A Chosen Sparrow

by Vera Caspary

  I knew then that I did not belong at Liebhofen. This castle was not my true home. What was I doing here in a place where I was despised for something I had not chosen to be? Why am I a Jew? Why are Jews, what is a Jew? A people chosen by God, says the Bible. For what? Why me? I have heard that the ways of God are mysterious, never to be understood by mortal man, never questioned. I must ask! Did God choose my father and mother (and six million more) to suffer such cruel ends to simple lives, did He choose me to live without purpose? Was I chosen to be silent, to abandon my parents’ people, to scorn the human race in gratitude for venison and furs and handmade shoes? What Gerhard had betrayed was more important than a wife; what I had to pay was greater than any debt for clothes, the use of family jewels and a bit of affection.

  Burning with life I sprang up, no longer able to recline on a velvet lounge and count material losses. The officer with shining eyes, hidden three-thonged whip, gleaming boots, is waiting. Gerhard, too. In supporting evil he also embraces the faith and the horror. The Jewish wife is a screen for his real love, convenient and not repulsive; he has dared to whine his need, to beg affection. Was I to protect these two, to let them lie hidden until they could rise again in unholy power? They have to be exposed, shamed, their story told and retold, the scandal and filth screamed out so they can nevermore be accepted by people who hide their faces and whisper, “I never knew.” Good Herr Mayr hurt no one by playing a flute in the orchestra, but he was wrong in saying that it was sinful to remember and that his growing daughters should not be taught the truth.

  Knowing, I could not remain silent. For now I knew why I had been chosen.

  The bridge players were still sipping cognac, sucking sweets, giving attention to trumps and heart bids when I stole down the stairs with two bags, backed my car out of the garage, opened the inner lock of the gates and drove off. Not once did I turn my back for a final look at Liebhofen.

  The Gendarmerie is in the village of Soldegg, twelve kilometers away. The entrance to the ancient building is in a courtyard. I left my car on the street outside, went through an arched doorway, crossed the court on tiptoe in obedience to instincts born of my early encounters with uniformed officials. “Konrad Otto Hempel, convicted war prisoner, still at large, is to be found at Schloss Liebhofen…”

  My tongue was numb, my mouth dry, but I knew what I meant to say. A single bulb shed melancholy light over the Gendarmerie entrance. All but two of the ground-floor windows had been shuttered for the night. Through windows protected in the old-fashioned way with diamond-shaped bars of twisted iron I saw the three men at their card game. I knew them all: Inspektor Platzenhofer, Mimi Stompfer’s husband, hatless, smart in the gray uniform with red band and gilt braid on the collar, fat Imml of the Gasthof, the Gendarme’s cousin by his first wife, and Imml’s son, a handsome but sulky lad who rode around on a noisy motor bicycle, frightening old ladies and endangering the lives of children. This scene was like that other I had watched, a reproduction on a lower social plane, Schnaps cards instead of the gilt-edged bridge deck, local beer in place of imported liqueurs, pretzels instead of expensive sugared fruits. In the castle, Gerhard and Konni and Wolfy, here Platzenhofer and the two Immls; all of a kind, the older men with their nostalgia for the glory and privileges of the Nazi days, the younger ones, Wolfy and the Imml son, grown up with the whispers of a glorious past, waiting for it to be again as it had been for their fathers.

  I left the courtyard as quietly as I had entered, returned to my car and took the road to Vienna. Beyond the rows of gray buildings the sky had become rosy. I took a room in a small hotel, tried to sleep a bit, bathed, lingered in a coffeehouse with a newspaper until it was late enough for me to make my report. After I had told a number of minor officials why I had come there and traveled from one to another office of the Polizeidirektion, I was admitted to the presence of a pleasant, middle-aged gentleman not in uniform. His office was large and well furnished with mahogany chairs, the walls hung with fine old engravings of the Austrian countryside. His manners also honored tradition. “Indeed, Frau Metzger, this is important information. But,” he allowed a discreet pause to show me that he perceived the delicacy of the demand, “I am afraid we shall also have to ask you the name of the hiding place and its owner.”

