A Chosen Sparrow Page 9

  “I thought you were so excited by Martin Haffner.”

  “He’s too much of an egotist. How can a girl love a man who loves himself so much? Martin doesn’t need anyone.

  “Besides,” I snapped into the darkness, “Gerhard has helped me so much, he has done something for me so tremendous…” but the darkness made the words feel empty and I shut up.

  “What?”

  By this time I had told Gerhard all I could remember about the prison. Deeper lay other, untouched recollections that I was not yet willing to recognize. He could not hear my stories too often. “Tell me about that foul woman, Gretl…about the beatings,” he would beg, “about the girl who died in the snow…the Nile horse game…about standing at attention all those hours in the rain…and the smells, remember all the smells, dear,” over and over and over again until I grew angry and demanded a halt. Sadly Gerhard remarked that this method of repetition had been used by the wise doctor in the Swiss sanitarium and that gradually the painful recollections had lost the power to hurt. He was correct about the healing effect; I would repeat an experience until the familiar words took on a rhythm like a poem learned in school and recited without feeling.

  Still I could talk about these things to no one but Gerhard. When I tried to tell Elfy I became afraid of the dark. She tucked the eiderdown about her body, careful to take no more than her rightful share. The cold struck at me. I welcomed discomfort as a stimulant. In the silent darkness I argued with her, confided freely the secrets of my suppers with Gerhard, discussed the nature of love and the reasons I believed it would be a successful marriage. “Who understands me as he does? What other man would be so patient? How sincerely he has tried to help me get over my inhibitions and resentments!” Sometime during the night, between sleep and half-conscious meditations, Elfy’s image changed to Martin’s. I scolded him severely for selfishness and failure at understanding.

  The next morning I woke with these thoughts still in mind. Over my coffee and in my bath I continued to scold Martin. “You love yourself and your work, you only want a woman to fulfill your physical desires,” I told his invisible presence, and regarded the Mayr bathroom righteously. It was old-fashioned and very odd. There were so many pipes that one side was like an organ. On the other walls hung the family towels. In the center like a throne in the middle of a great hall stood the tub. When I had come there from the squalor of the Stompfer apartment I had hoped, but never dared to ask, if I would be allowed to use the bath. In those days the water had never been quite warm.

  Now, as I lay soaking, I could turn the tap and luxuriously add hot water. I had changed too, demanded comforts as my just due. “It is true,” I confessed to the inexorable, inescapable Martin, “that I grew up without anything, but if you think it’s his money and his castle that have influenced me…” Martin’s laughter sounded closer than the steam rattling in the hot-water pipes. “Do you love him, Leni?” I sniffed at the question. “Does he attract you as I do?”

  I was still in the bath when Pepperl knocked to say I had a visitor. “He said not to tell you, he wishes it to be a surprise,” whispered Pepperl through the keyhole.

  “How sweet and rosy you are,” Martin said, holding me at arm’s length after his first proprietary kiss. I had pulled on a white toweling robe, my hair curled untidily about my face, my lips were bare of tint. I backed away, as apprehensive as an animal scenting danger in the forest. Martin seized me again.

  “Please, Martin, not here.”

  Frau Mayr bustled in. She did not think it proper for a young lady in a toweling robe to entertain a male guest. Earlier that morning, before she went off to the Conservatorium, Elfy had told her mother my news. Frau Mayr had come to my room as soon as she had heard me call for my coffee, had held me tight to her bosom, weeping as if she had been my true mother. “To think,” she had cried between bursts of tears, “that an orphan girl who has nothing, nothing, not even a very good voice, has fascinated such an important man. Although a Prussian, he is no doubt a gentleman.” Delicacy forbade outright mention of money. “You are a clever little thing, Leni, and you have become pretty, too.”

  It would not have been correct for her to mention my engagement to Martin who acted like a man in possession. Too courteous to show resentment of his visit, she did her tactful best to entertain the discarded suitor while I hurried to dress so that I could go out for lunch with him. When we left she asked, pointedly, what she should say if there were any important telephone calls.

