by Andrew Grey
“Art restorer,” Jonathon corrected lightly.
“Yes, an art restorer,” Hans said softly, repeating the words. “We go up?”
“Yes, we go up.” The staircase shook slightly as they climbed higher and higher into the dome. As the surface area got smaller, the frescoed figures became fewer but larger. Higher and higher they climbed, the floor below looking very far away. As they approached the top, the cupola formed around them, the area becoming smaller, the painting of a dove that decorated the top getting closer and closer as the cupola pillars were revealed to be just plaster and paint instead of marble. The effect from below was striking, but up close, all the artist’s tricks were revealed. Peering out the small cupola windows, Jonathon could indeed see much of the city. He recognized St. Stephen’s, where he and Hans had been the night before, as well as parts of the Ringstrasse. “Thank you for bringing me here,” he said softly to Hans, who beamed back at him before he, too, became entranced with the view.
“There’s the opera house,” Hans pointed out before looking out the other side. “And way over there is the wheel at the Prater.” He sounded so excited.
Jonathon looked out and found himself getting excited along with his young friend, making a note to take him to Vienna’s version of an amusement park as a thank-you for showing him around. “Are you ready to go back down?”
“If you are.” Hans turned and began descending the stairs, with Jonathon following behind. Once they reached the platform, they walked to the elevator, waiting their turn to be taken back to the ground floor. “Are you getting hungry?” He already knew the answer, as he suspected Hans was one of those boys who could always eat. The nod and smile only confirmed his thoughts. “Then let’s go get some lunch. Where do you suggest? Preferably a place we can eat outside.” The elevator arrived and they filed inside, riding down to the main level.
Hans led the way toward the exit. “Do you want to walk or ride the subway?”
Jonathon automatically looked toward the sky, which was blue as anything, the refreshing breeze caressing his skin, and thought, Perfect. “Let’s walk.” Jonathon followed as Hans led them out of the parklike grounds in front of the church and into the unfamiliar streets. They emerged on the Ringstrasse and Hans led them farther, toward the center of town, through old neighborhoods and down commercial streets, until they emerged in the central square again. “You choose where you’d like to eat.” Hans looked at him questioningly, and Jonathon nodded his head. “It’s my treat, so choose anywhere you’d like.” He made an expansive gesture, and Hans grinned, turning toward a café with tables and umbrellas set outside.
Seated by a starchily dressed maître d’, Jonathon took the offered menu, unsure of what the man was saying, but Hans gave instructions, and the imposing man nodded briskly before walking away. Jonathon decided it was probably best to let Hans handle things, so he looked around, watching people and enjoying the slower, less hurried pace. A waiter stopped by, and they placed their order, with Jonathon thankful the menu had rudimentary English translations. He’d been to Germany years before, so the food wasn’t completely strange, and he did his best not to butcher the German names of the dishes. “So, how much more school do you have?” Jonathon asked once the waiter had left.
“Three weeks, then I’m on holiday for a month before I start at the university. I’m lucky because I will stay here in Wien.”
“Aren’t you young to be attending university?”
Hans nodded and smiled proudly. “I finished what you call high school a year early, so I will be younger than most of my colleagues.” The waiter returned, bringing a large beer for each of them. Jonathon almost said something, but then remembered that Hans was legal to drink. Just another reminder of how different things were in Europe.
“I know you want to be an art restorer. Do you know how long you will need to study?”
Hans took a gulp of his beer before answering, wiping the froth off his lips. “At least six years so I can do what I want. Oma and Mutti say they will help all they can. After I graduate, I will still have to perform my military service, but then I will maybe get a better assignment.” The conversation trailed off when the server brought the salad course, and Hans began eating as though he were starved. Jonathon ate as well, taking his time, watching everything going on.
The main courses came and were eaten, followed by a pair of chocolate mousse desserts. By the time they were done, Jonathon felt stuffed and ready for the walk home.
