by Vera Caspary
“But this is a serious man.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hansi, “he is a man and you are a woman.”
“That is quite obvious.”
“You become passionate about the wrong things, Leni.” She waited for an answer, grew impatient, added, “There are better uses for emotion.”
“But there are many questions I wish to talk about with him. Things I can’t discuss with Gerhard because he is often stubborn and,” but I decided not to mention Wolfy’s sensitivity, “I really need to talk to someone intelligent so that I will understand myself better and know more about the world.”
She drew long knotted fingers through her hair, destroying the careful arrangement of curls. “You need an affair, you stupid goose.”
I walked away from her to the window, looked across the small curved bay toward the peninsula where Liebhofen stands. The still water was a mirror reflecting a fortress built to withstand the attacks of Huns, Magyars, Bohemians and Turks. There had been men with bows and arrows on the battlements, men with pikes and swords, men with guns. The real castle was strong and alarming; the reflected castle shimmered in the water.
“It would do you good, child. You would not be so nervous.”
“Do you think I would take a lover like a tonic for my health, Hansi? Besides, I am married, I have a kind husband, it would not be right…”
Crayoned eyebrows rose to twin peaks. Hansi pulled me toward her, kissed both cheeks. “Poor child, I want you to be happier.”
As always I grew resentful when people showed this note of compassion in speaking of my marriage. I pulled away and said in a cross voice, “Please do not bother yourself about my happiness. I am very happy with my husband, I love him!”—snatched up my handbag and hurried away, calling a farewell over my shoulder.
The embrace smelled of lard, sweat and newly slaughtered chickens. I did not have to turn and look to see whose arms bound me. It was at the old bathing pier, the one with the boarded-up docks and steps and Verboten signs on the gate that had been locked since the town had built the new bathing pier where it cost four schillings for the privilege of entering, and two more for the use of the dressing rooms. The old pier was used only by children small enough to crawl under the barriers. And the Stompfers, of course.
She was waiting for her grandchildren. Upon seeing me her enthusiasm was boundless. I was her darling, her little sweetheart, her baby girl; I had never looked lovelier, nor had so beautiful a gown been seen by her old eyes. Her effusions made me feel guilty. I had come early to this rendezvous, I could not endure waiting for the hour when I was to meet Vic. And now, squinting down the road for the sight of his car, I opened my purse.
“Oh, dearest Frau Stompfer, I am so sorry, I would like SO much to meet your sweet grandchildren. But not today, today I am very busy. Will you buy them a few sweets for me? I will come to Mimi’s house soon, I have some gifts and some dresses, I have meant to come for ever so long-but,” I was almost out of breath, straining to be away from her curiosity and vile odors, “I have been very, very busy. Auf wiedersehen, I hope to see you very soon…” and I tore off in the direction of my rendezvous.
A few meters down the road Vic stopped his car. “Your cheeks are very rosy,” he said.
“I’ve been telling lies.”
“If you blush like that, you’ll never be any good at intrigue. What lies? To whom?”
“Just a foolish excuse, quite useless.” I disliked saying I had made the first move toward blackmail. There was no reason for me to feel guilty.
We had been meeting every day and every day there was the same high rise of excitement within me. Even now at the recollection of those meetings, the first touch of fingertips, the eyes not daring to show what lay behind, the rhythms that agitated my heart, the song that accompanied Victor’s voice, returns to torment me. Writing this account of that time I cannot sit quietly at the desk but must cross the room a dozen times. The lower part of my back tightens, the rhythms are aroused again, my loins are not firm and I become aware of a dark emptiness as though surgeons had come in the night and taken away my womanhood. Yet it was a blessed time, and the world rejoiced with us. The rain ended, the fields sparkled as in spring, sunshine was interrupted only by delicate and bright-hued clouds,
How carefully I chose my dresses, grateful to my husband for his talent for color, his generosity, his taste. Amethyst and iris, periwinkle, peacock, azure, turquoise, sapphire…the full range of blues from lilac to green and each, Vic said, gave my eyes a different hue. I was so vain, when my hair was stubborn and would not wave as I wished, I was ready for suicide. Once there were two small pimples on my cheek; I felt as flawed as a cripple.
