The Lady in Gold (20 page)

Maria on her wedding day, December
1937
. Vienna portrait photographers were famous for radiantly lit photographs that were as theatrically staged as movie stills. (
Illustration Credit 26.1
)

Maria on her honeymoon on the Paris Métro, 1938. (
Illustration Credit 26.2
)

Then, in a moment of passion, Fritz cried out: “
Lene!”

Lene? Maria paused to digest this. Fritz froze with embarrassment.

But Maria was flooded with a strange relief. It wasn't as if she didn't know about his married girlfriend, though she prayed it was finally over. Now it was out in the open. Fritz's glaring faux-pas finally gave her the upper hand, at least for a moment. Maria began to shake with irrepressible amusement. Fritz stared at her with astonishment. “
Well, at least now I know her name,” Maria managed to say, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Maria's first real love affair had finally begun.

Newlyweds Maria and
Fritz Altmann honeymoon at St. Moritz, early 1938. (
Illustration Credit 26.3
)

Maria was oblivious to the tension building in Vienna on the February day she and Fritz returned from their European honeymoon and glimpsed the Gothic spires of St. Stephen's. Fresh snow framed the cobblestones of old Vienna as they walked to the Café Central.

Their honeymoon was transformed by the magic wand of Bernhard. Bernhard had filled his Paris apartment with early-blooming lilacs from southern Europe, so the newlyweds were overwhelmed by the heavy, sweetly musky scent when they opened the door. Servants had put champagne and caviar on ice and filled the pantry with French cheeses, fresh bread, and Swiss chocolates. In St. Moritz, Bernhard booked them into a romantic little hotel where the staff had been so well briefed on the honeymoon they exchanged winks as they waited on Fritz and Maria.

When they returned, Bernhard handed them the keys to an apartment at the Altmann compound on Siedenbrungasse. Maria gasped with delight when Bernhard opened the door. Shimmering gray-green silk drapes lined the windows of the sun-filled sitting room. The kitchen was spacious, with iridescent green ceramic tiles and modern features unusual in old-fashioned Vienna. The master bathroom was a vision compared to the cramped family bathroom at Stubenbastei. There were plump Turkish towels and French lavender soaps. The apartment was fully furnished, with a lovely
Art Deco walnut bedroom set and simple stylish silverware. Bernhard took them down to the garage to show them a new Steyr sedan with red roses on the front seat. He waved away Maria's insistence that this was really too much. Maria had cracked the tough exterior of this tough Galician, and inspired his love of extravagance. Bernhard openly adored his new sister-in-law, and like her father, Maria admired scrappy, generous Bernhard.

Maria's German-born mother was harder to win over. At one large family lunch, Bernhard put his arm around Therese's shoulder, and said, “
Well, we Eastern Jews—” Therese shook his hand from her shoulder. “
The Bloch-Bauers are not
Ostjuden,
” she said coldly. “We are German.” Maria was mortified. Bernhard turned away abruptly. Maria went to apologize. But Bernhard was shaking with laughter.

Not long after, Therese tripped and fractured her arm at the State Opera. The cast was awkward, and it was difficult to find a coat whose sleeve could be pulled over it. Therese threatened not to go out at all until her arm healed.
A few days later, a messenger arrived at the door with a gift-wrapped box carrying a note of condolence from Bernhard. Nestled in the rustling tissue paper was a pale lavender cashmere sweater, with only one full sleeve, and a cunning little shawl cape on the other side to cover the cast. It was beautiful, and fit Therese perfectly. Bernhard also sent an orchid, in a pale purple that matched the sweater. Even Therese admitted the sweater was in very good taste.

To Maria's father, the Altmanns were a great gift. His opera-singing son-in-law, with his bohemian musician friends, fit in perfectly at the Stubenbastei. Gustav was ebullient as he played his cello in the twilight one unseasonably mild Friday evening in March.
Hans Mühlbacher, a childhood friend of Maria, fiddled away on his violin.

Maria stood under an open window that let in the first soft breezes of spring. Gustav watched his “Duckling,” still a girl really, trying to act the part of the poised married lady she would become. At seventy-five, all seemed right in the world, as Gustav caught Maria's eye and smiled, playing his “fourth son,” the Rothschild Stradivarius.

Outside, shouts rose from the esplanade. A loud speech echoed from the apartments of their neighbors. What a racket! Gustav gestured to Maria to close the window. Instead, someone turned on the radio. Their chancellor was speaking. Gustav and Hans resignedly put down their bows. Chancellor
Kurt Schuschnigg was saying Austria would allow Hitler's forces to enter Austria. He said he would capitulate, to avoid shedding “
German blood.” “God protect Austria,” he said soberly. Gustav looked around the room. His guests were alarmed. What did this mean? Would Hitler really rule Austria? Guests pulled on their coats, called home. What was happening?

Maria and Fritz sat down with Gustav and Therese. Austria had weathered many storms over the years, with riots, shooting in the streets. The telephone rang. Some of their friends talked of leaving Austria immediately.