  “Schloss Liebhofen, Altbach-am-Sternsee. It is owned by Gerhard von Richtgarten Metzger.” My voice was firm. I gave my present address, too, in case he should wish further details or, as he tactfully suggested, “to act as a witness.” At last it was done and the official gentleman himself escorted me to the door, bowing and assuring me of the department’s gratitude. I smiled and murmured, “Auf wiedersehen” as befitted a gracious lady, but my legs were barely able to carry me to a taxicab.

  VIII

  In the window of a pastry shop beloved of Viennese women there stood at Christmastime a castle made of marzipan, an entire castle complete to the last detail and so exquisitely shaped that every miniature tower and window slit seemed real. What care and research must have gone into that almond paste edifice! And who could eat a castle? But there it was, accurate and indigestible, and all of the Christmas shoppers crowded shoulder to shoulder before the window; among them Leni with her little dog on the leash, the dog trembling among strange feet, Leni gaping like that skinny waif who used to stare with awe at the poor goods displayed in after-war shops.

  Vienna is not like that today. We have everything: jewels, silks, furs from the entire world, cashmere, carpets, television, machines to wash the clothes and dry the hair; and food, great heaps of fruit from the sunny countries, strings of sausage bursting with fat, mountains of imported cheese, tins filled with pâté de foie gras, caviar, stuffed olives, tropical nuts, vats of oysters and lobsters with their claws still groping in the barrels. Pastries are in bewildering variety, the dough like tissue paper, cream fillings exotically flavored. Krampuses are made of rich dark chocolate as befits the Christmas devil while St. Nikolaus is brightly tinted marzipan and there are angels, decorated trees, flowers, toy-filled boots, animals, elves and houses, all to eat. I cannot get enough of these sights because I am still a child in my love of fantasies and toys. Nothing that has happened in my life can turn me into a woman whose dreams are about diamonds and washing machines.

  The marzipan castle had a particular meaning for me. At first I saw it with no more than wonder at the cunning workmanship, then suddenly it became important, bringing back memories in both clarity and confusion so that on a desolate night it told me something I needed to understand.

  The weeks between that Christmas season and the late August night when I had left Liebhofen had been a test of character. Life in the castle had softened and spoiled me so that I often became petulant when I could not afford special privileges. The doors of expensive restaurants no longer swung open for me, headwaiters did not bow and whisper, “Küss die Hand, gnädige Frau,” aristocrats no longer turned to stare in envy at my jewels. I had left Liebhofen in such a hurry that I had taken little with me and had no prospect of buying costly new clothes. I had to learn not to sulk and pity myself, to be content with plainer food, to practice economy again. Believe me, it is easier to learn to spend money than to be frugal. Fortunately my lovely little car was registered in my name so that I was able to sell it. This gave me capital to live on, but I was so afraid I would never get any more that I practiced economy like a miser. The small hotel was too expensive and I found a room in a seedy pension.

  Dutifully I reported the change of address to the Polizeidirektion. I did not see the courteous gentleman, but received thanks from his secretary who promised that I would be informed of developments. I listened to the radio several times a day, read newspapers eagerly in the hope that I would hear what had happened to the convicted Nazi criminal, Konrad Otto Hempel. The longer I waited the more fretful I became, believed myself followed on the streets, had an extra bolt fastened to my bedroom door.

  When my telephone rang I started as though I had been shot. Who would ca
ll me? I had no more friends in Vienna. The Mayrs were gone, Martin married, the group of young intellectuals scattered, the Königshimmel in the hands of an entertainment syndicate and Herr Kraut operating a night club in New York. I was afraid Gerhard had come after me or sought revenge through secret cronies. He might even have sent Wolfy.

