"Don't you like it?"
"It's beautiful."
"Don't you want it? I bought it for you."
I tried to put the ring on her finger, but she pulled her hand away. "I have to tell you something, Walter."
"Yes?"
"I have received a letter."
"WeU," I said cheerfully, "and from whom is this letter?"
"From your wife."
31
A motorcycle drove by with a deafening roar. I could feel an ice cold hand running down my back and now I could see it all again—^Yolanda, the bridge, the jack handle,
now I could hear it again—the unspeakably repulsive
snapping sound.
'*Have you ... have you brought the letter with you?" She nodded and laid a piece of paper in front of me on
the table. 'It came in yesterday's mail" I picked up the letter and read:
"Dear Fraulein Wihna. I realize it isn't the
thing to do to write to you or involve you in any way, but I find myself in a rather extraordinary situation and hope for your understanding. I know that you love my husband and he has told me that he loves you. It has been a very painful revelation to me since I also love my husband deeply. I am older than you, Fraulein WUma, and I probably love him in a quite different way. He is, if I may say so, the last thing I can stUl count on in life. My position is somewhat compUcated and in several instances distressing, and my husband is the only person I have on whom I can rely...."
Poor Yolanda, I thought, as I read on*
"We are about to travel to Germany on an important mission but we viQ be back in Vienna in a few days. I am not ashamed to beg you, please, to use this time as a period of searching and to ask yourself if you really love my husband so much that you can't live without him. I realize that I no longer possess your weapons of youth and flawless beauty. But please give a thought to the fact that my husband comes from a ver^ different background than yours and does not belong to your generation. He is as many years older as you are young. He is not healthy. And he is a very difficult person. Up to now you have associated only with people your o^n age, among whom there is one young man who loves you deeply and whom you have made desperately un-
happy by your behavior. During these days that we are away, try to think also of him, and be so kind, on my return, to call me and tell me what you have decided to do. I know this letter must seem to you like a plea for mercy, but I don't care.
Valery Frank.**
I looked up. Gradually I found it possible to smile again. "Well, yes," I said. "Of course it wasn't easy for her. We talked it over for a long time and in the end Valery saw it was senseless to insist upon rights that were no longer hers."
Wilma didn't look at me as she said, "The letter has a postscript."
"It does?" I looked at the letter again and read: "P.S. If my husband should return to Vienna without me, which is also possible, and if he should tell you that we have separated, then I beg of you, in your own interest, to open the second letter, which I enclose."
I let the paper fall. And now I was sitting in Mord-stein's car again, racing over the wet autobahn to the Bavaria Bridge, the car was falling, was on fire. Now everything rode with me again and was frightful. "And?" I asked softly, "Did you open the second letter?"
Wilma nodded and dug around in her bag. The first thing she took out was a handkerchief with which she blew her nose and after that a second piece of paper. "I'm sorry, Walter. I didn't want to do it. But when I called you and you said you had come back alone, and spoken to her . .. then I opened it. I don't know why, but I just had to open it and read it. Are you angry with me?"
"No!"
"Yes. You're going to be angry with me, I know."
"I am not going to be angry with you, Wilma. May I ... may I read the second letter?"
"Of course," she said.
I took it and read:
"Dear Wilma. When you read these lines, I shall be dead. My husband will have murdered me. I can't say yet how he wiU have done it, but he will have killed me. I already counted on this possibihty before we left for Germany but did nothing to protect myself against it. The fact that my husband has murdered me is nothing but the ultimate proof that he intended to leave me, and without him I wouldn't have wanted to Uve anyway. I write these lines therefore without anger and with the sole intention of protecting you—who are so young and so full of promise—from becoming involved in a catastrophe. Because my husband's life is going to end catastroph-ically. He is seriously ill and has only six months more to live. In these six months his condition will deteriorate rapidly and in the end he will be a human wreck. He is already completely asocial and sometimes not mentally sound. If you should have to open this letter, and if you should see my husband again, show him this letter and ask him what he has to say to it. I am sure he will tell you the truth. He is not a liar. He is only a murderer.
