He has an air almost of righteousness. And I remember the question that came to me at the winter palace, when I was thinking how dirty my work for Frank made me feel. If you can do the right thing and feel dirty – could you then do a wrong thing and feel pure? In his face, I see the answer to that question.
He turns to Marthe.
‘I have to go out. I think I may be needed.’ A slight smile plays on his lips, as though his understatement amuses him. ‘I could be late. Don’t wait up, darling,’ he says.
I think of when we performed The Mock Suns, of the strange, fervent light in his eyes. A world remade. Is that so terrible, Stella?
He walks out of the room, stepping out into the future that he has so longed for. This brutal new world that he has helped to make. My father.
I get up too. It’s all very simple now – I have to be with Harri. I’m so afraid for him: I have to go to him, urge him to leave.
‘Marthe – I have to go somewhere as well.’
She’s shocked.
‘You’re not going out?’ She makes a small futile gesture, as though to keep me there. Her hands are tremulous as moths’ wings.
‘Yes, I am,’ I say.
She stares at me. She knows where I’m going.
‘But you can’t go out there, Stella. A young girl like you on her own. That really isn’t possible…’
‘I have to. I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘But what would your mother think?’ Her voice high and helpless. ‘I’m meant to be responsible for you,’ she says.
She’s desperately thinking of arguments to try to persuade me to stay. But she can see I’m implacable. She knows she can’t prevent me.
‘Marthe, I have to be responsible for myself,’ I say.
She shakes her head a little.
‘I ought to stop you from getting yourself in trouble,’ she says. ‘Anything could happen out there. You heard them. All those terribly over-excited young men.’
‘Marthe. I’m going. You can’t stop me.’
‘Well, promise at least that you won’t be late. I’ll be worried till you get back.’
‘I promise.’
‘And, look, Stella, it might be good to take your passport with you. If anyone bothers you, you should tell them you’re British,’ she says.
‘Yes, I will.’
I grab my coat and put my passport in my bag.
As I’m stepping out of the door, I hear the phone ringing again. Marthe goes to answer it.
‘Stella!’ she calls after me. ‘Stella – it’s for you.’
I feel a brief moment of confusion. No one has ever rung me at the flat before. I can’t think who would ring me – unless this is my mother, and there’s some urgent news. On this strange and feverish day, you feel that anything could happen.
But it isn’t my mother. It’s Dr Zaslavsky.
‘Fräulein Whittaker, I’m so sorry to trouble you, and at such a late hour.’ He’s always elaborately courteous – except when he’s criticising my playing. ‘I wanted to bring your lesson forward, if I may. I’d like to give you your lesson on Sunday,’ he says.
‘Oh.’
This surprises me – that amid all the chaos of the city, he is so concerned with the everyday detail of things, with reorganising a music lesson. But music is his life, of course. I wonder, as so often, if he’s at all aware of the world beyond his music room.
‘Well, yes, of course, if that would suit you better,’ I say.
I’ll be poorly prepared for this lesson. My last lesson was only yesterday; there isn’t much time for practice. Once, a little while ago, I might have been upset. Just a few hours ago – before the world cracked open.
‘Thank you.’ He sounds so glad, so relieved. I notice this – that he seems almost disproportionately grateful. ‘Thank you so much, Fräulein Whittaker.’
‘But – the Academy … I mean, is it open on Sundays?’ I ask.
‘I won’t be at the Academy,’ he tells me. ‘I’d like you to come to my apartment.’
It’s an address on Türkenstrasse. I write it down, then hurry out into the street.
64
Harri’s face is white and strained. He looks horrified to see me.
‘Stella. You shouldn’t have come. It isn’t safe out there.’
He wraps his arms around me, pulls me to him.
‘I’m all right,’ I say, into his shoulder. ‘You don’t need to worry. Nobody paid me any attention.’
I rest my face against his. He feels different. Colder.