  The call came from the office of the courteous gentleman at the Polizeidirektion. He requested another interview. “My dear Frau Metzger,” he said when I was seated in one of his mahogany chairs, “may I ask why you reported to me that the convicted war criminal, Hempel, was in your husband’s house?”

  I answered that I had seen him there.

  “Are you certain?”

  I was shocked at the doubt in his voice, indignant at the skepticism. Why should I have made such a report if I had not seen the man? The official gentleman listened patiently to my nervous exclamations, but informed me that the person in question had been seen by no one else. “What,” I asked, “about the so-called Count von Mefistdorf?”

  “No one has ever heard of that person.”

  “That’s the name he went by. Made-up, no doubt. My husband…Herr Metzger…told it to me, and I told you.”

  “Let me read the report I have received,” the gentleman said. There were several pages which he read at the tempo of a schoolchild who has to spell out every word. Every point was repeated several times. I had to double my fingers into my palms and hold my hands tight in my lap to keep from beating them on the table and exclaiming that I knew, I knew! Schloss Liebhofen had been thoroughly searched, everyone in residence questioned. No one knew anything about the alleged Hempel or the so-called von Mefistdorf. There were always many visitors at the castle, however, and the servants not always certain of their names.

  The information had come from Imre, the butler. He had not hesitated to show the apartment in the eastern wing. It had been used as a sort of retreat by Herr Metzger who suffered from extreme nervousness and had spent some time in a sanitarium in Zurich. The hidden rooms had been arranged for his solitary comfort. There was no mystery about them.

  The report had come from the Gendarmerie at Soldegg, signed by Inspektor Platzenhofer. The Vienna official considered it a satisfactory document. Only one question puzzled him. He stared down at me over spectacles pushed low on his nose. “May I ask you why you did not make your report directly to the Gendarmerie at Soldegg?”

  I considered for a moment, thought myself clever in finding an answer that would not show prejudice. “It seemed to me too important for the local police. It wasn’t just an ordinary case, like a burglary, it seemed to me a government matter.”

  He smiled briefly. “What a pity. You see, if the report had been made at the time and there had been any such person in the place,” he paused so that I should have time to consider these things, “they might have been able to do something about it. A pity,” he repeated.

  “Was the butler the only one who gave them the information?” I asked. “What about Herr Metzger or his secretary?”

  “Haven’t you heard that section of the report, Frau Metzger?”

  “There was nothing in it about them.”

  He adjusted his glasses and looked through the reports again. “Oh, I am sorry. I must have missed this page, the paper is so thin,” he explained fussily. “Here it tells us, Herr Metzger and Count Wolfgang von Schamberg were not there. Also,” he added with calculated urbanity, “Frau Metzger had gone.”

  Just as blandly I asked, “Where are the gentlemen?”

  “I am sorry, the report does not say.”

  That evening I telephoned to Hansi in Altbach. Before I could ask any questions she scolded, “You naughty child, where are you? You might have stopped to say good-bye before you left us.”

  I told her, but without giving details, that I had gone away in a great hurry in the middle of the night.

  “Why do you tell me lies, Leni? Are you ashamed to let me know that you went off with Gerhard?” When I told her that I had left Gerhard, she again accused me of falsehood. “Tell the truth. I knew it all the time. Joe saw you go off in the car with them.”

  “That’s impossible. I left by myself in my own car. How can Joe say such a thing?”

  “Wait, he’s here now. He’ll talk to you himself.”

  Joe said that he had seen the black Mercedes with Wolfy at the wheel and Gerhard sitting beside me on the back seat. There had been several traveling bags piled on the front seat beside Wolfy, and I had worn my hooded blue motoring coat.

  “Not me, Joe. I wasn’t there.”

  Hansi took the phone again and told me she had telephoned Liebhofen that same morning and Imre had told her the Herrschaften had gone abroad. Over the weekend the servants had been dismissed, so that only the butler was left in the castle with the couple in the gatehouse.

  “But tell me, Leni, you are not with Gerhard? Then who was the lady in your blue coat?”