To Therese, this sounded extreme. She couldn't just pack overnight bags and get on a train. Gustav was not in the best of health. Fritz said the thing to do was remain calm. What Fritz really wanted was to talk to Bernhard.
But no one had seen Bernhard since he went to work that morning. Maria's old suitor,
Gustav Rinesch, was going to take Leopold's wife, Antoinette, to the Czech border at once, with their son, Peter, and he would try to take others.
But Robert wouldn't hear of leaving. Robert's wife, Thea, was about to have a baby. Leopold needed to stay and look after the family businesses.

No one agreed on the right thing to do.

Hans bid the disconcerted guests farewell and picked up his violin case. A convoy of trucks came down the Ringstrasse, filled with pink-cheeked adolescents in the brown-shirted uniform of Nazi enthusiasts. They raised their arms at Hans, crying, “
Heil Hitler!” and “Jews, kick the bucket!” A group of men in lederhosen marched up the Ringstrasse in formation, smiling exuberantly, singing about breaking Jewish bones in “the coming big war.” Men with torches mingled in the crowd, chanting, “Down with the Jews!”

Idiots, Hans mused. It's like carnival for the Nazi Party. At his student hostel, Hans sat down and wrote a letter to the chancellor, assuring him that most Austrians supported him, and “
Austria will live again.” Hans walked through the jubilant crowds to the chancellery and slipped the letter under the door.

Hans prayed this would blow over. Some of his old high school friends, even a few Catholic cousins, had joined the illegal Nazi Party in his hometown of St. Wolfgang. They weren't bad people. They called themselves “idealists,” and were openly enthusiastic about Hitler and his promises in
Mein Kampf.
They dismissed anti-Semitic violence as “excesses” committed by fringe “underminers,” whom the Führer couldn't control. When Hans returned to his hostel, a friend of his ran out, gleeful. Hitler was coming! He laughed off the violent Nazi chants. Don't worry about the songs of the “trembling of the broken bones”! he told Hans. “
It's just nonsense. Hansl, we will be united to Germany, and Austria will be great once again, like before World War I,” his friend said euphorically, as he and a group of students spilled into the street to join the celebration in the Stephensplatz.

A few mornings later, Maria awoke to loud noises in the garage. She dressed and went down the stairs. There were strange men there. They seemed to have pried open the garage door, and they were trying to roll her new car into the street. The men had swastikas on their sleeves. The officer in
charge of the men smiled when he saw Maria and introduced himself as
Gestapo agent
Felix Landau. They were “confiscating” the car, Landau explained. He was polite, obsequious, almost apologetic, as he asked Maria to show him into the apartment. Landau was not particularly intimidating. He was badly dressed and spoke uncultivated German. He seemed a little sheepish about barging in.

Was she alone? Landau asked, standing close to Maria, and smiling in a manner she found overly familiar. Maria felt a stab of fear. No, she said, my husband is with me, and suddenly the word “husband” seemed like an amulet of protection.

In the foyer of the Altmanns' apartment, Landau introduced himself to Fritz in the cordial tone of a social call. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he asked Maria to show him her valuables. Fritz held Maria's gaze for a moment, as if to say: just do what he says.

Fritz offered Landau a cigarette. They made small talk while Maria fetched her jewels. When she returned, Fritz was chatting nonchalantly with Landau at the kitchen table. Maria spread her earrings, brooches, and even her engagement ring on the table. Landau sorted through them. They were fine pieces, antique jewelry of Adele's from the Wiener Werkstatte. But Landau seemed unimpressed.

Then Maria recalled Adele's diamond necklace. Ferdinand had given it to her as a wedding present. If she didn't report it, they might be arrested. So she told Landau. His face lit up. She told Landau she would call her jeweler. As she went to the phone, she heard Fritz and Landau talking about what a rainy spring it had been.

“
Are you sure?” Maria's jeweler, an older, decent Catholic man, asked Maria with disconcerting concern in his voice. Maria had no choice! The jeweler sent the necklace over in a blue velvet box.

Landau eagerly pulled out Adele's diamond necklace, fingering it with satisfaction, then slipped it into his pocket like a handful of marbles. Maria was going to tell him that such a fine piece of jewelry could get scratched rolling around with pocket change and car keys. Adele had hardly worn the necklace after she decided she was a socialist. It was in perfect condition. But Maria remained silent.

Landau walked through the apartment, appraising the modern kitchen and bathroom. He ran his hand over Bernhard's luxurious brocade drapes, lingering in the bedroom and rubbing the fine sheets between his fingers, until Maria nervously led him back to the kitchen. Landau told Maria and Fritz they had to move out of the apartment. As she and Fritz packed, Landau
stopped them, demanding a satin dress, some fine silk stockings, an elegant black smoking suit. He spotted a silk dress hanging over a chair; Maria had set it aside to remove a red wine spot. He wanted that too. Did she have to give him anything he demanded? What difference did it make, really, Maria thought. A lot of these things were wedding gifts. She hadn't had them long enough to be attached to them. Landau's men, meanwhile, brought a suitcase and some small bags up the stairs. The Gestapo was taking the apartment Bernhard had created for them, after just ten days of married life there.