I was greedy for his admiration, often coy and girlish and, in spite of my remonstrances to Hansi, tried to keep our conversations on a personal level. Yet I often grew angry because I felt that Victor was trying to probe into matters that were too personal. He showed great interest in my husband’s character and background in prewar Germany, asked direct questions.
“Isn’t it clear how he feels about Jews? He married me.”
“I want to know about the past. Has he ever talked to you about his feelings at the time?”
“The war? He had to go into the Army. He was eighteen when it started and he belonged to a military family, but he had no talent as a soldier. His uncles and cousins were ashamed because he did not rise higher in the Army.”
“What about the concentration camps? Hasn’t he ever talked about them?”
“My husband was very sympathetic. When I first met him, he was always asking me to tell him about the ugly things in the prison. And…” I could not go on. My mouth was sour, and I turned my head away so that my face should not tell anything. Months had passed since Gerhard had invited me to share his anguish over the hidden books, and I had often wondered why he no longer seemed to need this pain and stimulation.
“That wasn’t my question, Leni. I asked how he felt about it then.”
“None of his family cared for Hitler,” I could answer righteously. Gerhard had often told me about his boyhood at the beginning of the Nazi times. He had been fond of a girl, Charlotte Lowenstein, who had grown up on his street in Berlin, like him, in a walled garden. She had thick brown curls and an ugly governess whom the children would elude so that they could play boy and girl games together. One morning, just before Gerhard’s eleventh birthday, Lotte Lowenstein and her parents, her sisters and the ugly governess went away. The boy had been angry with the Führer for having robbed him of his playmate. Frau Irmengarde had also disapproved of the little Austrian upstart. “The German people want a noble leader,” she said, also, “Our great traditions demand an aristocrat as our Führer.” Nevertheless she, as well as Herr Metzger, thought the stories of Jewish persecution were foreign propaganda. None of their friends had ever seen good Jews badly treated. It was only the swindlers, traitors. Communists and international moneylenders who were exiled and punished. Her husband had so little faith in the Nazis that he had, illegally but cautiously, deposited great sums of money in the numbered accounts of Swiss banks,
“So you see, Gerhard was no Nazi.”
“I see,” said Vic dryly.
“Oh, please,” I said in the same way I had protested to Gerhard in earlier days, “must we always speak of such ugly things? All that’s over now, let’s enjoy our lives.” To divert him I laid my hand upon his arm and looked at him with an invitation in my eyes.
He had not at first tried to make love, but when he told me that he had decided to stay a bit longer with his aunt in Salzburg, my imagination went to work, passionately. Victor and I had not tried to hide our meetings, we always walked boldly through the meadows and on the village streets.
One day, over coffee on the terrace, Gerhard asked, “Who’s your new friend?”
I gave Victor’s name blandly, said that he lived in America, was a well-known journalist and had come to our country to gather material for a series of arti
cles for an important American journal.
“What,” asked Wolfy, “are these articles about?”
“The new Nazis. You know they are very active now.” I disregarded the effect on Wolfy’s sensibilities and spoke straight out, looking past Gerhard’s scowl to the tall peaks of mountains glittering with such white light that my eyes closed against the fierce rays.
“Indeed,” said Gerhard.
“Are the Americans still interested in that old warmed-over hash?” Wolfy asked.
I tried not to show too much enthusiasm in telling them that my American friend had greater knowledge than we of unwholesome developments in central Europe. Gerhard did not seem to enjoy my frankness; it irked him to be considered inferior in any way.
He said, “This is what you talk about on your long walks?”
“How boring for you,” sighed Wolfy.
