by P. G. Glynn
When Otto nodded dumbly, Fritz began buttering some bread – stabbing at it with short, vicious stabs – and said: “How was I so grotesquely deformed? Each stake was host to somebody. There were ten men hanging from them – and not by the neck. No, that would have been too gentle a fate for an enemy of the tsars! The stakes had sharply pointed tops that had been shoved through their victims’ anuses. As the men hung, therefore, their body-weight forced the stakes in further. It is a very slow process, Otto, as the bowel is finally penetrated … and a most effective torture. Men take hours to die and sometimes days. Those that I chanced upon were far from the death that they would by then have welcomed. They were making sounds that still live in my head and that will live there till my own death. I can never forget. Shall I tell you what I did for them?”
He looked from Otto’s shocked expression to Marie’s and back again. “First I must tell you what I could not do. There was no question of lifting them from their stakes. I lacked the height and the strength since they were dead weights by then and I hadn’t eaten for days. I had not had the foresight, unfortunately, to carry portions of my horse with me. So all I could hope to do was ease their pain. Which meant taking a risk but one doesn’t think in terms of risk when faced with ten tortured men. I shot them.” Saying this, he looked down at his gnarled hands as if thinking these had just done the shooting. “The sound of my shots brought the Cossacks straight to me. They were wearing,” he laughed humourlessly, “hats such as you, Marie, wore today. It was your hat that attracted me, for its reminders of another time, another place. Who, I asked myself, could wear such a monstrosity?”
“I’m sorry,” Marie breathed, having been shocked almost beyond speech. “I wouldn’t have worn it knowingly. Your story is appalling.”
“I haven’t finished it.” Talking had tired Fritz, especially the task of trying to think in English. Refreshing himself with a glass of Sekt he continued: “My barrel was empty. So I could not use my pistol on those bastards. I’d already used it on my own army. In any case I was badly outnumbered. I stood no chance. They tied my wrists together with rope, removed my trousers and told me to watch while they prepared an eleventh stake. Then, when it was ready they raised me up … and pulled me down. I felt the wood entering and tearing my back passage. While I was screaming at them and thinking there could not possibly be any worse agony they rode off. Once they were gone I prayed – for I still believed in a God then – that the end would be quick. It didn’t occur to me to pray for rescue. Who was there, to find and rescue me? The chances seemed non-existent. Yet rescue eventually came from what remained of my own regiment. They took me to the chief garrison hospital where I was sewn up and nursed back to some degree of health. Do I sound sorry for myself? I am not … but I am bitter, yes. I never saw my parents again. By the time of my return they were both dead.”
He paused, taking a great gulp of breath. “Our Austrian War Bonds weren’t worth the paper they were printed on and our home had gone. There is, though, my army pension – paid in krone so of as much use as my War Bonds. There is also Kathie, whom I call on for soup.”
“So you do have a friend?” Otto said.
“How far the affluent are from my kind of reality! ‘Kathie’ is the name given by the begging fraternity to St Katherine’s Convent, off the Stumpergasse, where soup is supplied to those in most need. We have to queue for it of course, but the nuns are generous and it comes to us quite free. I’ve found that I can live very cheaply. At this time of year, before winter sets in, my overnight accommodation is a Prater bench or, if I’m lucky, I get to sleep in one of the Ferris wheel carriages, which at least keeps the rain off me. Better that and ‘calling on Kathie’ than walking for two hours to the Asyl fuer Obdachlose at Meidling. I have no alternative, though, when the weather turns really cold. If anyone had told me a few years ago that I’d be seeking refuge in a shelter for the destitute, I’d have said they were off their heads … which goes to show we’re best off not knowing what the future holds. Yours, Otto old friend, might prove very different from the one you have in mind. Why, the seemingly impossible could occur and we might even find my fortunes increasing while yours decline! I’ll drink to that.”
He drank more Sekt, saying then: “Well, that’s my tale told, if only the bare bones. Now it’s your turn to talk … and I’m agog to discover how your war compared with mine. Were you comfortable, over there in Britain, while your compatriots were fighting for the country you’d turned your back on?”