He takes me into the living room. It’s untidy, disordered. There’s an open suitcase on the table with folded clothes inside; beside it, a tumbled heap of Harri’s books. Benjamin is half-asleep in his chair. He opens his eyes and smiles at me and raises a hand in greeting. Lotte is on the floor, surrounded by bright wax crayons, drawing princesses with very elaborate shoes. She looks up at me; her face lightens.
‘Good. It’s Stella. Now I’ll have someone to talk to. Someone sensible.’ Casting an accusing look in Harri’s direction.
‘Lotte, I’m sorry, not now,’ he says. ‘Could you go and play in your room?’
Lotte presses her lips together, crossly.
‘See? It’s that thing I told you about, Stella. They’re always doing it. They’re always sending me out. Just when I’m right in the middle of something.’
I try to smile, but my mouth won’t move.
She frowns – perplexed by my reaction. She picks up her drawing and leaves, making a lot of noise with her feet.
There are busy sounds from the kitchen – splashing, the turn and drip of a mangle; and there’s the hot soapy smell of linen boiling. Eva must be doing the washing, even though it’s so late.
I stand there.
‘Harri, listen. You mustn’t worry about what I think any more. You have to go. You have to leave,’ I tell him. The words tumbling out of me.
He gestures towards the table, the suitcase.
‘You’re going? You’ve already decided?’ I say.
He nods.
‘As soon as we heard that the referendum had been postponed,’ he says.
A warm surge of relief washes through me.
‘Thank God for that,’ I say.
I don’t care about any of the things that seemed so important before. My jealousy of Ulrike has been wiped away from my mind. Everything is utterly changed. I’m just so relieved he’s leaving.
He runs his fingers over the books on the table, picks up a book then casts it aside, not knowing which ones to choose, as though even this decision is beyond him. He cracks his knuckles nervously. I’ve never seen him distracted and indecisive, like this. He’s always seemed so clear – someone who knows what he thinks, what he wants.
‘I shouldn’t have got so upset before,’ I tell him. ‘I’m so so sorry. Sorry for everything. I’ve been so stupid. I didn’t understand…’
He makes a small, vague gesture, as though brushing aside my words.
‘Stella – it was my choice to stay. I really thought it would be all right. Believe me, I’d still stay here – if only I felt there was a choice any more.’ His voice is heavy, defeated.
‘I’m so glad you’re going, so glad…’ I take off my coat, but I don’t know whether to sit. ‘So when are you going to leave?’ I ask him.
‘I’m planning on leaving on Monday.’
‘Oh.’ I think of the men in the street, their contorted faces, their screams. ‘Can’t you go any sooner?’
He shakes his head.
‘All the flights for tomorrow and Sunday are fully booked up,’ he tells me. ‘Though they don’t know yet if commercial flights will be allowed to take off anyway.’
He’s restless. He paces the room; he’s full of a thin, febrile energy. I can’t imagine how hard this is for him, how torn he must feel – to be leaving his family in Vienna, in danger.
I’m useless here, superfluous. Coming here, I had some kind of heroic idea that I could help
, could be of use to him. But he doesn’t need me. He needs someone brisk, organised, practical: someone who will make lists for him, and fold his clothes into neat piles. I’m only in the way here.
‘You’re busy,’ I say. ‘I’d better go. I don’t want to take up your time. I just wanted to tell you to leave. And to say that I was sorry. So sorry…’ I can’t stop saying it.
He comes over, puts his arms around me, holds me for a moment.
‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing to say sorry for. Nothing at all.’
But I know that isn’t true.
I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing him in – the smell that I love, the scent of cedar and him. I can feel the rapid tattoo of a pulse in his neck.
‘Darling. I’ve got quite a lot to be getting on with,’ he tells me. ‘I’m going to spend the weekend at the hospital – try to tie things up for my patients. Try not to leave everything in too much of a mess … You must come back before I go, when I’ve got a bit further on. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, of course. Of course. Anytime.’
