The English Girl

by Margaret Leroy

  ‘It can wait,’ I tell him. ‘And you? What about you?’

  He makes a little gesture, as though waving something away.

  ‘That can wait too,’ he tells me.

  Should I press him? But I decide to leave it.

  The touch of the air is colder, now the sun is setting. My hand in his is warm, but all the rest of my body is chilled. I want to make love with him again – to feel his warmth inside me. All his aliveness.

  53

  There’s an uneasy mood in the city.

  One morning, a swastika has appeared on a wall in Maria-Treu-Gasse. As I go to catch the tram, I see workmen scrubbing it off. And I hear that gangs of Nazi supporters, like the ones who beat up Harri, are roaming the city more openly. They molest and abuse anyone who they think looks Jewish. They can’t wear the swastika on their clothes – but everyone knows what they are.

  I resolve to keep up to date with the news. I need to know what is happening.

  When I was in England, I rarely read the newspaper – except for the women’s pages in my mother’s Daily Mail, which told you about all the latest fashions, and recommended face exercises and routines to care for your skin. I loved to read about the fashions – the boas of ruffled organza, the backless evening dresses in dove-grey silk marocain – and I practised one of the exercises; it was meant to tighten your jawline, so you’d look good in tip-tilted hats.

  But now I read the news reports avidly.

  I go to the Frauenhuber after my lesson on Thursday. I feel entirely at home here: Harri’s café has become my café too. The waiters recognise me: there’s a diffident, dignified, white-haired one who always comes to serve me. And I know there’s no risk of running into Anneliese here. I order a coffee and a strudel, and look through the rack of newspapers. They take some foreign newspapers; I choose the English Times. Though my German’s so good, I can struggle with the news sections of Austrian papers.

  I sit there with my coffee and strudel in the comfortable sepia light, and study the newspaper.

  I read that Hitler has dismissed a lot of generals from the army, making himself supreme commander of all Germany’s armed forces. I remember what Benjamin said – that the conservatives in the army would oust him. But now he’s sacked those very people. And he’s recalled his ambassadors to Washington, Rome and Vienna, to replace them with men whose views are more in line with his own.

  I try to make sense of all this. None of it seems like good news.

  On Saturday, I’m at Harri’s.

  Lotte is painting a picture, using the paints that I gave her for Christmas. When Harri leaves the room for a moment, she gets up, grabs my arm.

  ‘Stella. I have to talk to you.’

  She pulls me down towards her, so my face is close to hers. She has a warm, wholesome smell, like bedclothes on a winter’s morning. She speaks in a hoarse stage-whisper and her moth-breath brushes my face.

  ‘Stella. I’m having trouble with the grown-ups. With Mama and Harri. They keep on sending me out of the room.’

  ‘Why’s that, Lotte? Have you been getting in trouble?’

  She shakes her head vigorously.

  ‘It isn’t me, it’s them; it’s not my fault … And Mama’s always using her cross voice, and I hate that … And people keep on coming round, and taking up her time.’

  ‘Who are these people, Lotte?’

  ‘People Mama knows. They have their solemn faces on.’ She shows me, pulling a very stern face that makes me smile. ‘They look at one another, and they keep on shaking their heads, and that’s when they tell me to leave the room. And I have to go to my bedroom, when I’m right in the middle of doing something. It’s boring. There isn’t room to play there.’

  ‘Poor Lotte. How frustrating.’

  ‘They’re always whispering together. Whisper, whisper, whisper. In these important voices. Why are they doing it, Stella?’

  I can well imagine what they’re talking about. I know how Eva worries about what might happen here in Vienna, however much Benjamin might try to reassure her. But she wouldn’t want me to talk about this with Lotte. It would be wrong to discuss such frightening things with a child.

  ‘Well – I expect they have things to talk about that they think won’t interest you. You know – grown-up things. About things happening in the world and so on.’

  ‘They don’t have to tell me to go.’ Her dark eyes blaze. Her voice is full of protest. ‘They don’t have to send me away. I don’t see why I have to stop playing. And anyway,’ she says, ‘I want to know about the world. It’s my world too, Stella.’