Seldom had Otto felt more uncomfortable. He also felt deeply ashamed of having escaped unscathed from a war that had had such horrendous consequences for his countrymen. He should have fought with his regiment, not spent the war years in safety bedding his nurse. Fritz Meyer was more than justified in deriding him and in feeling vindictive. Otto was at a loss to know what to say to him.
Marie stepped in, asking Fritz: “Does it make you feel better, making my husband feel bad? It is an obvious fact that he has fared better than you have but it wasn’t his wish to be interned in Britain, so don’t go blaming him for that.”
“He’s blameless, is he?” Fritz asked, laughing his hollow laugh. “If that’s your honest belief you’ve much to learn about him. I’ve always known Otto as a man who before all else will save his own skin.” Reaching out and helping himself from a plate of Mehlspeisen, he said then: “I’ve dreamed of these pastries so won’t stint on the eating of them. You’ve yet to meet the other Berger brothers? Word has it that Rudolf spent the war in his mistress’s cellar. So of the three it seems that Ludwig alone isn’t cowardly. I reckon he’s of a different breed. He must be, to have wooed and won a woman such as Lenka Weissmann.” His mouth full of Milchrahmstrudel, he asked Marie: “Has Otto mentioned Lenka yet?”
“In passing,” she said.
“Then it’s time for you to ask questions … and to insist on answers. Perhaps you should start by asking yourself why, when choosing a bride, he chose one who looks exactly like the woman who is now his sister-in-law … but who was once his beloved fiancée, whom the whole of Vienna expected to see him marry in St Stephan’s. Could he possibly still be carrying a torch for Lenka … and, if so, shouldn’t he at least have told you all about her?”
24
It had begun to seem as far from Vienna to the Giant Mountains as it had seemed from London to Vienna. They had made a big detour, breaking their journey in Prague so that Otto could visit his bank manager, and their stay there had left Marie with a lasting impression of turrets and soaring spires, of ancient gables and of old bridges spanning the Vltava. Otto had told her how five medieval towns on both banks of the river had long since merged into one city and he had shown her a romantic castle and Gothic St Vitus’s Cathedral, high on a forested hill, taking her too to see his old university.
Prague had been for her a city of bells, of cobblestones and onion domes and pastel shades interspersed with gold. She had been charmed by the Little Quarter with its hilly streets, unexpected courtyards and arches and had stood on the Charles Bridge while Otto described the visionary king who had given his name to it. Bohemia’s capital city had held more appeal for her than Austria’s – in part at least because it lacked Fritz.
His presence in Vienna had begun to be horribly oppressive. There was something evil about him … something Marie had wanted to run from. Certainly he had tried to drive a wedge between her and Otto and, had she loved her husband, he could well have succeeded. Now, waiting at Prague’s railway station for a train to Trautenau, Marie thought back to Fritz’s expression when she told him she wasn’t interested in Otto’s past conquests – besides which it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of him to tell her of them. If he had once – foolishly – wished to marry Lenka, then that was his business. The fact that he hadn’t married her, saving himself instead for Marie, spoke volumes, didn’t it? Yes, it did. She had spoken with conviction because she was convinced and Fritz’s chagrin had been evident when she finished. Not that she was fin
ished, then, with Otto whom she had later berated for omitting to mention the fact of a former fiancée. ‘Are you jealous of Lenka?’ he had asked her hopefully. ‘Not a bit’ she had answered ‘but I’m curious to see her … and see whether she’s really at all like me!’
