Freud's Mistress (3 page)

I
t's lovely,” Martha said, admiring the fine fabric of a silk dinner gown that Minna was unpacking.

“A gift from a former employer. Well, not exactly a gift. The baroness thought it was outdated and told me to get rid of it,” Minna said, smiling. Then a childhood memory washed over her. She and Martha were planning for the first social event of the season. It was a different time and place, and it all seemed so frivolous now.

Martha was eighteen, and, in the eyes of her many suitors, female perfection—five feet two; a small, pretty face; dainty hands and feet. On this particularly splendid fall day, she had the rosy glow of a morning walk still on her cheeks and she looked pristine in her soft gray suit and matching boots. She and Minna made their way across the broad Ringstrasse, past St. Stephen's and the opera house, and into the heart of the old city, where the family dressmaker had a small shop. The first “smart” party of the season was still months away, but Martha had already decided on the material for her gown: seven yards of extra-wide yellow brocade (no crinoline—too vulgar and old-fashioned) that would be measured, cut, and sewn into a tightly corseted, tyrannizing shape, emphasizing Martha's tiny waist and modest derriere.

The shop was located on a crooked, dark street with medieval cobblestones and was sandwiched between a perfumery and a fine cabinetmaker's studio that reeked of lacquer. As the two girls entered, they were instantly marooned in silk. Scores of fat, luscious fabric bolts leaned up against the walls, blocking the aisles and windows, along with boxes spilling over with trimmings, bows, feathers, and fringe. Minna fingered the rich French weaves, the intricate Italian prints, the satin velours in jade and garnet and shimmering gold. But where were the prices? she wondered. Not a tag in sight.

“Martha, how much do you suppose . . .”

“Oh, Minna, look. It's Prussian blue velvet,” Martha replied, transfixed.

“Your friends will be Prussian green with envy,” Minna said with a grin.

At fourteen, Minna was taller than her older sister, almost unfashionably so, with abnormally long legs and neck, and collarbones that stuck out from her blouse. She did not yet go to socials, like her sister, nor did she even own one grown-up party dress. She glanced at herself, then at her sister in the dressing-room mirror. She did this on a regular basis, hoping her image would magically shrink down to that of her sister's, but, alas, it was not to be, something that made her glad in the years to come.

Minna, however, was comforted by some things. Both she and Martha had the same fine-boned Bernays profile and their skin was white and spotless. But her feet were gargantuan compared to Martha's, and by the time Minna was eight, the two couldn't even share boots or slippers. Then there was her hair, always falling out of its braid and ending up in unruly wisps around her face. And the matter of her handwriting. It was smudgier than Martha's, the tutor never failed to point that out, while grudgingly conceding that Minna was the “student” in the family.

After the fitting, the two sisters walked arm in arm past the architectural infinity of the Ring and the ornate facades of apartment houses, and then along the Kärntner Strasse, past the cathedral. Those days, one could hardly go anywhere without seeing military officers in full regalia, and a group of them smiled at the sisters and touched their helmets. Then it was just a few more streets down to the canal and the wholesale merchant mart, where they bought hot, sticky cream cakes in paper cones and waved at the people in passing boats. At that moment their world was secure and uncomplicated, and they were thankful in a way most young girls were not. The past had been a nightmare.

Ten years earlier, when the family lived in Hamburg, their father, Berman Bernays, was sent to jail for bankruptcy fraud. He had been wrongfully accused, of that Minna was certain. Nevertheless, for years there was a lingering tinge of embarrassment that blighted family gatherings and other social events. While he was in prison, Minna's mother assumed a haughty air of contempt to counteract the disgrace; and her older brother, Eli, dropped out of school, abandoned his friends, and went to work for an uncle from Kiev who peddled dry goods up and down the countryside. Eli would disappear for weeks on end to God knows where, then reappear dispirited and drained of energy, wearing rumpled clothes and smelling of sausage and cabbage. He would rail about the filth and disease of the villages, the crowded rooming houses with no lavatories, but most of all, he hated the life of an itinerant peddler. (Ah, well, thought Minna, he showed them all, moved to America with his own family, richer now than any of them.)