  ‘Well, yes, it is. Yes, of course.’

  She lowers her voice. ‘I was naughty. Will you be cross?’ she asks me.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so. Am I ever?’

  She frowns slightly.

  ‘You were cross with me when we went skating,’ she says.

  Lotte never forgets anything.

  ‘Only a little bit,’ I say.

  ‘This is what I did.’ Her voice is hushed. ‘I went to my room, then I tiptoed back and listened at the door. I heard this friend of Mama’s say that she didn’t know what to do. Why didn’t she know what to do, Stella?’

  ‘Sometimes even grown-ups can find things hard to decide.’

  Her frown deepens.

  ‘It’s about Herr Hitler, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it probably is.’

  ‘Will Herr Hitler come to Vienna?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Lotte.’

  ‘If Herr Hitler comes to Vienna, d’you think I’ll have to go to school any more?’

  ‘Yes, I think you would … But, Lotte, I really don’t think it will happen. This country doesn’t belong to him. He can’t just walk in here…’

  ‘I don’t like school, Stella.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart … So how are things with Gabi now? Have you and Gabi made up?’

  Lotte shakes her head.

  ‘She keeps on doing it. That thing I told you about. Gabi isn’t my friend now.’

  ‘Oh, Lotte. That’s sad.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she says. ‘It isn’t sad. I don’t want to be friends any more. I don’t like Gabi anyway. I don’t like any of them. I wish that something would happen so I couldn’t go to school.’

  I’m not especially superstitious, but I still don’t like her saying this.

  ‘I don’t think you should wish that. Wish for something else, sweetheart,’ I say.

  The next week after my lesson, I’m in the Frauenhuber again, with The Times at my table.

  I read that the sacked German ambassador to Vienna, Herr von Papen, is trying to set up a personal talk between Dr Schuschnigg, the Austrian Chancellor, and Herr Hitler.

  Herr von Papen, who is still in Vienna, appears to be most anxious that if some new concessions apparent or real are to be made by the Austrian Government in the near future, it should be done before his departure, not after it, when it would appear a quick feather in the cap of his successor, who might prove to be somebody much closer to the National Socialist Party than himself …

  This is a good idea, surely: meeting and talking can only be good. Though I don’t really understand what it means by ‘new concessions’. What would Austria be expected to concede? It comes to me how little people know, even the people who write the newspapers. They can tell you what has happened, but they don’t know what it means – what it might lead to. Everyone’s just guessing. Everyone has their own vision of things.

  I think of Frank. Whose message I found in my pigeonhole, asking to meet me on Monday at three o’clock, at the place that we agreed. And who will undoubtedly have some depressing interpretation of this news.

  54

  Monday. There’s a heavy grey sky, a flurry of snow; the air is bitterly cold. I check my pigeonhole at the Academy, expecting a note from Frank to change our plans, to say we’ll meet somewhere indoors. But there isn’t one.

  At half past two, I take the tram throu
gh the snowy city to the Zentral Friedhof.

  I open the Wiener Zeitung, which I’ve bought to read on the journey. The planned meeting has taken place, the meeting Herr von Papen set up. Dr Schuschnigg, the Austrian Chancellor, has been to Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s mountain retreat, to meet Hitler. The Wiener Zeitung describes ‘a friendly discussion and an amiable atmosphere … frank talks man to man…’

  I feel a little cheered by this. Maybe they came to some agreement. Maybe things will settle down here, and the sense of threat will recede.

  At the Zentral Friedhof, I turn in at the main gate, past the stalls selling flowers and candles. The women running the stalls are muffled in thick coats and scarves, and have their arms folded tight around them, as though to hold in their warmth. I pass ornate sarcophagi, stone figures of weeping women, angels like listless, beautiful boys. It’s all utterly still, held in the grip of winter. The trees that were gold when I came here with Harri hold black limbs up to the sky, snow-laden. There are a few small pale flames where candles burn on the graves: they look illusory as marsh fires. I pass a wreath of frosted roses, a ghost of their pink colour showing through the crust of ice. No one is around, there are no funeral parties. I wonder what happens to the dead when the ground is too hard to be dug.