Hans kept up a running commentary as they made their way through the city streets, past the opera house, where Jonathon bought tickets for later in the week. A moment of melancholy fell over him when he realized that he’d bought two out of habit. Continuing down Operngasse, the two men turned onto their small street. Just around the main corner, Jonathon saw the thin youngster standing at the corner near the house, on the far side of the street, selling himself to passersby. Jonathon raised his hand, and the waif raised in his hand in response, smiling slightly before turning his attention to potential customers.
As they approached, Jonathon heard Hans huff and then run across the street to where a car had stopped in front of the boy. Hans began to yell something in German, and the car sped away, peeling rubber as it did. Hans continued yelling, and the boy stumbled and fell as Fabian came out of the house, seeing Hans and running over. “Hans, it’s okay, leave him alone.”
Fabian reached his brother at the same time Jonathon did. Fabian pulled Hans away, trying to calm his brother down. “Are you okay?” Jonathon asked, helping the boy back to his feet.
“Yes,” he replied haltingly in English, brushing himself off. Fabian led Hans back toward the house, and the street quieted.
“Why don’t you work another corner? Because I don’t think he’s going to leave you alone.”
“I can’t,” he said as another car slowed and then sped away. The kid’s eyes followed the car with a look of despair, and Jonathon found himself digging into his pockets, pulling out some bills before pressing them into a slender hand and walking away.
As he approached the house, Jonathon saw Fabian standing on the sidewalk, watching him. “Why did you do that? Why did you give him money?”
Jonathon hesitated before answering, studying Fabian, realizing his tone wasn’t accusatory, even though he wasn’t sure what it was. “There but by the grace of God,” was Jonathon’s only response as he turned away and made his way through the still car-filled courtyard, into his apartment, and up the circular staircase.
Seeing Greg’s picture, Jonathon fell onto the bed, staring into that familiar, smiling face. For the first time he could remember since Greg’s death, he’d gone hours without thinking about him. He and Hans had had a great time in the city, and he’d loved the time he’d spent with his young friend. But now Jonathon could feel his unhappy past, a past long before Greg, starting to rear its ugly head. Picking up the picture, he once again stared into that loving face. “I never knew why you loved me, but you did.” Putting the picture back, he forced himself off the bed. He had to move on. He couldn’t let himself be defined by his past, either the happy one with Greg, or the years before that he’d worked so hard to forget—that Greg had helped him forget. Walking down the stairs, he stepped out on the small balcony, chin resting against his hands, watching the now-quiet street.
Chapter 5
THE next few days were blessedly and relaxingly quiet. Jonathon spent part of his days wandering the city, and he’d even found a fantastic bookstore with an extensive English language selection, so he’d spent time just sitting on his balcony in the chair he’d bought and dragged home, reading and enjoying the quiet. Occasionally, he’d look up from his book as conversation or other sounds from the street intruded, but otherwise he read contentedly.
Tuesday afternoon found him quietly reading, feet up on a stool he’d dragged out, a cool drink on a small table. With a yawn, Jonathon found himself closing his eyes, ready for a short afternoon nap, the b
ook resting open on his lap. Sinking into the chair, he drifted into a light doze.
A sound invaded his peace, one that definitely didn’t belong. At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard it, but it repeated, and without thinking he stood up, his book hitting the floor as he looked over the wall toward the street. There it was again, and this time he was sure it was the sound of someone being hit, followed by words he didn’t understand, but the tone, a combination of fear, near-panic, and pleading, sent Jonathon racing through the house and out his door, weaving through the courtyard and out onto the sidewalk. “What are you doing?” he yelled as he saw a large man holding someone who looked like the young man Hans kept chasing away, dragging him into a narrow passageway between two buildings. “Let him go or I’ll call the police!” Jonathon yelled, hoping the men understood English. Jonathon kept yelling, seeing doors open and a few people stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Looking around, not sure what he should do, he saw Fabian rushing up the sidewalk, the door to the house left open. “What is it, Jonathon? What’s going on?”