  “Say that I have gone out.”

  “And you will be back early?”

  “Not too early,” said Martin.

  If he suspected anything he gave no sign. Personal conversation was impossible on the crowded bus and in the noisy restaurant where we went for lunch. Everybody shouted, dishes were crashed down upon the tables or stacked hastily upon metal trays, knives and forks rattled, beer steins were thumped upon wood, customers roared for service, waiters screamed that they had only two hands, an old-fashioned cash register jangled with every payment. We were seated at a table with two salesmen who competed in loud lament about the state of the wool carpeting business.

  In a muted voice and with many interruptions Martin told me about his work in Berlin with an American writer who was doing research on a series of stories for an important weekly magazine. “You’d like Victor, he’s remarkable, a Jew born here in Vienna and escaped with his parents the day after the Anschluss.” Together Martin and this Victor had gathered information about remnants of anti-Semitism that remained, in spite of German declarations of remorse and payments of restitution, unpunished; about ex-Nazis in high government posts; and about various types of concealment, ruses and hypocrisy.

  “People still insist they were ignorant of the persecution and murder of Jews but,” Martin’s voice rose indignantly and his fist punished the table, “there’s not one who prospered under the Nazis who didn’t know.”

  One of the carpet salesmen stared at us through thick glasses. His friend had begun to argue with the waiter who had apparently charged him for a Salzstangl he had not eaten. The waiter insisted that there had been three in the basket, and that only one remained. Over this shouting Martin, annoyed by the interruption, raised his voice and announced, “And there are worse Nazis here, right in Vienna.”

  This ended the argument. The waiter changed the bill so that the customer paid for only one of the rolls. He and both salesmen stared at us. I brought out my mirror and lipstick so that the fussy movements should hide my face. Under the table I kicked Martin’s ankle. The two salesmen left, but stopped at the door to look back at us.

  “You should be more careful, they listened to everything you said,” I whispered to Martin.

  “I’m glad. They ought to know, I want everyone to know they won’t get away with it a second time.” He raised his voice deliberately.

  “I don’t see what good it will do to shout in restaurants.”

  “Still appeasing?” he jeered. “Just like in the 1930’s?”

  “Why do you blame me? I wasn’t even born.”

  “People haven’t learned very much by what they’ve gone through.”

  “You’re very bad-humored today,” I snapped back.

  “Do you think you’re such a ray of sunshine?”

  He comforted himself with food, ate heartily, soup, a pair of Würstl, boiled potatoes and Salzberger Knockerl. I barely touched the food. The noise, thick dishes, rude waiters and coarse patrons of this ugly restaurant failed to please a fastidious young lady who had only recently learned the pleasure of having respectful hands serve delicate foods on fine porcelain in tranquil private rooms.

  It was no afternoon for a park bench, but we had no other shelter for our quarrel. Dampness hung in the air like a transparent curtain, rain threatened. Yesterday in sunshine small buds and rosy twig ends had announced spring cheerfully, but now seemed to shrivel and draw themselves inward. At best we had privacy. No one strolled on the park paths except thos
e who had no better place to spend their time. Hungry birds clustered at our feet but we had no crumbs to feed them. Martin went on and on about German Nazis and his American friend until I was thoroughly bored. He sat close to me on the bench. Through his heavy wool sleeve and the weight of my own clothes, I felt the excitement of his body. I moved away. He edged closer and stretched out his hand to touch me. I resisted tremors. Presently he said, “We can use Rick’s apartment this afternoon.”

  I scuffed at the gravel with my pointed slippers. Startled birds flew away. Once more I jerked away from his ungloved hand.

  “Don’t you like me any more, Leni?”

  “Does Rick know that it’s me you want to bring to his place?”

  “He probably has figured it out.”

  “You make me sick, you intellectuals with all your ideas and attitudes and criticism. Nobody’s smart enough for you, but when it comes to common decency…”

  His hand fell away. “What’s wrong, Leni? What are you so angry about?”

  “While you were away Rick tried to get me up to that apartment!”

  “Why, the old sinner!” Martin laughed. “I always thought he had an eye for you.”