Valery Frank."
Wilma's eyes were resting on me when I looked up. She didn't ask anything, but after a while the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "It's true, Wilma," I said softly.
"You ... you . . ."
I nodded.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
"Nobody will ever find out," I said quickly. "I did it very cleverly. I made it look like a car accident. You mustn't be afraid, Wilma. I promise you, it will never come out. Yes, it's true, I'm not well, but I'm perfectly normal, my nerves are absolutely sound, and you can't really judge what I have done without knowing what led to it. Just hsten to me, Wilma. It all started a few months ago "
I Stopped because I sensed that someone had walked into the tearoom and was standing behind me. I turned. It was FeUx. His cheeks were scarlet, he was standing up very straight and seemed beside himself with rage.
"You pig!" he cried and grasped the neck of my jacket as if to drag me out of my chair. "I knew WUma was lying when she said she had to go home. But this time you're going to pay, you filthy pervert!"
"Felix!" Wilma screamed.
He tried to hit me, but I was quicker and struck first. He flew across the room, knocking over a table, then crashed into the wall. The fat proprietress came running and began to upbraid Felix.
"What's the matter with you? Have you gone crazy? Get out of here this minute or I'U call the police!"
"This man . . ." Felix, who was white as a sheet, began, but she wouldn't hsten to him.
"Get out!" she screamed. "You've attacked one of my guests. Now are you going to scram or do I have to call the poUce?"
Felix started to go for me again when Wilma rose. "I'll go with you," she said.
'What?" He couldn't grasp it.
"I'll go with you," WUma repeated and picked up her coat. She gave me both letters and the ring. "I'm sorry," she said, "but it's impossible. I thought I would be able to, truly I did; this afternoon I still thought I could go through with it, but I can't Bum the letters. I never read them."
"WUma!" I was desperate. '*You can't leave me. I must talk to you. I have so much to explain."
She shook her head. "Go on ahead, FeUx," she said "I'U be out in a minute."
He left reluctantly. The fat proprietress also withdrew. "I love you," WUma whispered, laying her hands on my shoulders, "but I . . . I'm so terribly afraid of you." I nodded. Suddenly I was absolutely calm. I saw things clearly, I understood everything.
"If I wasn't so afraid of you," she whispered, "it wouldn't be so bad, but this way . . . it's impossible."
"Of course it's impossible," I said. "I should have thought of that right away."
"You mustn't be afraid that IT! ever betray you."
"I'm not afraid that you will, Wilma."
"Goodbye," she said, and, quicker than I would have thought possible, she was gone. I was standing in front of the Uttle table alone. Outside I could see them pass by the window, two young people in cheap winter coats. She was walking a Uttle ahead of him and he was following her quickly, looking thoroughly bewildered.
; I paid and left. At home I found the fire still smoldering. I put on another log and fixed myself a cup of hot chocolate and sat down in front of the fire with it. So now that was over. I had lost Wilma. I had to lose her:—^to have considered anything else would have been insane. It couldn't have turned out right. Yolanda was too clever. And perhaps she had really loved me. Who could tell?
My brain was already writing off episode Vienna; my thoughts were far far away, in the south, on an island, on a faraway rocky shore. Yes, I thought, now I was really free. There were so many places, so many people ... and I was still aUve. I had money, I had morphine. Now all those who might have been close to me had left me: now I was ready to find new people, a new woman, a new friend. There were so many women; there might also be friends ... I felt very confident, and a whole hour passed before I thought of Wilma again, but then suddenly I couldn't breathe with desire for her and felt like ending my life that very night.
