The Edit Page 24

  Here there was a standing guard of Russians smoking and laughing. The victors. God save the world over which they were victorious, I thought. Here were peasant boys with slanting eyes and thick fingers fresh off the steppes of Asia. The new lords. I heard a muffled scream from one of the apartment buildings still intact on the square. The guards heard it, too. They cocked their heads toward the building and then laughed together as men do at a dirty barracks joke. The scream came from the very apartment building where my mother and sister lived. It was all I could do to wait for these soldiers to pass by. Ten minutes crawled by—an eternity in the still, cool night—until three Russians clumped out of the apartment building, adjusting their tunics as they came onto the street, and then the entire squad went in search of other game.

  I entered the main door of the building. It was unlocked, even after ten at night, the usual locking-up hour. The portier’s bottom-floor apartment was firmly shut and curtained. Usually, she, Frau Bechman, was the nosiest of women, checking the comings and goings of any visitors from the little office adjoining her apartment. Negligent in her duties now, Frau Bechman hid behind her curtains. I could see the outline of her bunned hair as she sat in her easy chair. Symbolic: Vienna had become a frightened city of shadow dwellers.

  The elevator was out of order. The hall light switch glowed pink in the gloom. I pushed it, but no overhead light appeared. Climbing the stairs, I listened carefully for any sound of more Russians, but there was absolute quiet behind the closed apartment doors.

  On the third landing, I lit a match to make sure I was at the right door. There were gouges and nicks in the door to Mother’s apartment, as if it had been battered by rifle butts and heavy boots. I tapped twice lightly, but there was no response from within. Another three taps, louder this time. Then came the shuffling of feet on the other side of the door, and the laborious unbolting of useless locks. No question asked of who the late-night visitor was. Before I could reassure Mother that it was her son, not a Russian mongrel come to terrorize her, the door was thrown open revealing a banshee, a harridan skipping madly in the doorway holding a candle under her blackened face, her hair sticking straight up as if electrified. I jumped back from this apparition, and just as quickly, the specter threw her arms around my neck, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Mother pulled me into the dimness of her apartment, checking the hall to ensure no one had seen me. She said not one word as she led me down the darkened hallway to the kitchen and the Diener, or servant’s room, attached to it. From this room emanated the only light in the flat; its window gave onto an air shaft that could not be seen from the street or courtyard. Servant’s room, it was called, though Mother never employed one. Said they poisoned the air, and besides we had been too close to being in service ourselves at one point. Inside, huddled in a cherrywood wardrobe, was Maria, in the same frightful getup as Mother. They had blackened their faces with coal soot, put lard in their hair to make it stick up, and wore ancient housecoats covered on top with bagged-out sweaters. I asked no questions as Mother pulled this frightened animal from her hiding place, stroking her face and telling her it was all right, just her brother, her brother. Come home to protect them. Maria kept her arms tightly wrapped around her chest, as if holding in a precious breath. It was only then, confronted by the very real plight of my blood relatives, that I fully comprehended the enormity of our defeat. We of the Reich had not only lost the war; we had lost our souls in the bargain.

  They had been raped the first night the Russians entered Vienna. Five soldiers took their turns at both of them here in the lovely flat they had stayed to protect from vandalism. Mother vowed it would not happen again the next night, hence the disguise.

  “And I can tell you, son, we have had some very frightened Ruskies opening that door.”

  She laughed: a dry cackling sound like fall leaves blown over asphalt. Maria still stared at me, not recognizing or not comprehending, I was not sure which.

  “They run back down those stairs as fast as their moth-eaten boots can carry them. Teach them to try their tricks on an upright Austrian woman. Scream like women, they do.”

  So it had been the Russian soldiers who had screamed earlier, I thought. Of course that scream would not have come from Mother; not from strong-as-a-rock Mother. She had not even cried when Father died and we were left without a provider. The violence done to her had not affected her. She took it as an affront, a bit of uncivilized behavior like smoking in the house or taking a glass too many of wine. And she would discipline the brute for it. But Maria, made of weaker stuff, was shattered by the rapes. Never a full woman, a secure human being, the experience had thrown her into the fearful posture of a forest creature fearing the shadow of an owl. She would not unfold her arms; my gesture at a commiserating hug sent her hyperventilating to Mother’s bosom. Her fear was infectious; I began hearing footfalls in the stairwell where there were none to be heard, and I suddenly recognized the futility of my homecoming gesture. After all, what could I hope to do for Mother and Maria that they were not already able to do for themselves? My presence here was more of a threat than a protection for them. I gave Mother some of the money from my hidden belt. Swiss francs rather than the now-worthless reichsmarks. I tried to fill them in on the military situation, but they, civilians, naturally had more information than I. Mother wondered about my uniform, and I explained to her that I would be much sought after by the victors. They would, in fact, probably call me a war criminal. I told them they were not to believe such fantasies. I had merely been a loyal soldier doing my duty. But scapegoats would now be needed. I would surely be one of those selected for that role. But I did not intend to make their witch hunt easy. Of course, I did not tell either Mother or Maria my plans. I am not sure these were fully formulated in my own mind then, but had they been, I would not have—for their own sakes—confided such information to my family.

