The English Girl (36 page)

Death to the Jews.

I feel the cold go through me.

In the flat in the opposite building, the women are still watching. But now someone has turned the light out, so they can’t be seen from the street.

I glance behind me. Marthe looks a little frightened; she has a small sharp frown. But Rainer is impassive. As I turn back to the street, he comes to join me at the window. He stands close to me, calmly smoking. He’s so close I can catch the incense smell of his cologne: so close we’re almost touching. Yet I know he’s scarcely aware of me.

Lorry after lorry passes, each one of them crowded with men, exultant, delirious. Where could they possibly come from – all these people, this murderous hate? Was this vicious hatred always here – tamped down, awaiting release – in this most gracious of cities? Frank thought so. Frank warned me of this, when he spoke of Hitler coming to Vienna. I thought he was being histrionic. I didn’t listen.

I think of Harri; and bile surges into my throat. The knowledge of what I have done burns in me.

At last, there are no more lorries. The shouting fades away in the distance, the street is empty again.

Rainer stubs out his cigar in the ashtray and brushes the ash from his hands. He straightens his tie, pulls out the cuffs of his shirt. These small, banal gestures chill me. He’s readying himself for action: he looks like a man who means business. He’s taller, more imposing, all the world-weariness falling from him. The thought enters my mind:
He has been waiting for this. This is his hour. This is the hour he has been yearning for.

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.

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…’