Now they were on their way to satisfy Marie’s curiosity and memories of Vienna were receding. It had come as a relief to leave the Sacher and to know that Fritz, too, was leaving. The fellow had seen to it that he was installed in their Hotel at Otto’s expense and Otto had also bought him clothes that fitted and given him large sums of money, despite Marie’s warnings. She had soon deduced that the bigger the gifts the more Fritz had hated him. His hatred had been such a tangible thing that she had found it menacing. Yet he was obviously to be pitied. He had endured such suffering that it would have taken a heart of steel to find no pity for him. But, in pitying, Otto had overlooked his cunning. And was there ever anybody more manipulative? Fritz had milked Otto’s sympathy and guilt, using him to such a degree that Marie had quickly seen the need to step in and remove her husband from his clutches …
Otto had been surprised by Marie’s sudden eagerness to leave for Bohemia – surprised and relieved. For it had been as if Fritz were doing more than just depleting his finances. He had begun to feel a curious lethargy akin to Fritz taking his energy as well as his money. And it was an odd thing but as his vigour diminished so Fritz’s had seemed visibly to increase. Otto had even toyed with the notion that Fritz Meyer was some kind of vampire, sucking his blood – or at least his virility. Why, there had been times when Otto had felt almost incapable of making love to Marie, who likened Fritz to the devil!
It was certainly devilish the way Fritz had tried to insinuate that Otto’s money was rightfully his – indeed, to such a degree that had Marie not done as she did, informing the Sacher’s Manager that after their departure Herr Meyer’s bills would be his own responsibility, he might still be running up debts for Otto to settle. That would not have gone down well with old Tonda Palach at the bank – no, not well at all! Even as things were Tonda had expressed displeasure with Otto’s finances and, when acquainted with the state of these, Otto himself had been shocked. What had been going on? Whatever it was, Ludwig was responsible. Otto now saw the folly of letting Ludwig oversee his banking in his absence. For the first time ever Otto’s account was in the red and Tonda had said that but for his long association with the Bergers he would have had to take steps …
Otto had not yet decided whether to question Ludwig first or just to murder him. Prior to the murder, Otto’s and Fritz’s reckless spending in Vienna, together with Tonda Palach’s inflexible attitude, had imposed certain economies …
“I’m not travelling anywhere in that!” said Marie.
“Why ever not?” asked Otto as their train arrived, stinking of lignite. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Nothing wrong? It’s no better than a cattle truck. This joke is wearing thin. Stop pretending that that bone shaker is the train we’re travelling in.”
“It is.”
The seats were wooden with no cushioning and Otto merely conceded, once they and their extensive luggage (for which they needed three porters) were aboard, that they were not travelling First Class, exactly.
“Are you mad?” Marie demanded. As another thought occurred to her she asked: “Or has your stupid generosity to Fritz Meyer put us in penury? You can’t possibly want to travel on seats like granite, in this smelly pre-historic relic!”
“In hundert Jahren ist alles eins,” he grinned, loving her tendency to exaggerate. “I agree that the rolling stock isn’t altogether up-to-date, but these railways are a Government monopoly, with efficiency and comfort very secondary considerations.”
“Then why on earth are we travelling by train?”
“After seeing my bank manager my plans … changed. I had planned to buy a car in Prague and drive to Herrlichbach.”
“But because of Fritz you couldn’t afford it?”
“No … because of Ludwig. He’s been mismanaging my funds, resulting in a slight hiccup. My dear brother will have some permanent disabilities, once I’ve finished with him.”
“If you hate him so much, why did you leave him in charge of your finances?”
Otto shrugged. “Because when I left I wasn’t expecting a war to disrupt everything … and nor did I fully see just how much Ludwig hated me.”
“We’ll soon have more money … won’t we?”
“No doubt about that,” Otto said reassuringly. “The beauty of having a factory and brewery is that they keep the money coming in. The hiccup, as well as slight, is bound to be temporary.”
“How temporary is this train journey? I’m black and blue already!”
“Very,” he answered, thinking it unwise to mention the eight hours of torture ahead, “and Herr Beck, one of our coachmen, will await us in Trautenau with a carriage and pair.”