“No more than all the talk about masonry and pipes and the old foundations of the eastern wing which hasn’t changed one bit since you started making those big plans,” I exploded.
“I am sorry if your wife finds my company tedious,” Wolfy said with an oblique smile toward Gerhard.
“Oh, I am sorry, please,” ashamed of bad humor and discourtesy, I became as humble as an urchin, “forgive me. It is only that I have felt so left out when you and Gerhard talk about these things, and I am not even allowed to look at them.”
“Forgive us, we thought they would bore you.”
We each tried to exceed the other in offering apologies. Still rueful, I hastened to explain that Mr. Freund and I liked to discuss music, English and American books, and that my new friend could talk brilliantly about modern art.
“Why don’t you ask him to Liebhofen? If he’s such good company.”
“May I?”
“Why ask me? You are mistress of Liebhofen. Ask anyone you like,” Gerhard said as innocently as if he had never confessed prejudice against other people’s friends.
Victor accepted the invitation. Gerhard fussed like Frau Mayr when the priest had come to her table. “Do you think he will like venison? Or would an American prefer roast beef?”
An exquisite supper was ordered. Wolfy regretted that he could not join us. He had to fly off to Berlin to attend to some business matters for Gerhard. I was not at all sorry although I am sure he would have been charming to the American guest. My husband suggested that I wear a white gown. When we went into the formal dining salon I saw that the table had been decorated with white flowers, set with white Augarten porcelain and the English silver service. All of this careful preparation to show to an American journalist the elegance of Leonora’s life in the castle. I enjoyed the exhibition. Victor gave most of his attention to my husband, discussed politics, history, economics, Europe and America. From time to time I would receive a glinting message from the clever eyes behind the rimmed glasses.
“Intelligent young fellow,” commented Gerhard when our guest had gone. “You’ve shown good taste.” An approving hand stroked my hair.
A few days later Victor invited us to the final performance of the Salzburg Festival, Richard Strauss’s opera, Ariadne auf Naxos. I lived through horrible moments of suspense before Gerhard gave his decision.
“Very kind of your friend to invite us. We’ll go if you wish it so much, dear.”
My female mind immediately became concerned with the choice of a gown. The day before the performance Gerhard changed his mind. “You know that I am fond of music, dear, but not these modern composers. Do you despise me for not caring about Richard Strauss?”
“It is your taste,” I said, trying to be cheerful in spite of the depression that had hit me like a shower of stones. “If you would try to listen, I am sure you would appreciate it. Because you are a man of artistic instincts,” I added, flattering him because I did so much want to sit next to Vic through the opera.
Gerhard shrugged one shoulder, his usual sign of indifference. “I don’t mind if you go. Why not take Hansi along? She’ll enjoy it and,” a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, “will be an excellent chaperone.”
“Do you think I need one?” I laughed, added that Victor’s aunt would be with us. We were to meet at the Festspielhaus.
“I was not questioning your honor,” my husband replied solemnly, “but I thought you’d want company. It would be boring to take that long drive with only a chauffeur for company.”
On the day of Ariadne auf Naxos (I had barely slept for thinking of the pleasure ahead) I had an early telephone call. Victor said that he would like to see me alone. Like a schoolgirl about to have her first secret meeting with a boy, I fretted about my hair, my dress, my complexion. At last I chose a lilac dirndl with a pink striped apron and a pink and lilac scarf knotted at my throat. At ten o’clock I met him at the old bathing pier. Victor told me that he would leave in two days. “Then we must make the most of the little time we have,” I said. We walked shamelessly hand in hand through the hot meadows. I wore no stockings. Nettles stung my legs. Peasants looked up from work to call, “Grüss Gott, gnädige Frau.” I did not care who saw us or what they thought.