  We talked late into the night, Mother and I, while Maria curled up in the single leather chair in the room, sleeping fitfully, awaking now and again with a whimper, a plea to be left alone. It was piteous. Mother winced once at these somnolent pleadings; otherwise, she showed no sign of anguish, no chink in her armor.

  It was she who, toward four in the morning, proposed that I should be off again. If caught in Vienna, I would stand no chance at all, for everyone knew the Russians were animals. They had well and truly proven that in the past few days in Vienna. Better for me, she said, to head west, into the Alps. Hide there, and if captured, at least it would be by the Americans or British. The French were also a possibility, but choosing between them and the Russians as captors was a no-win situation, for the French also had old grudges to settle with the Reich.

  Oddly enough, this was exactly what I had been intending to do; I had come to take care of Mother and she ended by taking care of me one last time. Our discussion that night was not in the least political; Mother was not sending me away to be the vanguard of renewal, but to save my skin. For years, I had been thinking only of the highest good. It was not an easy task for her to convince me that I should consider myself for once. She persisted: I should take myself off immediately. The more she considered my position, the more frightened she became for me. There was no time to lose. She would never forget my bravery in coming to them, but now … She could not go on. She embraced me. It was one of the few times I remember her ever doing so. Maria, still curled in the chair, sucked loudly on her thumb.

  I promised Mother that I would send for her when I got settled. She laughed that she would hardly want to uproot and move halfway around the world. She had been born in Vienna; she would die here. No one had mentioned such distances: her prescience at work again.

  “But Maria is a different matter. She’ll need someone now. When I’m gone …”

  I laughed, chiding Mother that she would in all likelihood live longer than either of her children.

  “Well, someone will have to look after her. You can
see that.”

  Maria seemed to be getting great relief, nay enjoyment, out of her thumb. Her sucking sounds resounded obscenely in the room.

  Well, the upshot of it was that I promised Mother to protect the girl, to ensure that she was looked after when Mother was gone. It was a tearful farewell when finally it came. The night was still upon us as Mother hugged me at her apartment door. The second embrace in so short a time! I felt the soot from her face rub off on mine. Maria slept on, oblivious to my coming and going. I did not turn around, for there were tears in my eyes, and I did not want Mother to see. Thus, my final image of my mother is in black face and dressed in fantastical garb to ward off sexual assault. I wonder how many sons have such a final memory of their mothers?

  What an odd occurrence. Today, after finishing my writing, I could only remain sitting at my trestle table, so moved was I by this final memory of Mother. I do not believe I knew before the depths of my feelings for that woman who gave me life. For so many years, she, or her memory, has been merely a caricature. The bossy imperial figure of our tiny household; the ur-matriarch if you will, with a touch of vaudeville. But today, writing of that final visit, I finally realized how much I love her, how much I owe her.

  And thinking this thought, gazing unfocused at the ravine out back, I suddenly became aware of Miss O’Brien in the compound below my window. How long had she been there? I really had no idea. Then I realized I had not been aware of her presence because she fitted so well into my vision at the moment; she matched exactly my memories.

  Upon first meeting the Irish, I commented how much she reminded me of Frau Wotruba. I was wrong. Today, I know truly who she reminds me of. My God!

  Several days have passed. We are speaking a little more to each other and have called a truce about my memoirs. Or, rather, I have, regularly allowing her once again into my intimate thoughts. She is still reading my latest batch and penning a lengthy response, it would seem.

  Since my last startling revelation, I have begun to look at Miss O’Brien in a different light. Perhaps all her prodding and insisting have some purpose. Perhaps I have been too quick to reject. As she says, I may be dismissing her comments because they hit too close to the bone. Her counsel may be valid. It is something to think about.

  Yet this is a most bizarre volte-face for me, I think at times. Simply because one afternoon I gave in to sentimentality vis-à-vis my mother; simply because I saw for an instant in the way Miss O’Brien held her head, the way she moved with a purposeful bustle as my mother always did in the kitchen (Father liked to say that she attacked the sauerkraut rather than cooked it—his one bon mot, I believe, in all their years together); simply because of these gross physical similarities I have begun to go soft on the Irish again. To even, in fact, wonder at the morality of holding her here like this against her will.

  I cannot afford the luxury of such softness, I tell myself.

  But on the other hand, why not? I ask myself. What, after all, have I to lose? How many more years do I have, anyway? I have money and some connections; I could resettle elsewhere. Invent a new persona for myself. Perhaps even return to Vienna with a new identity. Play the part of some Jew from America returning home for his final days. What a lark that would be!

  So let the Irish go, that soft part of me whispers. There is no real harm she could do you. Even if she breaks her promise and tells the authorities about you. And of course she would. It is too good a story not to.

  The thought of spending my final days in Vienna has infected me like a benign virus. I am full of expectancy and hope suddenly. Grateful that the Irish has stolen her way into my life to create this possibility.

