Clara (4 page)

She told him.

“You like this?”

“Very much. It’s so true.”

“True?” He looked into the distance for a moment, then he bent over the book. She could see the top of his head, his scalp in the straight part in his hair; his neck in the snow-white shirt collar. He ran the blotter over his writing, closed the book, and handed it to her.

He was smiling. He had kind brown eyes and a moustache, and he looked pale, but there was something else in his smile or perhaps in the way he looked at her and then briefly around at the people in the café; the full tables and
the people lining up for his autograph and a word from him; a sadness, she thought, a solitariness even in the midst of so much admiration; a darkness that she could not forget for the next several days.

Eventually she did, and when he and his wife killed themselves years later in Brazil the terror was already everywhere and it was unspeakable but nothing could be taken back.

“For Clara Emilie
,” Stefan Zweig had written.
“We have art in order not to die of the truth (Nietzsche).”
And he had signed his name.

IN HIS WILL
Albert had left everything to her, to use as she saw fit. There was a bit of money, and she had the bank transfer twenty-five thousand euros to Willa and she wrote a cheque in the same amount for Emma.

Willa called on Skype from Australia. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “Sending the money. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Spend it. Enjoy it.”

“I will. Now, about the Knight’s Cross. You mentioned it in your email, so tell me. Who took it?”

“Forget the Knight’s Cross. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“I don’t want to forget it. Who took it, Mom? One of Emma’s kids?”

“Willa. Let it go.”

“I won’t. Do you know how few of those they awarded? It’s up there with the Victoria Cross and the Congressional
Medal of Honor. Apart from that it’s worth a fortune on eBay.”

“I know you are joking. You can’t sell those things on eBay because of the swastika on them.”

“Well. The
thing
, as you call it, has a history. It was the one medal Dad valued, and you know why. Because of who gave it to him.”

“I know that,” she said. “But your dad would not want you to cause trouble over it.”

“Or maybe he would. One day I’ll find out who took it and I’ll ask for it back. Was it the snarky one with the tattoo?”

“Willa-dear,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.” There was a silence into which she said, “Willa? I’m fine. There is no need for you to stand up for me. Or for your dad. Really. I miss him of course, and I know you do too.” She sat back in the chair and tightened the Sellotape on the microphone, which was a thing of inferior plastic that had broken on the first day.

“Willa,” she said. “You have your love of animals from him, you know that. I don’t know why I’m saying that.” She listened. “Willa …” she said gently. “Willa-dear …” and she paused and then did not know what more to say.

Next day in the late afternoon, when it was getting dark already and she had turned on the lights in her study, Emma came by to pick up the cheque. Her husband, Tomas, had come along, and Clara made tea for them and she held on to Emma’s shoulder as she climbed the chair
to bring a fresh tin of Mitzi’s raisin cookies down from the kitchen cupboard.

They sat in the living room under the tasselled lampshade and Emma poured tea and talked about school. Tomas sat eyeing the envelope with Emma’s name on it, and when tea had been poured and he had munched the first cookie, he reached for the envelope and opened it with the handle of his teaspoon. He took out the cheque and read the amount. He put the cheque back and pushed the envelope with two fingers across the tablecloth toward Emma. Emma blushed. She indicated his mouth and he brushed away a cookie crumb.

“Did Willa get the same?” he said.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“That’s all there is, Tom. For now.” She did not dislike him, not exactly, but she’d liked Emma’s first husband better. As had Emma, she knew. Claude had been a pilot with Air France, and he’d been fun and intelligent, but then something had gone wrong in the marriage. Emma had moved back to St. Töllden and she’d met Tom, a widower with two children. They had three more. He took early retirement when his accounting firm closed over some lawsuit, and he’d been looking for part-time work ever since.

“That’s all right,” he said. “The amount. We appreciate any help you can give. Thank you. Did you speak to them at the museum?”

“No. Not yet, Tom. I’ll wait until they’ve come to pick up the boxes. There’ll be a natural opportunity then.”

“There must be something I can do there.”

“I don’t know. They probably have an accountant already.”

“Their archives, maybe. The sooner, the better, Clara. A small favour.”

“People study for that line of work, Tom. It is special. They have degrees. Art history, archaeology, library arts. Maybe there are courses you could take to get some kind of qualification. Even just as an archivist.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Just ask them.”

“I said I would.”

And Emma, sweet and unlucky Emma trapped here between mother and husband, said, “It’s getting dark so early these days. Look at that sky. Tommy, maybe we should go soon.”

After they had left, and after she’d cleared away the tea things, the lawyer called.

“Doctor Herzog,” he said. “Did your husband leave a firearm of any kind? There’s none licensed to him, but you never know. They’ll need a declaration from you.”

She sat down on the chair by the telephone. “A firearm? Like a rifle?”

“Or a pistol. Any kind of gun. Is there a gun in the house?”

“Not that I know,” she said.

“Wouldn’t you know if there was one? It would have to
be kept secure, like trigger-locked and in some kind of gun safe. They are strict about that now.”

“There isn’t one. No gun,” she said.

“Good. I’ll send a messenger with the form. Please sign it and send it right back.”