Marie could feel each turn of the wheels and she was, too, acutely conscious of their fellow passengers’ interest. It must seem strange to them (in their drab, patched clothing they looked like peasants) sharing a carriage with people in fine clothes and hearing English spoken. They were speaking among themselves in Czech, which to her untuned ears sounded even more like gibberish than German did, and they either all knew each other or behaved as if they did. It was odd how foreigners automatically chatted to strangers, unlike the British with their stiff upper lips. Marie felt alarmingly distant from Great Britain and from Charles. The life she was currently living was so far removed from the one lived in London that she could hardly credit Marie Howard and Marie Berger were the same person. She closed her eyes. Had she dreamed that other existence? It frequently seemed that she must have dreamed and that foreign habits and endless travel were her only reality.
The train was slowing. Otto asked her: “Would you like something to eat?”
“We’re arriving in Trautenau, are we?”
“No. This is just a small station along our way, but they’re calling ‘horke parky’ which suggests food to me.” He was soon lowering a window and summoning a man with a tray strapped to him, on which were displayed ‘hot pairs’ of linked sausages served with mustard in rye rolls topped with poppy seeds. After purchasing two pairs Otto handed Marie’s share to her, wrapped in paper, saying: “I think you’ll find these very tasty.”
She found them vastly inferior to English sausages. Making a face, she told him: “They’re horrible!”
“No, they’re not. They might not be what you’re used to, but they’ll grow on you.”
“They won’t,” she stated with a withering glare. “How long now till we’re there?”
“Distance is a state of mind,” he said. “It’s best to pay it no attention.”
“‘State of mind’, my foot and Mary Ellen!” Marie snorted, adding: “The fact that you’re saying such inane things and refusing to answer my question is more than maddening. Why can’t you just answer me?”
“I have my reasons,” he smiled. “Trust me.”
“I’d sooner trust a … a rhinoceros! You’re impossible, Otto!”
“But lovable too?”
“I’m trying hard not to loathe you!”
He said excitedly a while later: “There it is! That’s the landmark I’ve been waiting for. Look, Marie … look over there!”
The castle in question thrust high to the heavens like a fortress from misty legend. They had reached Tetschen-Bodenbach and the dixhuitieme castle had been Franz Thun’s – the evil genius who in 1898 had offended the German Emperor with his inflammatory speech. There was drama in him and in his mystical turreted residence that for Otto was symbolic of the Historic Provinces. Bohemia, Moravia and Southern Silesia belonged to the Bohemian Crown and lay at the very heart of Europe. They had lain also in his heart while he was away. Now that he was back he acknowledged that he was where he belonged. This land of castles and forests, of mountains and valleys, dramatic peaks, abysses
and rivers, was his land and beyond comparison. Otto had travelled far and wide yet had seen nothing to compare with it.
After Bodenbach, Aussig, the river Elbe’s busy port that had been de-Germanised by the Hussites over several centuries, and then Reichenberg. From Warnsdorf onwards he was within the textile world that his great-great-grandfather, Johann Adam, had found as a farmer and conquered as an industrialist. Old Johann began by importing yarn from Ireland and distributing it – by donkey and cart, protected from rain and sun alike by a red umbrella – each autumn to hand-weavers, then collecting the woven fabric the following spring. His cart carried him as far as Nizni Novgorod to sell his linen and by 1797 his profits had enabled him to build his first weaving factory. He then went from strength to strength, founding the Berger linen empire which now embraced spinning mills, a bleach works and finishing unit as well as the factory, and in addition a farm and a brewery. He had also found time to marry three wives, outliving them all and then being buried beside them in the family vault. He had not passed on his business acumen but his empire flourished through skilful delegation. His male descendants had all, however, inherited his love of women. The Bergers were virile men.
Now that Otto was so close to home his thoughts raced on ahead. He was eager to see Mama again and be clasped to her bosom. There was always such comfort in her embrace and in the certainty that she loved him. Not that he exactly needed comforting, but he needed this homecoming. He felt at home wherever in the world he was, which was not the same as actually being in the place where one belonged. It was a great pity, though, that he would have to share Schloss Berger with Ludwig and Lenka. Ludwig was a fat slug who ideally should be trodden on, while Lenka was …