Eva comes in from the kitchen, hearing my voice. Her appearance startles me: the last few hours have aged her, scored worry lines deep in her face.
‘Stella. How did you get here?’
‘I walked.’
She shakes her head.
‘Oh, my dear. You shouldn’t have done that. Not with all the terrible things that are happening out there.’
She’s worrying about me. I feel humbled, and somehow ashamed.
‘I’m all right. Nobody bothered me. I’m just so glad that Harri’s going. But what about the rest of you? You and Benjamin and Lotte?’
I think how Lotte is almost certainly listening at the door. I would be, if I were her.
Eva gives a small, weary shrug.
‘We’ll have to take our chances here.’ She glances at Benjamin, who is asleep in his chair, his half-closed eyelids fluttering. ‘My father is philosophical about it. He says he’s lived through so much turmoil in his life already, and if God is good, he’ll live through all this as well. Let’s hope he’s right about that … So that’s how things are, Stella. We’ll just have to hope for the best.’
‘But surely—’
She cuts me off.
‘How could I get out, Stella? How could I? I really don’t have a choice. Not now.’
She’s wiping her hands on her apron, over and over. I think of mourners at funerals – how they will wring and wring their hands.
‘Perhaps if we’d known what was going to happen,’ she says. ‘Perhaps months ago – if I’d made plans then. If I’d left the shop, left everything and gone. Maybe then.’ She shakes her head. ‘But I was busy. I kept thinking, I’ll deal with this some other time. You do what you have to do, get on with the day-to-day things. One day, you think, one day, sometime soon, you’ll sit down and think it all through. Try to work out what it all means, what’s best to do, for your family…’
I hear the harsh notes in her voice, as though she is angry with someone. And I know that the person she can’t forgive is herself.
‘There’s always so much to get on with,’ she says again. ‘You keep on putting it off. You think there’ll be time enough to think about it…’
Her voice is suddenly frail as smoke.
I realise I don’t know what’s involved in crossing the border. You have to get paperwork, I suppose – a passport, a visa. And what about money – could you take your money with you? I don’t understand how the world works. I’m ignorant as a child.
I glance at Harri – see all the misery in his face, that he can’t take them with him, that he has to leave them here – to hope for the best.
‘We’ll try to live quietly. Keep our heads down,’ says Eva. ‘But it’s different for Harri. He can’t live quietly. People know his name.’
I shiver. I don’t want to think about this.
I pull on my coat.
‘Look – I need to let you all get on. You’ve got so much to be doing.’
Harri puts his hand on my arm.
‘Stella. Can you come round on Sunday night? So we can…?’ His voice fades.
So we can say goodbye.
‘Yes, of course. Of course I can…’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he says.
‘No. You can’t. You absolutely can’t. You mustn’t go out there. I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ve got my British passport,’ I say.
He’s about to protest, but he stops. He knows that I’m right.
He pulls me to him, kisses me passionately, pushing his tongue in my mouth. I feel awkward, self-conscious. It’s embarrassing, kissing in front of his mother like this. I notice again how cold his skin is, though he usually feels so warm.
He clings to me, won’t let go of me. He has my head cupped in his hands. When at last we move apart, his finger is caught in a knot in my hair. I utter a small yelp of pain. It all feels so messy, broken, incomplete.
The door bangs back as Lotte bursts in.
‘Stella can’t go now. I have to have someone to talk to…’
‘Sweetheart, she has to get home,’ says Harri.
Lotte rushes towards me; then trips on one of the scattered crayons, stumbles. She bursts into tears, won’t stop sobbing. Her sobs are noisy, desperate, wretched, as though she’s a conduit for all the unspoken misery in the room.
Her sadness tugs at me. But I try to paste a cheerful smile on my face. I speak above her sobbing.
‘Sunday night then.’
Harri nods.
I leave them like that – Lotte sobbing, Eva wringing her hands, Harri with that white strained look on his face.