  As I walk on, towards the musicians’ tombs, I hear a slight sound, like a footfall. Most likely, some snow dislodged by a bird, and falling down from a branch. Yet the thought sneaks into my mind: Could someone have followed me here? At first, just the question: innocent. But as soon as I’ve thought it, I feel the slightest insect-crawl on my skin. Was it wise to arrange to meet here, in this wide-open place, where anyone could see us? Though Frank seems to think this is safest.

  I glance behind me; but there’s no one. A crow pecks at the frosted flowers on a wreath, then lumbers into the air, flapping its wide wings emptily. It’s the only other living thing in the place. I tell myself to calm down: to be sensible, to be reasonable.

  I come to the tombs of the musicians. The monuments are grey as clouds. A gust of chill wind snakes around them; there’s a thin, tricksy light on the snow.

  At once, I hear Frank’s footsteps behind me – brisk, confident.

  ‘Stella.’ He’s so pleased to see me. Almost as pleased as a lover. ‘My dear. I’m so glad you were able to come. Well done.’

  He’s wearing a big fur hat, like me, and his pale English skin is shiny and red with the cold. He offers me a cigarette, leans towards me to light it. I don’t take my gloves off. It takes a while to catch; though he cups the flame with his palm, the wind keeps blowing it out.

  He sees my hand is shaking.

  ‘Stella – are you all right? You seem rather jumpy.’ A slight concerned frown.

  I take a quick drag on the cigarette.

  ‘I had this stupid feeling – that someone was following me.’

  He gives me a swift, intent look; waits.

  ‘I mean, I didn’t see anyone,’ I say. ‘It was just a feeling.’

  I’m embarrassed; I’m being feeble.

  He puts his hand on my arm.

  ‘It’s probably nothing. I’m guessing you have quite a vivid imagination, Stella?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It’s so easy to get paranoid – doing the work that we do.’

  But I don’t do this work, I think. I’m just helping out for a while. This isn’t part of who I am.

  ‘And of course you’ll be a bit nervous, coming here to meet me.’ An affable smile; his voice soothing. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he says.

  But I see how he glances around, just moving his eyes – rapidly, covertly.

  He has more photographs to show me. He takes them from his briefcase.

  I look through.

  ‘No. No. Yes. That one.’ It’s the man I met in the hallway and later saw on the street. The clean-shaven man with horn-rimmed glasses. ‘He’s the one I told you about – who didn’t tell me his name. Who gave the Hitler salute.’

  Frank gives a slight nod, as at something confirmed. His mouth is tight.

  ‘Thank you, Stella. Thank you very much. That’s extremely helpful of you … Though I have to tell you, this is not good news.’

  ‘Why not? Why not good news?’

  ‘This gentleman is Dr Seyss-Inquart. He has an important post in the government here.’

  ‘But I thought the Nazis were banned here. I thought you couldn’t be a Nazi in Vienna.’

  ‘That’s the theory,’ he tells me. Much as Harri also once said.

  Frank puts the photographs away. His face is like iron in the grey winter light.

  ‘So, Stella, to backtrack a bit. When you told me about the meeting when you went into the room, you said there were ten men there, in addition to Rainer. And we’ve identified five, so far…’

  I nod, warily.

  ‘So we have a few more to give names and faces to,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  We stand there smoking. Above us, great snow clouds drift in vast sad veils. A few ragged snowflakes fall on us.

  He doesn’t say anything for a while.

  ‘Well. Is that it? Can I go now?’ I say.

  ‘Very nearly, Stella. I have just one other thing I wanted to ask. Just one thing, then we’ll be through.’

  There’s a judder in my chest. I wonder what is coming.

  ‘I was thinking – is there a place where Rainer Krause keeps his papers?’ he asks. ‘A place in the house – a bureau, something like that? Where he keeps important documents?’

  ‘He has a study.’