I took him on my secret walk which climbs a hill, crosses a crest where in early spring the snowflowers are as white as new drifts, descends a winding path beside a musical brook and leads to a pond and fern dell. The water here is like melted diamonds. In deepest shadow its clarity dazzles. The fern dell is my private jungle where unseen monkeys chatter, distant beasts roar and where the thick foliage shelters crocodiles who live in the stream. I have seen their rutted skin disguised as moss-grown rock. Do you know those paintings of Rousseau where the green is so rich it seems to dye your eyes with its verdure and the leaf patterns are at the same time so complicated and so delicate that you cannot follow the wonderful designs? This is how it was in my private jungle which has also the accompaniment of the brook and the joy of birds.
Victor and I touched each other lovingly and kissed in the fragrance. I often wonder how it would have been if I had not turned so quickly from his ardor and questioning hands. Whenever I look back to that day I know it is not our sins we remember with remorse but our omissions. Victor accepted the decision in silence. Perhaps he wished to avoid adultery; perhaps it was because he had come, not to make love, but to ask questions and in the midst of the kiss, or at its beginning, knew that he could not carry out his purpose if he was to be diverted by physical pleasures. I have thought about it a great deal since that morning.
“Leni, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you.” In the fragrance we stood face to face, withdrawn, awkward, waiting like strangers to be introduced. Perhaps, I thought with delightful apprehension, he would ask me to divorce my husband. The photographic lens of the imagination retains the memory of such moments. I saw myself with Victor on the large bridge of San Francisco (which I knew from pictures) walking arm in arm like happy travelers in an advertisement.
“Have you heard your husband speak of Wardenthal?”
The bridge collapsed.
Victor misunderstood my silence. “You needn’t be afraid to talk about it. I know the facts. I just wanted to know if he’d told you anything.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The camp at Wardenthal.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Then why are you so agitated?”
“I am not.” I shook with chagrin in remembering hopes not yet buried, was also angry because he was turning this rendezvous into a research session. “Why do you ask me?”
“People talk. In a close relationship,” he hesitated sheepishly, “in marriage, people tell each other secrets. If you’ve given a promise…”
“I don’t know anything,” I said firmly.
“Hasn’t your husband told you about his career in the war? Haven’t you ever asked?”
I backed away slowly as in a formal dance. “I told you about that. He had to go into the Army, he was forced to, but he was not talented in that way,” I almost s
houted, and heard mockery echo in the clatter of the brook, “he never rose higher than Oberleutnant. A member of the von Richtgarten family who were such famous officers in the old Kaiser’s days, and even in this war, his cousins!” Shrill, defensive, baying like a frightened animal, I announced that I had never heard the name he mentioned, and whatever he was talking about was probably wrong.
“Wardenthal was one of the smaller concentration camps…there were a great many, you know…whose names weren’t widely publicized. It’s in the Protektorat. Oberleutnant Gerhard von Richtgarten Metzger was stationed close by.”
“Oh, that! In the Sudetenland?”
“So he’s told you about it?”
“Not any name, only that he was a communications officer, directing military transportation.” I repeated what Gerhard had told me about his duties in the railroad junction far away from the final battles of the war and the defeat; like thousands of officers, men without guilt in the performance of duties to their fatherland. In an army there are clerks as well as soldiers, engineers as well as killers. “He always felt fortunate to have had this ability for organizing so that he could be in an office instead of at the front. He could not have stood the fighting, he was always very sensitive to…”
“What’s wrong, Leni? You’re shivering.”
“…the sight of cruelty and blood.”
“You’re not catching cold?”
“I would like to go home.”
“As you say.”
But we stood without moving, torn within ourselves and in conflict with each other. Victor took off his dark glasses so that I saw his eyes naked and red-pricked with desire.
I hated him for having submitted so readily to my resistance. I hated the sun, too, for its brilliance, the brook for its sparkle, the trees for their symmetry. The day had promised so much.
Passionately, “You phony!” I cried, using his own word. “I know now what you wanted of me. You came here to use me, to find out facts for your precious writing, your holy work! You aren’t human.”
“If that were true, I haven’t succeeded very well. You haven’t been of much use to me, you know.”