I walk away, down Mariahilferstrasse, where groups of men are shouting on the pavements, and cars and lorries screech past with swastika flags streaming out.
‘Hängt Schuschnigg! Juden verrecken!’
Hang Schuschnigg! Death to the Jews!
In these moments, he still feels close to me: I can smell his scent on my skin, in my hair, can feel the cool imprint of his mouth on my mouth.
65
I wake from a dream of Harri, fear spreading through me, remembering yesterday night.
I open the window. Cold air rushes in, with a scent of the changing seasons, a promise of spring. The sky is the clear blue of a bird’s egg. It’s unusually quiet for a Saturday.
The street looks different. Everywhere there are flags, flying from rooftops and windows. Far more than yesterday morning – before it happened, before the referendum was postponed. A few of the Austrian ones are still flying, but there are many new ones. Some are the official Nazi Party flags – red, with a large black swastika; but most are Austrian flags that have been altered, with rather irregular swastikas stitched or painted on. They have a home-made look: they must have been put together during the night. I wonder who made them. Are they the same people who were so thrilled by the referendum – who just yesterday morning were so keen to express their love of this land? How can this happen?
Marthe is at breakfast before me.
‘Rainer left early, Stella,’ she says. ‘He has a busy day. There’s to be a torchlight procession in the city centre tonight.’ There’s something a little reserved in her, as though she’s wary of me. Wary of what I might say to her. She raises her coffee cup to her mouth and takes a delicate sip. ‘A thanksgiving procession. To celebrate the new order.’
‘Oh.’
‘I think there’s a lot of relief that at least things are settled now,’ she tells me. ‘At least we know where we are. Uncertainty is so debilitating, Stella,’ she says.
I practise for my lesson. But I can’t concentrate. Usually, the discipline of practice soothes me, but today I can’t settle, and my fingers refuse to do what I ask them to do. My lesson tomorrow is sure to go badly. I keep thinking of Harri – imagine him saying goodbye to his patients, sorting everything out. It must be so painful for him.
Something disturbs me. I look up from my playi
ng. The chandelier is rattling; you can see all the lustres shivering, and knocking against one another. I’m aware of a distant rumble, a huge, vast, throbbing sound, rapidly coming closer. The piano strings buzz and resonate.
I rush to the window, look up. There are planes, flying low; huge, black as shadow against the shine of the sky – a squadron of German bombers in exact formation. The throbbing of their engines drowns out every other sound.
I put my hand to the window: something is shaking. It could be the window-glass, it could be my hand.
Another squadron comes over, the vast noise surging through me.
I run downstairs, go out to the street, stand there, staring upwards. Still they come: squadron after squadron, circling low over the rooftops, blotting out the sky. Other people too are staring, from windows and doorways.
Marthe joins me.
‘It’s the Luftwaffe,’ she tells me.
‘Oh.’
‘Rainer said they’d be flying over.’ She has to shout; I can only just hear her above the roar of the planes.
There’s a white bird-like thing, drifting down from the sky; then a whole snowstorm of white paper.
‘Don’t worry, Stella, they’re only dropping leaflets,’ she says. ‘To let us know what’s happening.’
If these planes were dropping bombs, not paper, Vienna and all its people would be wiped from the face of the earth. The thought of this stops my breath. Thank God that Dr Schuschnigg surrendered without fighting.
The planes circle over Vienna. Their shadows move across us, and darken the sunlit pavement. I stand with Marthe, watching.
There’s a sound of shouting behind us. We turn. A gang of men comes lurching round the corner of the street. There are six of them. They all have swastika armbands, and they have a swagger to them. They make me think of the men who beat up Harri. They’re gesticulating, shouting; they have a rather wild look, and I wonder if they’ve been drinking, even so early in the day. Yet they seem too purposeful to be drunk, as they march on down Maria-Treu-Gasse, moving in our direction. I sense that they know exactly where they are heading to.
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