  “You can’t guess?”

  Hansi gasped. “No! But you told me he had gone away the day before.”

  “I was misinformed.”

  “Have you gone to see Dr. Heinz Holtz?”

  Hansi was angry that I had not visited the famous lawyer and once more lectured me for being such an impractical idiot. I made no effort to defend myself, preferring to let her think me stupid to confessing that I had been afraid to consult a lawyer about a divorce or take any action that would call Gerhard’s attention to me. Wolfy’s warnings had been effective.

  Hansi offered to lend me money, but I told her with great pride that I did not have to worry about finances. With frugality I would be able to live a long time on the proceeds of the sale of my car. I became more miserly, avoided restaurants, brought a few rolls, a bit of ham or a pair of Würstl to my bedroom. Pacing the small chamber I fumed and despaired, saw evil unending, the tormentors triumphant, the world indifferent. The pension was on a busy street. Under my windows streetcars jangled, motors raced, radios blared from music shops, men argued about money, shoppers fretted and bargained, forgetting the past, evading the future, trying to find comfort in the fast cars, the bargains, the machine-made music.

  It was a lonely period, my only pleasure the correspondence with Victor in faraway San Francisco. Aside from the people who interviewed me about jobs and those who listened at auditions, I spoke to no one except storekeepers, the two maids at the pension and my landlady. My poor little dog had to get used to city pavements, learn to take her exercise at the end of a leash and wait like a prisoner in my bedroom while I went out to look for jobs. Once in a while to console her I would take a taxi to the nearest point in the Weinerwald. Off the leash she went wild, sniffed the ground ecstatically, came back to dance before me on her hind legs. Sometimes the same mindless joy would seize me, I would run behind her, spin like a mad child, dance and skip in the ecstasy of freedom in the open air.

  After many interviews and auditions I found the job which I still have at the night club, Neues Wien. When I had my third week’s pay in hand, I found a small but cheerful apartment with a bit of a garden where Litzi can chase birds. Now that we are more secure and can take our exercise privately we do not make so many of these consoling journeys, nor experience such blissful contrasts. Litzi often comes with me to the night club and sleeps in my dressing room while I am singing.

  December was a gloomy month whose gray atmosphere was not once interrupted by a day of sunshine or snow. In spite of its pleasant decorations and the plants which I had to bring inside and set on a table near the stove, my apartment seemed cheerless. For Litzi and myself I bought a small tree with delightful ornaments and sweets but this could not console me for loneliness inappropriate to the holiday season.

  I tried not to let this melancholy mood influence my songs. A performer should not show personal problems and disabilities to audiences who come to find pleasure. The night club does good business at this season. Waiters rush about with trays loaded with the best Austrian and German wines, with Scotch whiske
y, French champagne and cognac, with slivovitz and baratsk from Yugoslavia, vodka from Poland. At this season few of our patrons are foreigners, nearly all are natives of this city. They have money to spend on wine and food, on pleasure and clothes, but they do not look elegant. The men are heavy, stuffed like sausages into dark business suits. Both young and older women have their hair dyed extraordinary colors.

  On this particular evening after I had finished a group of American jazz songs which the audience enthusiastically applauded (with three encores) I started toward my dressing room where I rest while the customers are dancing. In the narrow corridor my boss waited.

  “Leni, there is a gentleman who would like you to drink a glass of champagne with him.” It was incorrect of the boss to break a rule that all of his employees had to obey. If a night club performer were to accept half the invitations to drink with gentlemen who wished to buy her champagne, she would have neither time nor voice for her work. “I know it is not the usual thing,” the boss explained, “but the gentleman is an old friend of yours. And his late father was a great man, one of our beloved leaders.”

  I had no time to refuse. Wolfy was already there, blocking the corridor. His bow was graceful, graceful also the gesture with which he raised my reluctant hand to his lips. “I could not resist the temptation to congratulate you, Leni. Your voice is superb.”