  “You’re not furious?”

  “Did you go?”

  I wanted to smash my hands into his insolent face. “So that’s how you feel about me! I told Rick to find a girl on the street. You can do the same thing, Martin Haffner.” I sprang up and looked down upon him scornfully, “Thank God I’ve found a sincere man. It may interest you to know I’m engaged to be married.”

  “No!”

  “Does it seem so impossible that somebody wants me respectably?”

  “Who is he? Do I know him?”

  “I am sure you don’t.” I had become haughty. I pronounced Gerhard’s name as though it were a nobleman’s.

  Questions were showered upon me like hail in a sudden storm. Who was this Gerhard Metzger? How long had I known him? Where had we met? Did I love him?

  He was a decent man, I said, a man who in spite of culture and great advantages, was truly humble and compassionate. Martin listened quietly. We sat so still that the birds flew back to wait at our feet. Martin and I spoke softly then; the quarrel was over, also the romance. On that park bench we became strangers. There was no more reason for us to remain among the statues in the park, dead composers and poets with empty flowerbeds at their feet and rain falling upon their marble curls. I rose and started along the path. Martin caught up with me and kept in step.

  “Shall I take you home?”

  “No, thanks, it will not be necessary.” I imitated his tone of courtesy, grave and dignified as if there had ceased to be any meaning in our relationship. “If you will get me a taxi, please.” He turned his head for a sharp glance at my face to see if I had suggested a cab to shame him for having made me ride on the crowded bus. When I got into the taxi, I offered my hand, wished Martin success with his work. He made the same wish for my marriage. As the driver pulled away from the curb I looked back and saw him watching with narrowed eyes and a twisted smile.

  Later that afternoon I had a date with Gerhard at the Hotel Sacher. His chauffeur brought me there. When the doorman hurried to help me out of the car, when a beggar woman came whining toward me as I crossed the pavement in my well-cut black coat and spike-heeled slippers, I remembered those gracious ladies to whom Frau Stompfer had whined and bowed and offered my handkerchiefs. Was I the same girl who had made a howling scene at this spot? Now Gerhard’s need brought me as an honored guest to the glittering salon with its shiny damask tablecloths and portraits of royalty on the walls. Gracious ladies and proper gentlemen turned from their coffee, their Torte and mounds of whipped cream to look at Gerhard Metzger’s girl friend. I felt elegant, too, important and worthy of their world.

  Gerhard wished me to know that he had spent a miserable night worrying because I had been present during that wretched call from Rome. “Your devil’s bitch is still worrying you?” I asked.

  He winced as I repeated the phrase, commanded me to forget the incident. “Promise!”

  “I can promise never to talk about it, but you have taught me never to forget.”

  “Leonora, I wish you to forget the incident.”

  In time I learned the cause of his agitation. Believe me, it was not like anything I would have believed at that time. I was pleased with myself that day, rid of Martin and his disturbing friends, and felt myself free of all worries when I stretched my hand across the table for the emerald ring. Fine ladies watched from under their lashes and gentlemen played a comedy of not noticing. The betrothal ring was a talisman whose magic convinced me of my virtue in consenting to become the wife of the melancholy Prussian. I believed with childish faith that my love would fill the needs of his sick heart.

  If Gerhard had asked me to run off with him that night I would not have stopped to pack a bag. Above all else I wanted to be out of Vienna, away from the Mayr apartment, the Königshimmel, from old associations, A hasty marriage was not possible. There were formalities to be carried out. In declaring our intentions at the Standesamt it was necessary for us to provide birth certificates. Gerhard foresaw unconquerable problems.

  “Is there a record of your birth? A Jewish child born in ‘38 probably has no legal existence.”

  Gerhard consulted a lawyer who discovered that the records of the Israelitische Kultusgemeinde had not been destroyed by the Nazis. Had they burned down the ancient synagogue on the Seitenstettengasse, many other valuable properties would have gone with it. Here the records of Jewish births, marriages and deaths had remained through the years of persecution. After the war the files had been moved to an office on the Schottentor. Anyone could have consulted these records without cost. Gerhard had probably paid a large fee to the lawyer.

