by Desmond Cory
“Of your nationality…?”
“I am German,” said Helmut firmly. “A Berliner, in fact. I hope that the recent unfortunate political events have not prejudiced you, a Frenchman, too strongly against my race.”
Recent unfortunate political events, thought Johnny. Well, that was one way of looking at it. Aloud, he said, “I don’t intend to allow political considerations to interfere with my enjoyment of my holiday,”
“Very wise, very wise. Yes; the war is over now, and we Germans have learned our lesson. But the fact remains that the local people seem unable to share your-so-greatly-to-be-admired detachment. Germans. I fear, will be regarded with suspicion here for some little time to come.”
“That’s not so very surprising.”
“No. No. No, it is not… agreed Helmut, his effort to appear impartial creaking slightly at the hinges. “It’s not so bad in the country as in the towns; but in the country, they tend to remember these things longer. Undoubtedly our administration made grave errors.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I think myself that the cardinal mistake was the installation of Seyß-Inquart. But I must not discuss politics.” He waved his pipe in the air, dismissing politics from his presence. “I am ill-informed on the subject, and you may well find it offensive. Indeed, it distresses me sometimes. Nessun maggior dolore, as the great poet has it, che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria… Ach ja! Do you speak Italian, Herr Videl?”
“No,” said Johnny, who was looking thoughtful. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“But perhaps you are nevertheless acquainted with the works of the immortal Dante?”
“Not even that.”
“Ah, well. They are a great solace to me. Dante, and our own Goethe. I read very little else nowadays.” Helmut knocked the dottle from his pipe with another little sigh.
“Perhaps,” said Johnny diffidently, “you have been to Italy yourself?”
“Yes. Oh yes. I studied in Rome as a youth, many years ago; and throughout the last war I was a senior liaison officer there. Until I sustained a serious wound, a chest wound, near Anzio. It was that, in fact, which necessitated my finding a comfortable home near the mountains to spend the rest of my days.”
“I see. You must at least have had an interesting war.”
“Yes, in some respects. I certainly met a large number of allegedly interesting people. Mussolini, of course. Galeazzo Ciano. Edda I knew very well.” Helmut smiled a reminiscent, feline smile. “Scorza. Graziani. Farinacci. I knew them all. And you have doubtless inferred from my tone the estimation in which I held them.”
“Low?”
“Low. Let me tell you,” said Helmut, leaning forwards confidentially, “an amusing little story about il Duce and Claretta Petacci…”
He told it, and it turned out to be very funny indeed – this somewhat to Johnny’s surprise. Helmut was a remarkably skilful story-teller, with a real gift for innuendo: “That was when she first became his mistress, of course. There was another story in circulation very much later; of the truth of that one, I’m not so sure. But it appeared that shortly after the English and Americans invaded Sicily…”
He embarked on another scandalous narrative which was, if anything, even more brilliantly coloured than the preceding one. Some of the words he employed were not in Johnny’s rather limited vocabulary; but for all that, Johnny was again highly diverted. And not only amused, but impressed. Helmut certainly had been on intimate terms with all of the exalted personages to whom he referred so slightingly; there was no doubting his familiarity with the peculiar world he was describing. Helmut, in short, was definitely somebody… and, towards the end of the story, a certain reference made Johnny’s brow clear imperceptibly. He had at last remembered ...
… Helmut glanced down at his wrist-watch.
“Herr Mann should be arriving at any moment,” he said.
“And then we will certainly have dinner. Your wife must be starving. Perhaps, however, I have time to tell you of that odd affair of Edda Ciano at Capri…”
Johnny settled himself again in his chair, closed his eyes and heard the story through to its conclusion. He found himself not altogether disliking Helmut. The German’s obvious eagerness to talk, at a moment’s notice, of those days before he had become ill and exiled and lonely was not without its pathos. Johnny guessed that the other had learnt to savour the moments, these few moments when he could relate – wittily, brilliantly, sometimes vindictively – the stories he had rehearsed so many times before. They had all gone now, those legendary days of an empire’s decadence; summoned again by Helmut’s drawling voice and recalled in the easy fit of a tailor-made field-grey uniform; in the hush of the vast crowds in the Piazza del Duomo; in the tables on the sidewalk and the shops in the galleries; in the gleaming teeth and full breasts of a politician’s mistress… Yet all were dead, existing only in the remembrances of an old, wounded soldier, immured in the quietness of an Austrian village. A quietness so deep and profound that only with an effort could Johnny recall that this was no ordinary Austrian village, but Oberneusl: only a village not like Rome, not like Vienna, but nevertheless a place where the conflict of men and ideals was fought out as ruthlessly as in any of the great cities… Johnny no longer had any doubt that this elderly man with the sun-tanned face was his enemy; and an enemy not to be despised.