I fetched a bottle of cognac and drank it empty. Then, very drunk, I looked for my morphine ampules. I would take a huge overdose and see to it that I didn't wake up. Everything seemed readied for it—the bed was made up, the fire still burned—but I couldn't find the syringe. I looked for it everywhere, with the clumsiness of a man who is drunk, but it was nowhere to be found. I wept, I
swore, I bumped into furniture, I tripped over rugs. The syringe was gone. I pulled off several table covers, broke several glasses and was just about ready, in a senseless attack of vandalism, to smash my desk, when the doorbell rang.
I staggered against the wall for support and licked my lips. The bell rang again.
I decided not to open. But then I saw that the curtains weren't drawn. My visitor therefore had to know I was at home. The bell rang again, a long time now.
I pulled myself together, went to the door and opened it quickly. Outside stood a man of about fifty, short, round and friendly. He spoke in a soft gentle voice and had a kindly face dominated by a pair of rimless spectacles. He doffed his stiff black bowler hat and revealed a thin ash blonde head of hair as he bowed. "Please forgive the disturbance," he said, "but could I possibly speak to your wife?"
I clung to the doorjamb. "What about?"
"Am I speaking to Mr. Frank?"
"Yes."
The little man smiled. "My pleasure," he said. "My name is Freund. Dr. Freund."
I didn't move.
"Your wife," he began again.
"... isn't here," I said gruffly.
"When will she be back?"
"I have no idea."
"Would it be possible to wait for her?"
"Hardly," I said and burped loudly.
"I have called several times," said Dr. Freund, "but unfortunately there was no answer."
"We weren't here."
"But this evening...."
He was still smiling, and he was making me terribly nervous. Who was this Dr. Freund? Did he have any connection with the police?
"What do you want?"
"As I have already said—I want to speak to your wife."
"And as I have already said—she isn't here."
"And when will she be back?"
"I don't know. She's in Germany.'*
"Oh." He seemed surprised. "And where in Germany?"
"I have no address. She's traveling."
"But surely you can reach her. . .."
"No!" I cried. "I can't reach her. And now get out! I'm tired," and I tried to close the door in his face. But he was quicker and stuck his foot in the doorway.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frank," he said, "but this won't do," and he pushed the door open which caused me to stagger back. He was very strong, this fat little Dr. Freund. "If your wife isn't here, then I must talk to you."
"What about?" I stared at him as he walked past me into the foyer, closing the door behind him.
"About a lot of things. I have waited as long as I could, but now we must come to a decision. Your wife unfortunately neglected to talk to me about it, and I regret this deeply." He looked around, saw the coat rack and hung his ridiculous hat on it. Then he began to take off his coat.
"But what's all this about?" I stammered helplessly.
Dr. Freund was smiling again. "It concerns your son, Mr. Frank," he said.
BOOK THREE
The streetcar snaked through the dreary streets on the outskirts of Vienna into the industrial area. By the lights of the cars passing us I could see the silhouettes of factories, warehouses, smokestacks. Somewhere in the distance a locomotive whistled shrilly. Thick drops of rain ran down the window panes.
The car was almost empty. A few tired women, wearing kerchiefs on their heads and carrying big inarket baskets, dozed restlessly, a young man wearing glasses looked absorbed as he read his fat book, and on the rear platform a drunk was arguing with the conductor. Dr. Freund was sitting opposite me. He was silent. He had talked enough during the past hour.
After having hung up his hat, he had walked past me into the Uving room. "Come on," he had said, "and I'll explain why I'm here." I looked after him, then I noticed that my legs were following him.
From the first moment I realized that Dr. Freund was an extraordinary man. My head was swimming and I was still very drunk when I sat down opposite him. He looked with interest at the empty cognac bottle, the disorder in the room, then at me. His expression was friendly, but I didn't trust him. Watch it! I told myself. If you betray yourself now, you're lost. And you could betray yourself easily because you're drunk. What does this man know about you? What do you know about him? Be cautious, for God's sake, be cautious! Think before you speak!