The form arrived and she stood at the bottom of the stairs in the freezing lobby and read it. The messenger was a young woman in tight clothing and a red bicycle helmet with blue-black bangs sticking out. “I’ll shoot it right back,” she said and did a clicking little dance step in her cycle shoes.

“It’s already dark out there,” said Clara. “Be careful. It might be slippery.”

“It’s nothing,” said the girl. “And I’ve got flashing lights front and back.”

Clara signed her name in the box where in bold letters it cautioned her not to make a false statement or risk a penitentiary sentence of seven years. She wondered if that was the biblical seven years, meaning forever.

Because the gun was there of course. The Walther. Upstairs, once she had her breath back, she went to check on it, just to make sure. It was on a shelf at the back in the linen closet, stripped and oiled and the pieces wrapped in cloth and zipped into freezer baggies. Barrel, slide, the cross-hatched walnut grip and magazine, and a box half full of shells.

She would have to find a way to dispose of it. Which was just as well. It was time.

IN THE EARLY
1930s they would drink cheap wine and sing student songs like “Gaudeamus Igitur.” They’d burn candles and argue sometimes half the night about the best form of government to return dignity and well-being to the nation. Looking back, it made her cringe at how naive and touchingly earnest they’d been, all of them: Monarchists, Jews, Communists, National Socialists.

The Monarchists wanted to roll back history to the way things had been before 1914, as if such a thing were possible. The Communists wanted workers to be in control of all means of production; as the saying went, they wanted not just bread, they wanted the bakery.

The Jews of the Zionist League promised peace and equality, and a society based on reason and spiritual values, like the one they envisioned for Palestine. They did not expect ever to be able to form a government in Vienna,
but if they received enough votes they could certainly influence one.

And the National Socialists, whom everyone simply called Nazis because their full name was such a mouthful, promised work and dignity, the two things at the top of everyone’s wish list. They had a plan, they said. They pointed north across the border where Hitler’s work-creation projects after years of runaway inflation and economic depression were instilling a new pride in people and putting money in their pockets.

So popular did the Nazis and the Communists become with the public that on March 7, 1933, the government in Vienna under Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss evoked Emergency Rule and threatened to outlaw them. Police raided their meetings and took everyone away in crowded paddy wagons. In the morning police clerks wrote down their particulars, gave them a warning, and let them go.

ALL THE FIRST WEEK
of the Emergency it snowed, and it snowed worse in the west of the country. In her hometown of St. Töllden avalanches thundered down the mountain into the valley and one of them blocked the main road from the east. Since the army was busy enforcing the Emergency the road remained blocked for six days and nights, her mother said on the telephone, until locals could make their way through the snow with shovels and horse-drawn carriages.

On the Sunday following she met Peter at Fröhlich’s in the first district. Soldiers and police were in the streets, checking cars and pedestrians at random. It was the end of March but still cold and some side streets were impassable with heavy snow.

Peter had arrived before her and when he saw her he stood up and waved. The place was full, and in the salon through connecting doors a violinist and a pianist were playing the inevitable Strauss. She hung up her coat and scarf on a stand and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Clara,” he said. “Have you heard from home?”

She told him what her mother had said on the telephone. They were fine.

“Oh good. I was away in Paris and London.”

“For the League?”

“Yes. Everyone’s worried about Berlin, and now about the dismissal of parliament here. I’m supposed to be seeing Chancellor Dollfuss tomorrow.”

“He shouldn’t outlaw those parties. It will only make them stronger.”

“Probably.”

A waitress came and took their orders. Peter asked for coffee and she ordered hot chocolate.

She grinned at him. “They have the best here. You should try it.”

“Maybe next time. What’s new? Last time I spoke to our mother she said you’re doing well at school. And you have Heidegger and Wittgenstein. That’s fantastic!”

“I know. We even have Freud, on a good day.”

“And? Come on, let’s have it. I hear you’re not seeing the Heller boy any more.”

“Not really. I’m too busy.”

He sat watching her. He smiled. “Too busy. You’re blushing. Who is it?”

“Who’s who?”

“Come on. What’s his name?”

“Stop it, Peter. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

“All right. Did you know any of the students who got arrested? You weren’t among them, I hope.”

“No. But I do know quite a few of them. If they’re outlawed they’ll just meet in private homes. It certainly won’t stop them.”

The coffee came, and the hot chocolate. She made a hole with the spoon in the whipped cream and took a sip of chocolate through the hole.

She held out the cup. “So good. Taste it.”

He shook his head. “No thanks. I was thinking, Clara. You should probably keep a journal. In a year or two it’ll be all very different. You’ll look around and wonder what happened.”

“Albert said that too.”

“Albert?”

“Oh, all right. You win. His name is Albert. He says this is a groundswell and at university I have a front-row seat and afterwards it’s always just a blur.”

“He is right. And don’t you get caught too. Don’t
get a police record. A police record never goes away.”

Peter went on to talk about the Reichstag fire in Berlin that Hitler had used to stage his coup. “They all use some sort of excuse. Some sort of phoney emergency and overnight instead of a democracy we have a dictatorship.”