  Frank nods encouragingly; and waits.

  ‘He keeps it locked,’ I tell him. My voice very final and clear. ‘No one can go in there without him. No one except Marthe. Even the housekeeper isn’t allowed to clean in there.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that makes this all a little more difficult, then. Difficult, but not impossible, I hope.’ He smiles blandly.

  Something lurches inside me. I don’t respond.

  ‘Stella. We need to know what is in his diary for the next few weeks. In particular, when his next meeting will be.’

  I’m appalled.

  ‘No. I couldn’t go into his study. How could I possibly go in there?’

  ‘You’ll find a way,’ he tells me. ‘You could be very quick. His diary will be out on his desk, or in some obvious place. Everyone keeps their appointments diary at hand.’

  ‘It would be terribly risky,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, Stella, I know it’s risky. But it would all be done very quickly. If you choose your moment with care, you should be absolutely fine.’

  I shake my head, incredulous.

  ‘This is very important to us, Stella,’ he says. ‘It’s just that single piece of information we need. It would mean we could watch the apartment, see who turns up. Put faces to the faceless men. Fill in the missing bits of the jigsaw. You can surely imagine just how useful that would be.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘It’s possible that he’s quite careful, even in his diary,’ says Frank. ‘He may use some kind of personal code. You’ll need to work out the dates of previous meetings, see how he’s marked them in the diary. But you’re a clever girl – you could work all that out for yourself. That would be incredibly helpful to us,’ he says.

  There’s silence between us for a moment. I imagine myself in Rainer’s study, the door opening softly behind me, Rainer finding me there. I picture all the cold rage in his face, the contemptuous curl of his lip – like when I told him about Harri, when he was so angry with me.

  I’m shocked that Frank could ask me this. Something protests inside me – a childish, petulant voice. I’ve been a good girl, like he said. Haven’t I? I’ve done everything he’s asked of me, but somehow it’s never enough. He pushes and pushes. The more you give, the more he wants. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, how much he’s asking of me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. You can’t
expect me to do this. It’s too dangerous.’

  The wind, in the trees, round the tombs, has a sound like a wild thing.

  ‘Stella. We are all in danger. England is in danger,’ he says. ‘Civilisation is in danger. At this very moment, Austria – this lovely little country, our adopted home – Austria is in terrible danger.’

  ‘That’s just alarmist talk, surely.’

  But my voice is thin and the wind seems to snatch it away.

  ‘No, Stella.’ His eyes spark. There’s a sternness to him. ‘You need to open your eyes, to see how things are playing out. To understand how very bad things are. What has been happening this very weekend, at Berchtesgaden,’ he says.

  I think of what I read in the Wiener Zeitung on my way here. About Dr Schuschnigg being invited to Hitler’s mountain retreat. About Hitler welcoming him there. A friendly discussion and an amiable atmosphere …

  ‘But it was all quite friendly, wasn’t it? An amicable exchange of ideas?’

  ‘No, Stella. We have heard differently. Let me tell you who else was there, at the meeting at Berchtesgaden. Von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s rabid Foreign Minister. General of Artillery Keitel. Luftwaffe-General Sperrle. General von Reichenau…’ He counts them off on his fingers. ‘Were these ferocious men invited just for a nice day in the mountains? To make pleasant small talk with Dr Schuschnigg? I don’t think so. These men were there to put a gun to his head. Bludgeoning and threatening him to turn Austria over to the Nazis. The most terrible pressure is being put on this little country,’ he says.

  I don’t say anything.

  A crow takes off from Beethoven’s tomb, its black wings breaking the air. The sudden sound makes me shudder. And, as my body startles, I feel something shift in my mind.

  Could it really happen, as Frank predicts? Could Austria become some kind of satellite of Hitler’s Reich, with all the brutality and the Nuremberg Laws? Is this melancholic Englishman right in his fears – for Austria, for all of us?

  I don’t tell him what I’m thinking.

  I am entirely chilled from standing here. My teeth have started to chatter; the tips of my fingers feel numb.

  ‘I have to go now,’ I tell him.