She would never forget the day her father finally came home. He stood in the doorway, looking half-dead, his hair grown gray and wispy, his beard matted on his chin. His appearance hit her like a stone, and stunned the rest of the family into silence. Martha recoiled when he drew near her, so he turned to Minna.

“My little
shana madel
,” he said, using the endearment he had called her since she was born, “my beautiful girl.” He threw out his arms and hugged her close, and she could feel his bones through his sweater.

Later that evening, as they lit the Sabbath lights, the family was quiet, careful, but Minna's mother's voice assumed a tone of anger mixed with anxiety that, even years later, never went away. Her resentment increased when Minna's father found a new position as a secretary to a well-known economist and moved the family to a modest house on the outskirts of the Jewish district of Vienna. There was a solid Jewish middle class there, he had argued, and many of his friends had grown wealthy and powerful under the Hapsburg monarchy. Hundreds of Jewish families like their own had streamed into the city in those days, escaping the growing movement of anti-Semitism in the countryside outside Hamburg, and seeking opportunity and culture unequaled in Europe. But his reasoning fell on deaf ears. Emmeline missed her native Germany and blamed Berman for their disgrace and economic hardship. After all, her family had been socially prominent, if not wealthy, and the calamity of his imprisonment had taken away their good name.

“Vienna oppresses me,” she said peevishly. “The noise from the street is unbearable. And all those ugly steeples!”

“I like it here,” Minna would respond, cool and defiant, indirectly defending her father. “It's so boring in the country. There's nothing to do in Hamburg.”

While her mother went on and on, listing her grievances about the city, “the jaded avant-garde, the damp weather, the shabby synagogue . . .” her father would retreat to his chair, smiling wanly. Later on, Minna would sit by his side, and they would play cards or read. She would often think of these moments, when it was just the two of them.

The night before he died, Minna and her father went out for their usual evening stroll. There was always a burst of vitality and life on the streets of Vienna, and Minna loved to look at the handsomely clad men in silk top hats and the women in elaborate feathered hats, fashionable gowns, and glossy fur capes as they gathered in the grand entrance of the Hotel Imperial and the popular Café Central. She would watch sleek black carriages arrive at restaurants filled with people smoking and laughing and drinking bitter-brewed
Kaffee
mi
t Schlag
. The air was filled with mist and light and music. And, Minna thought, as much as my mother hates this city, this is how much I love it.

She could remember the exact moment when she got the news. She was back at the dress shop, discussing which of Martha's many suitors would fill up her dance card, when a white-faced Eli burst through the door. Berman had been crossing the Ringstrasse at a busy intersection when he collapsed in the middle of the street. According to passersby, he had stood still for a moment, clutching his arm, and then dropped in a heap on the cobblestones, a carriage swerving suddenly to miss him. He was just fifty-three years old. Dead from a massive heart attack.

For the next few days, everything was focused on arranging the burial, which according to Jewish tradition, had to take place two days after the death. Emmeline was inconsolable and even more sharp-tongued than usual. She sat in the drawing room, alone at the end of the sofa, her needlework untouched on her lap. Curtains were drawn, mirrors covered with black crepe, and clocks stopped at the time of death.

“We are left with nothing, girls. Nothing.”

Emmeline's anger was matched by Minna's unimaginable disappointment. She was astounded at the loss, at the cold, dark silence filling the space that once was his. The universe seemed so unjust, so empty and thin.

In accordance with Jewish law, the family sat shiva for seven days. No bathing or showering. They wore torn black ribbons on their lapels and listened as the rabbi, who stopped by several times a day, led them in the mourners' Kaddish. Minna couldn't stand all the consoling visitors with moist eyes. She couldn't stand all the food and wine and socializing. In her fourteen-year-old brain, it felt as if everything had turned to dirt.