  So all is forgiven, it seems. All her foolish antics when first installed here, even her ludicrous attempts at seduction. After all, would I have done less if the situation were reversed? Would Mother have?

  Mother was a fighter, too. How comical was her coal-dust makeup, how brave her stand against the thieving Russians in the final days in Vienna.

  The similarities between the two women are not only startling, they frighten me, as well.

  Of course I have not apprised the Irish of any of these thoughts. I need to process them further, see if there is any reality to these daydreams. It would take a good deal of planning. It is fortunate that I already have a fallback identity in hand. Indeed, an American passport for which I paid dearly a number of years ago when the Klaus Barbie stink was making news. It is a kind of insurance for me. And once back in Europe, I would need to change my appearance somehow. Perhaps a beard would be enough. Perhaps surgery. But the timing would have to be perfect if I was to lose myself at precisely the time O’Brien was released.

  How fun it all is! And who would think of looking for me in Vienna? It would be the perfect hiding place.

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I’ve been working most of the night. I wanted to finish this.”

  “Have you read the latest bit, then?”

  “Ages ago. This is for you.”

  “A long critique.”

  “You’ll read it?”

  “Of course. I always do.”

  “Even if it’s painful?”

  “Please, Miss O’Brien. No lectures on the obligations of a reader. I always read your ‘stuff’ as you call it, even when I cannot make heads or tails of it.”

  “I don’t think there will be that problem with this.”

  “Why the long face? I said I’d read it. You need some rest.”

  “I don’t think I can write anymore. This may be my final testament.”

  “Nonsense, Miss O’Brien. Eat your breakfast and then nap some. It’s a beautiful day today. You’ll want to take some sun.”

  . . . And then they closed the door. The indignity of it. Imagine, a cattle car used for humans. I shall remember that grating of door on rusty runner, the final hollow fwoomp as the door shut, until my dying day. We were thrown into immediate darkness despite this being in broad daylight. (For no longer were the transports routed in the middle of the night. All of Vienna knew what was transpiring by this time. Neighbors, acquaintances, everyone knew of someone missing by the early spring of ’42. No need to be secretive about the roundups by then. All in the national interest, don’t you know.)

  I had looked around before the doors shut; there was no one in the car whom I knew. Some I had no desire to know. But nearby there was a family, and I made my way in the darkness to where I remembered them being. I wanted to be near good people. There was no telling how long this trip to resettlement would take. The vaguest destinations were given us when the Gestapo came to round us up. Resettlement in the east, they said. Well, that could be anywhere from Poland to Russia. No matter. I intended to make the most of it. I excused myself as I edged by other faceless people. Once, I stepped on someone’s foot, said a blind apology, and got a rough slap on my rump as reply. My husband used to tell me about such chaps on the trams: frotteurs, they’re called. The French have a word for every sort of perversion, it seems. This kind liked to brush against women on public conveyances. They had to be on the lookout for those, my husband would tell me. Well, they would have a fine old time of it on this cattle car!

  I pushed on through the bodies, and my eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark. Soon, I saw the little family I had earmarked as my protectors. As I approached, the train suddenly lurched forward and I tumbled straight into the husband’s arms. A rather embarrassing introduction, I can tell you. But the kindly man understood. This miserable condition made us comradely at once. I joked that I was looking for my seat in the first class compartment, and those around us laughed loudly. A little humor goes a long way in such adverse situations. We introduced ourselves: all formalities of “Sie” were dispensed with, and soon Frau Gigi—the wife went by her pet name—and I were chatting on as if we’d known each other since grammar school. Which would have been rather difficult, as s
he was considerably younger than I, but there you are. Amazing what humans can do once the artifices are torn away. It turned out they were neighbors of mine in Brigittenau, but then the district is so large, how is one to know even those who share the same street? Their two children said scarcely a word, but one could see the enormous glistening whites of their eyes in the darkness. I admit I was frightened also, but their need was so much greater than mine that I put up a brave front. The dithering chatterbox from Brigittenau. To buoy the man, I even played the flirter and sly insinuator with him, though he was so hollow chested that not even a woman from a sexual Sahara could find him alluring. One can never understand the choices women make, for Frau Gigi was a full-bosomed, wide-hipped sort of woman who one knew instinctively would have a healthy sexual appetite. He was, however, a kind man, and that counts for much. Alternatively, I was the good frau, consoler and swapper of cleaning tips and recipes with Frau Gigi, then the irreverent oft-married aunt to the two children. I am accustomed to playing many such roles. All women are. We are rainbow chameleons in a colorless world, mynah birds in the concrete wilderness. My husband used to joke with me, lying abed on a Sunday morning after all-night lovemaking: He would call me his schizoid angel. Frumpy housewife during the week, wild sexual Amazon on Saturday nights. Joseph wore a coat of many colors, too, I would reply. (My husband’s name was not Joseph. It’s the other one, I mean.) You’d be better off going around in red velveteen pants yourself, I’d say to him. We all hide our true natures, I’d say. Each of us playing the appropriate role for the appropriate occasion. But who set up the guidelines? Who said what was appropriate?