He looked at Helmut as the older man finished his story; at the great bald dome of the head, the firm brown fingers caressing the bowl of the pipe; at the fine skein of wrinkles around the eyes, and at the eyes themselves, looking into the fire and aglow with malicious amusement… When the story was ended, there was a silence for five long seconds; a silence that neither Helmut nor Johnny was the first to break.
“Well,” said Marie-Andrée from the middle of the room. “A lewder story I never heard.”
Helmut looked round and immediately rose from his seat. “A thousand pardons, dear lady. We did not hear you enter. Please take my chair… No, I insist. Really.”
Marie-Andrée sat down and thanked him prettily and collected Johnny’s attention with a raised eyebrow.
“Just what exactly were you talking about?”
“Other times, other manners.” Helmut seated himself in the fireside ingle, and smiled quizzically at nothing. “I was explaining to your husband that, while in wartime Italy the spirit of Dante was regrettably dead, that of Boccaccio was most definitely alive. And I was – ah – illustrating my contention.”
“So I gathered. The poor young woman.”
Helmut smiled again; and, for the first time, Johnny noticed something unpleasant about that smile brought out by his new position; something vulpine in the lift of the upper lip… “You choose your adjective carelessly, gnä Frau. The wealth of the Cianos was quite fabulous. Had you said ‘unfortunate,’ of course…”
There was another, slightly longer silence, as though in remembrance of a régime’s painful death; and in that silence footsteps scuffled outside. The front door opened, letting in a sudden strong breath of cool mountain air.
“Ah, my dear Frau Mann!” Helmut had risen once more to his feet and stood silhouetted against the dull glow of the fire, his pipe clutched firmly against his chest. “You’ll be delighted to hear that we have company again this evening. May I present the Herr and Frau Videl – from Paris?”
Johnny shook hands formally, said something polite and meaningless, and watched the new arrival curiously. A blonde, an extremely good-looking blonde of the traditional Nordic pattern, with a firm, well-rounded body that was superbly healthy without appearing aggressive… He was quite unable even to guess at her age – somewhere between thirty and forty, perhaps. She was obviously mature, for her attractive face showed unmistakable signs of stress and worry; yet strangely shy and retiring – and, for all her apparent bodily health, her hand in his own had been distinctly nervous.
His eyes moved from her to the boy standing beside her, a boy of thirteen or fourteen; shock-headed,
brown-faced, heavy-jawed, with quiet, thoughtful dreamer’s eyes that met his own impassively.
“This” – Frau Mann’s voice was as he would have expected it; gentle, deep and pleasant – “this is my son Martin.”
The boy advanced, and shook hands gravely. Johnny had the impression that those large grey eyes were deliberately weighing him up; then, that they were regarding Marie-Andrée in exactly the same way – pensive, judicial, not unfriendly, but quite withdrawn from emotion.
“Herr Mann is coming shortly, I trust?” asked Helmut.
Frau Mann nodded. “Yes, very shortly. He stopped to speak to one of the villagers… Please don’t wait for him, if you are anxious to begin dinner.”
“There’s no hurry at all,” said Johnny.
“Ah, but I’m sure you’re hungry; and if you are not, your wife must be. Have you been in Austria long?”
“We arrived today.”
“So? You’ll find the air here will give you a phenomenal appetite. Not so long ago, my dear, my figure was almost as beautiful as yours.” Her eyes studied Marie-Andrée with ungrudging approbation. “You can see how careful you must be by looking at me now.”
Helmut knocked the dottle from his pipe with firm, deliberate taps, against the solid stonework of the fireplace. “I think, then, if we are ready…?”
Johnny and Marie-Andrée followed him through into the dining-room, where places had been laid at the far end of a long pinewood table. In the corner of the room a fire glowed; smaller than that in the main room, but cheerful. The walls were hung with prints that were misted with age and not clearly discernible, even in the electric light that Helmut summoned with a flick of his thumb.
“I shall sit at the head. Would you care to sit on either side of me, or… Excellent.”
He ushered them to their seats, courteously adjusting Marie-Andrée’s chair for her; then slowly, meticulously, arranged himself at the head of the table between them. Almost as though this action were a signal, a fair-haired maid appeared bearing huge plates of goulasch.
“I’m surprised,” said Johnny, “at your having electricity here, Herr Helmut. I hadn’t expected such modernity in Styria.”
“No?” Helmut cautiously shook out a napkin and arranged its folds with care. “Well, it is a recent innovation; and, at the moment, this house alone in Oberneusl has the benefit of it. To tell the truth, I’m rather proud of the installation.”
“Batteries?”
“No. We have a small private generator, which harnesses the power of the waterfall just behind the house.” He smiled, and tested the heat of the goulasch against his lips. “…My son fixed up the whole erection the summer before last. He is an extremely gifted electrical engineer, though I say it myself.”