Their mother, Emmeline, used this tragedy to further her campaign to leave Vienna for their former, more modest home in the countryside outside Hamburg. Neither sister wanted to move, but their mother persevered. During this period, they lived on the generosity of aunts, uncles, and Eli, their older brother, who was now making a good living as a businessman.

In those days, the girls were confidantes, allying themselves against their mother. But eventually Minna became the stronger one, more outspoken, able to fight the necessary battles to ensure what little pleasures they had left. When they wanted to go out, it was always Minna who braved their mother's temperamental moods and voiced the request. Consequently, Martha became the favorite, a fact their mother did little to hide, and Minna did little to pretend she didn't know. Martha was dutiful, soft-spoken, and acquiescent, while Minna was independent and fearless. Those were their appointed roles, and it was really no different now, even though Martha was married and Minna had been on her own for years.

•   •   •

I
s this alcohol, Tante Minna?” Martin asked.

“No,” she lied as she stashed the bottle along with the cigarettes in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

He continued to hover like a vulture as she opened the smaller of her cases and pulled out a small portfolio of her correspondence and a photograph of her mother in a widow's cap.

“I could stay and help if you want,” he said, watching with sharp, bright eyes as each item was pulled from the valise.

She wished she had something to give him. In the past, she had always brought little things for the children, fancy bags of glass marbles or postcards with pictures of Emperor Franz Josef or Prussian soldiers with elaborate helmets and sabers. (There were also a few postcards she knew he'd like of the emperor's mistress, a famous Viennese actress draped in a diaphanous gown—Hapsburg Cheesecake, everyone called it. These she
wouldn't
give him, even if she had the money.) Nevertheless, the Flora incident had been expensive, and she was forced to send Martin on his way empty-handed.

She watched him walk slowly down the hall, then sat on the bed, even more disappointed than the child. She could hear the distant sounds of bustling, midday crowds at the Tandelmarkt, cries from boatmen on the Danube canal, jingly bells of a parish church, and the clattering and rinsing of saucepans from the kitchen. From across the hall came the shrill noise of squabbling children and a howling baby.

Martha smiled sympathetically at her sister.

“You know, Minna. It's very important—very, very, important—to be surrounded by one's family.”

“I agree,” Minna answered with a slight grin. “As long as it's not Mother.”

Martha laughed appreciatively.

Both of them knew that their mother had been on an active campaign to marry Minna off. After all, she only wanted what all practical-minded mothers wanted—her aging, not-so-eligible daughter safely married. How many times since her fiancé's death had Minna heard her mother tell her she needed to be less haughty with her words, less imaginative? Minna had paid a penalty for her nature, Emmeline argued, and as a result she would remain single. Also, she was too bookish, too biased, and intolerant of people who disagreed with her. The last time Minna visited Hamburg, her mother had advised, “You should talk less of Gounod operas and more of other subjects, or better yet, talk less in general. Most men don't appreciate a bright wit, unless it's their own.”

To Emmeline, women like Minna were marginalized, surplus daughters with mediocre prospects, never fitting in, as if constantly suffering from a mild illness or having a physical disfigurement. This was an argument that Minna could never win. It was a good thing she wasn't Catholic. Her mother might have stabled her in a distant convent.

“Now don't get angry . . .” Martha said, hesitating, “but you know she only has your best interests at heart.”

“All she cares about is one thing. . . .” Minna said, pulling her few remaining books from the suitcase and setting them on the dresser, using the Dickens and the Kipling as bookends.

“Well, one must be somewhat realistic. A woman alone . . .” she said, running her fingers through her hair, a habit Minna remembered since childhood, whenever Martha thought she might offend.

“So what are you saying? That I should have married that friend of Eli's, that salesman from Hamburg?” Minna asked, digging through her valises.

“No, not him. Wasn't he the one you kept calling the Merchant of Venice? What are you rummaging around for?”

“A husband,” Minna teased.

The two sisters laughed, their faces bending toward each other as if they were gossiping at a tea.

“Well, if that's the case, Sigmund has a colleague I'd like you to meet. Dr. Silverstein. Socially prominent. A lifelong bachelor. But at this age, there's always something . . .”