’
But he speaks over me.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Stella.’
‘But surely it’s good to understand what drives us?’ I remember what Harri said, in the café at the Zentral Friedhof. ‘To understand the hidden things that make us who we are?’
I’m surprised to find myself answering back in this way. It’s not how I’d normally behave. I feel so strange tonight – unravelled. It must be the horror of the petrol-bomb.
He looks appalled that I’m defying him. His pale eyes spark. But he doesn’t say anything further, just gives another curt shake of the head.
The thought comes to me: Is he angry about something more? Not just the way I’ve been so secretive? I remember what Frank Reece told me. There are men who may visit Rainer Krause who are known to us as Nazis. Though they keep their sympathies well hidden. I feel a chill, when I think that. But at once I try to push the thought away. If it wasn’t for Rainer and Marthe, I wouldn’t be here in Vienna. My whole life here depends on them. They are good people.
Marthe puts her hand on mine. Her face is blotched with colour. I know how much she must hate this. She hates people getting angry, hates any kind of scene. Especially at her dinner table.
‘I know it’s upsetting, Stella,’ she says.
But I don’t know what she means by it – the bomb; or the way they’ve been talking about Harri.
‘Yes, it was,’ I say.
‘As you know, we feel responsible for you, Stella, while you’re living with us. We have a responsibility to your mother. To be sure you’re meeting the right kind of people,’ she says.
‘Yes, I know…’
The English Girl Page 18