"Herr Frank," said Dr. Freund, "I think I'd better begin by telling you who I am."
"Yes," I said. (Good answer.)
"I am the director of a Vienna school.'*
"A school?" (Watch it! No astonishment. Maybe you should know who he is?)
Dr. Freund nodded. "It is not an ordinary school, just as I—^hm—am not what you would call an ordinary teacher."
"No?"
"No. Actually I am an educator in the broadest sense. I have worked with Alfred Adler, the psychologist. I didn't begin teaching until later. The school was handed over to me as a sort of laboratory."
What was the man talking about? Of what concern was all this to me? Had I gone crazy at last? Or was I dreaming? Had he or hadn't he said all this concerned my son?
"You said something about my son . . ." (Careful. Maybe he didn't say anything of the sort Why is he smiling Uke that? Have you already given something away? Damn the cognac!)
"Right away, Herr Frank. Fm getting around to that But first I must give you some information."
"Please do." (Good answer.)
"My school is an experiment."
"With children?"
"Yes. With all kinds of children. Normal ones, but also with cretins, inhibited children. It is an experimental school."
"Aha!"
"Aside from that," the little man went on, *T have air office in a neurological clinic, for consultations. Parents and children may come to me there if they're in trouble. We—my colleagues and I, do what we can for them."
"Aha!"
"You should have come to us."
"I?"
"Yes. Your wife came, but only once." He looked at the empty bottle. "Unfortunately." He sighed, then he looked at me sharply. "Did you know that, Herr Frank?"
"I . . .*' I began and stopped. His sharp look had confused me. I realized I would simply have to take certain risks if we were ever to get on with it. "No," I said, "I didn't know."
"That's what I thought."
"What?"
"That your wife didn't tell you about her consultation with me."
There are moments when alcohol can have a liberating effect. One overcomes one's inhibitions and anxieties, one becomes courageous, life no longer seems so terribly important, one takes risks, plays va banque,
"Dr. Freund, what did my wife want from you?"
He looked down at his hands,
firm, bony hands with square-cut nails, the hands of a sculptor.
"Your wife," he said, "came to me after visiting the home where she had placed her son. They sent her to me. I had been treating him for some time."
So Yolanda had had a son. She never told me, so I couldn't know it. But why had I never had an inkling of it? Dear God, it was all so ridiculous!
"Why are you laughing?" asked Dr. Freund. By the way he looked 4t me, I could see I had upset him.
"I didn't laugh. I coughed."
He rose and came over to me and asked softly, as if no one beside ourselves should hear, "Herr Frank, did you know of this child's existence?"
I didn't answer. I was thinking. But Dr. Freund knew the answer before I slowly shook my head. "Of course not," he said in that same cautious tone. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you about it."
"Don't be sorry," I said. Suddenly I was sober again; my head was clear, I felt calm. "Please tell me everything."
He nodded and began to pace up and down the room. "What I know," he said, "I found out from the home and out of the boy's papers. His name, by the way, is Martin."
Martin. Why not? He had to have a name and Martm was as good as any other. "Go on, Doctor."
He resumed his pacing. "Martin," he said, "is your wife's son by her first marriage. When she was divorced, four years ago, she placed the child in the home I have just mentioned. She visited him occasionally, not lately though." Now he was standing in front of me. "Herr Frank," he said, "please believe that I don't enjoy breaking into your private life Uke this."
"So why are you doing it?"
Suddenly his voice was harsh. "Because right now it is not a question of your private life, but of the child."
"Please go on," I said.
"Your wife used to pay all the expenses at the home regularly," he began again, but I interrupted him. "How could she do that? She was living in Germany?"
"A friend in Vienna paid the bill for her, a certain •. .'*
"Jacob Lauterbach."
"Yes. How did you know?"
"I thought it must be he." The circle was closed again. I wasn't crazy. It was all very logical and simple. "Please go on," I said.
I Confess Page 25