“Someone’s being attacked,” Jonathon said, pointing toward the passageway, following Fabian as he peered between the buildings. He heard him gasp.
Without thinking, Jonathon hurried around the corner. The young man lay crumpled against the side of the building, blood staining his shirt, the red patch growing larger. “Get me something I can use to stop the bleeding and call an ambulance,” Jonathon yelled to Fabian, who just stood there, looking down at the boy without moving. “Fabian, go!” Jonathon shook Fabian’s shoulder, and he seemed to come back to himself, nodding and hurrying away.
Taking off his shirt, he bunched it in his hand, placing the fabric over the wound, pressing hard. Fabian returned with a white cloth, and Jonathon replaced his soaked shirt with the cloth, pressing down. “I called emergency services,” Fabian said as he knelt next to him. “Is he going to be okay?” Jonathon looked at the boy’s pale complexion and closed eyes, shrugging his answer. He just didn’t know.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jonathon heard the two-tone wail of sirens that got louder and louder before stopping nearby. Footsteps rushed toward them, and instructions were barked at him that he didn’t understand. “Speak English, for God’s sake!” Jonathon’s patience was running thin.
One of the men placed his hand on the makeshift bandage, and Jonathon let go, stepping back, watching as the men did their job. For a second, as Jonathon watched, it wasn’t the boy, but Greg. “Not again,” he whispered to himself, clamping his eyes closed to stop the impending tears.
“Jonathon,” Fabian said from behind him, a hand touching his arm. “We should get out of their way.”
Jonathon walked to the man who was standing back. He seemed to be in charge. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I think we got here in time,” was the only answer Jonathon got as more sirens sounded. The police arrived, taking charge and asking questions. Jonathon told them what he could, describing the man he’d seen to the best of his ability, and after being dismissed by the police, he walked back toward the house with Fabian next to him.
“Thank you for helping,” Jonathon told Fabian blankly as he walked between the cars to his door.
“Are you feeling well? You look a little white.”
Jonathon went inside, sitting on one of the dining room chairs, half-watching as Fabian searched through the cupboards, coming up with a bottle. Pouring the amber liquid into a glass, Fabian handed it to him, and Jonathon drank it without thinking, first coughing at the unexpected bite before downing the rest in a gulp. “Thank you. What was that?”
“Brandy. I’m surprised it's still here,” Fabian said as he poured a second glass. “Would you like to be alone? I can go.” Gulping, he emptied the glass, setting it in the sink.
Jonathon shook his head. “No, please.” He motioned toward the stairs and followed Fabian up to the living room. “I hope he’ll be okay,” Jonathon said as he sat in one of the chairs.
“Can I ask something?”
Jonathon nodded in response.
“He was only a Strichjunge. Were you involved with him? Were you a customer? I saw you give him money. It is okay if you were… I do not mean to judge.”
“No, I wasn’t a customer, and no, Fabian, he wasn’t just a Strichjunge. He was a human being, a person.” Jonathon swallowed, his emotions dangerously close to the surface. “Just because he sold himself to survive doesn’t mean he was any less a person or any less valuable than anyone else!” Jonathon found himself yelling and tried to calm himself down. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.” Looking up, he saw a warmth in those brown eyes he hadn’t expected, and his frustration evaporated.
“No, I am the one who is sorry. I should not judge, I know how it feels.” Fabian’s voice became quiet, those dark eyes deep and touched with sorrow. “Do you want to lie down? You look tired.”
“No, I’m all right.” Jonathon settled in his chair, sighing softly. “It’s just that a long time ago, when I was young and alone… I was a Strichjunge, and I know how it feels to be treated as though you’re nothing.” Jonathon closed his eyes and felt his voice trail off as his memory bombarded him with things he’d forgotten for so many years. The helplessness, the need to escape but having no place to go, all flooded through his mind, and he found himself shivering as though the room had suddenly gotten cold.