  My birth was recorded there, Leonora, daughter of Wilhelm and Edith Neumann. I had been born, I existed, I could marry.

  “When?” asked Frau Mayr with the delight of a true mother. She expected to provide the wedding feast while Elfy felt it her right to stand beside me as sister and bridesmaid. “Please let me know in time, Leni, because I want Gustl to be there and he has so many appointments with the brewers who make contracts for his hops.” I am sure that Frau Mayr intended to have Heda come with her family from Linz and Trudl and her husband from the Worthersee. They would have to close their shop, but it would be worth it for Trudl to see her foster sister married to a millionaire.

  Gerhard shuddered when I spoke of their plans. “God forbid!” He also asked God to forbid their presence at a simple ceremony before a magistrate,

  “I can’t hurt them,” I argued. “They have been like a family to me, they have treated me like one of their own. It would be an insult for me not to invite them. Please, Gerhard.”

  He said he would happily repay Frau Mayr for her generosity but, “God forbid that I should marry in her presence. I can’t stomach old women. The more deserving they are, the worse. Old women disgust me, they have a peculiar smell.”

  I could not deny that there was a kind of cheese odor about Frau Mayr but my affection was too firm to be influenced by such a small thing. She was sentimental and would expect to be kissed by my new husband. Would he pull in his mouth and turn away? The specter of insult haunted me. I could not decide which would be most hurtful to my dear foster mother, his gesture of rejection or a weddings without her. Nor could I face the ordeal of telling her she would not be welcome at the ceremony.

  I dared criticize my fiance. “It surprises me that you are so snobbish.”

  “Every fastidious person is a snob.”

  “But why? You’re not prejudiced against Jews.”

  “My snobbery isn’t vulgar. My prejudices are my own.”

  He disliked people he considered ugly; he said stupid persons gave him headaches; he made fun of loud-voiced tourists, Germans as well as the others; he winced openly if we were caught in a crowd and people did not smell good. His own sister he called intolerable
, said that her American husband revolted him and the four children were idiots. He refused to meet new people. “I can’t abide other people’s friends.”

  On the day we presented ourselves and our documents at the Standesamt and filed the applications, I brought up the subject once more, not daring to suggest a ceremony in the Mayr apartment but trying tactfully to convince him that they should attend the wedding.

  Gerhard was good-natured but firm. “You know my feelings in the matter, dear.”

  “But think how good they’ve been to me. Can I pack my bags and leave their house like a boarder? It would be like striking my own mother.”

  “What a soft heart,” he said tenderly. “Have faith in me, I won’t let you hurt your precious Frau Mayr.”

  On the following Thursday he said, “I hope you’re ready to elope with me on Sunday.”

  “Elope?”

  “Yes, we’ll be married in Paris. That will eliminate the Mayrs. Unless you expect me to take them to Paris, too.” He laughed. “You will telephone them from Paris and tell them I kidnapped you.”

  “Can we be married at once? What about the French laws? Will it be possible?”

  “Don’t worry about it. My lawyer will take care of all the details,”

  I worried. “Frau Mayr’s heart will be broken. Elfy’s, too. She feels like a true sister to me and she wanted the excuse to buy a new dress.”

  Gerhard petted me and said that I could send Elfy a dress from Paris. “They’ll be thrilled to think you married so romantically. Don’t say anything to them about it, not a word. And wear something simple, as if you were going off to have lunch with me somewhere. We’ll buy you a splendid wardrobe in Paris.”

  On that Sunday (it was the second in May) I stayed in bed until Frau Mayr and Elfy had gone to Mass. As soon as I heard the door close I called to Pepperl who brought me coffee and the sweet cake we ate on Sundays when the baker’s boy did not deliver hot rolls. I drank my coffee slowly. This was to be my last breakfast in the old, musty, crowded room. Its familiarity was comforting. Before me was the unknown. The castle which had been so firmly fixed in my imagination had become a house of mist. My heart skipped beats.