“Jonathon, you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, but I’ll listen if you want,” Fabian said quietly, and Jonathon lifted his eyes. He expected to see pity or worse, but all he saw in Fabian’s deep brown eyes was compassion, tinged with sadness.
“You don’t need to sit here and listen to me tell sob stories.” Jonathon looked toward the open balcony door, his mind already carrying him back to the past. “I’m just oversensitive right now. It’ll pass.” A hand touched his, and Jonathon turned, finding himself looking into Fabian’s eyes, and he felt the rings around his heart, the ones that had clamped into place when Greg died, begin to loosen.
“Tell me your story, Jonathon,” Fabian whispered very softly. “I want to hear it.”
“Why?” Jonathon responded, caught up in those eyes for a second. Then he turned away, looking anywhere but at Fabian. “Why could you possibly be interested?” Jonathon felt Fabian’s fingers ghost across the back of his hands, stroking softly. He opened his mouth, fully intending to ask Fabian to go, but instead he began talking quietly. “I was sixteen when my parents died in an automobile accident. Unfortunately, since they were both only children, I had no other relatives, and I was sent to a foster home.” Jonathon still felt the loneliness and heartbreak at the loss of his parents as though it were yesterday, with loss piling on top of loss. “I didn’t stay long and ran away. That was my first mistake.”
“Were they cruel?”
Jonathon shook his head slowly. “No, they just weren’t my parents, and in my stupidity, I thought I would be better off on my own. I found out differently. It wasn’t long until I was hungry, searching for food anywhere I could find it. Eventually, I found out I could make money selling myself on the streets of New York.” Jonathon swallowed hard. “I was so freaking lucky I didn’t get some disease.” He looked out the window again. “Or worse,” he added, thinking of the boy bleeding on the concrete. “I got rescued from the streets, anyway, by an old priest who found me and helped me. Father Joda ran a school and gave me a home there and a chance at an education.”
Jonathon felt his eyes watering, and he wiped them on the back of his hand. He hadn’t told this story to anyone since he’d told it to Greg, years before. “He was a special man, and I thought he loved me, but he didn’t, not really.” Jonathon wondered if he should go on. He knew Fabian’s family was Catholic, and he didn’t want to offend them, so he fell quiet, listening to the sounds of the city as they floated through the window.
“Let me guess,” Fabian prompted. “Someone found out about your past?”
Fabian’s fingers continued rubbing his hands. “What did you do?”
“For a while I took it, figuring it was my fault anyway. Once I graduated, some other boys came forward as well, and Father Joda finally listened to me. He helped me get into college, where I decided to become a teacher so I could help make sure no other child went through what I did.” Jonathon stopped talking, figuring he’d said more than enough. He wasn’t proud of his past, but Greg had helped him realize that while it was part of who he was, it didn’t define him.
“So that’s why you gave the Strichjunge money.”
“I figured he’d get in trouble if he didn’t bring in enough money, and I guess I was right.” Jonathon sighed. “I know I can’t help everyone, but I wish I could have done more for him. He certainly didn’t deserve the treatment he got either from Hans or the man who nearly killed him.” Jonathon knew it would be hard for Fabian to understand, and he really didn’t have any hope that he really would, but at least he’d told his side.
“You’re a kind man, Jonathon,” Fabian said as he leaned closer, so close Jonathon could feel his warmth, smell his minty breath, the scent of his skin clouding his mind with feelings and desire he wasn’t sure he was ready to feel yet. Fabian leaned closer still, lips parting slightly. Jonathon shook himself out of his daze, getting to his feet and walking to the other side of the room, needing to put some distance between himself and the beautiful man now kneeling in front of an empty chair.
“I can’t, Fabian,” he said breathlessly, trying to gain control of his traitorous body.
“Why not?” Fabian replied as he got to his feet, slowly moving closer. “You’re kind and thoughtful, smart, and very attractive.”