Marie-Andrée murmured sycophantically.
“I think a little progress in such directions by no means a bad thing. The Austrians are really a most non-progressive, race. Franz” – he paused and shrugged – “Franz is, of course, a German.”
“Where does your son live?”
Helmut looked at Marie-Andrée and then, on the point of replying, looked past her. “Ah,” he said loudly. “Here is the last member of our little group. May I present Herr Mann to you?… Herr Kurt Mann – the Herr and Frau Videl, two new arrivals.”
Johnny rose politely, to assist Frau Mann to the seat beside him and to shake the hand which Herr Mann extended in his direction. His first thought was that Mann was considerably younger than he had anticipated; certainly younger than his wife. His age was probably between thirty and thirty-five, but his height, breadth and physical vitality made him appear quite as young as Johnny. His face was firm and of a well-scrubbed pinkness; thick fair hair was brushed straight back from a high, unwrinkled forehead; and a powerful brown neck rolled down into an open-neck shirt and broad, well-muscled shoulders. But for the smooth regularity of the nose and ears the man might well have been a prizefighter; though built for stamina rather than for speed.
A good-looking brute, in fact, thought Johnny pessimistically. He sat down and continued to imbibe goulasch; on his left, Frau Mann was speaking in a low voice to the boy Martin; and across the table, Mann was telling Marie-Andrée and Helmut of the direction his walk had taken. The little maidservant’s footsteps rattled on the wooden floor.
Johnny finished his goulasch in silence, apart from a polite word or two to the woman beside him. He was puzzled. Helmut, the Manns, they seemed too Aryan to be true. He would not have been surprised at finding Germans at the inn, Germans and ex-Nazis; he had even anticipated it; but he had expected to find those Germans at great pains to conceal their Nordic qualities. Helmut and Mann did no such thing; Helmut had almost gone out of his way to proclaim his nationality, and Mann flaunted his Nordicism like a banner. It was all extremely odd…
Into a momentary gap in the general conversation, Johnny carefully pitched a question.
“Herr Biel is not with us tonight?”
He phrased the question, and dropped it instantly. Noting reactions was not his job; his interest might seem over-obvious; that was what Marie-Andrée was there for. So he addressed his question directly to Helmut, and looked nowhere else but at Helmut’s face.
“… You know Herr Biel?”
“Very slightly. We met on the train. And he spoke so glowingly of Oberneusl we decided to see the place for ourselves… We’d rather expected him to be here.”
“Of course,” said Helmut slowly. “Of course. It’s a pity… Herr Biel is an enthusiastic mountain-climber, as you probably know. He left this afternoon for what he called a ‘loosener’ over the Pillars.”
“The Pillars?”
“Die Säulen.” Kurt Mann had leaned forwards to enter the conversation. “As you arrived perhaps you noted a low range of hills to the west of the valley? Well, those are the Pillars. An excellent scrambling-ground over which to get one’s wind.”
“Herr Biel should be back tomorrow morning,” said Helmut gently. “It is not a lengthy or a very strenuous undertaking.”
“Perhaps” – Kurt Mann’s ice-blue eyes surveyed Johnny interrogatively – “perhaps you too are a mountaineer?”
“No,” said Johnny. “But I’m beginning to think I ought to take it up.” He dug abstractedly into the Schweinsbraten that had now replaced the goulasch. “It seems a popular amusement in these parts.”
“A popular amusement?” Mann’s laugh was low-pitched, and held more than a vestige of scorn. “It’s a sport, Herr Videl; the greatest sport in the world. And it is not easy. I should be delighted to hear that you have become a convert, but do not enter upon it too lightly.”
“Herr Mann is a mountain-climber,” said Helmut slyly, “and can tell a great many interesting stories on the subject. And Frau Mann is no tyro at the game – are you Eva?”
Eva Mann smiled; and Johnny was again conscious of her soft, indefinable charm. “We’re an outdoor family, Herr Videl. Really, we live for nothing else but skiing and skating and leaping from rock.”
“Then perhaps you too have met Herr Biel?”
“Oh, yes. He came here last year. But he was unable to do the climb that he wished – the weather was quite impossible – and I imagine that that is why he has returned. Herr Biel is a very good rock-climber indeed.”
“Determined,” said Mann, clinching the argument.
“It sounds wonderful.” That was Marie-Andrée. “But what is this climb he wants to do so badly?”
Mann jerked a thumb over his shoulder, apparently towards the wall. “The Old Man.”
“… Which?”
“The Old Man. That’s the local name for the mountain here. You must have seen it as you motored in; you could, hardly miss it.”
“Oh yes, yes, we did. Is it very hard to climb?”
Mann shrugged his shoulders. “It is a considerable feat for one man. For a team, not difficult at all. It naturally depends on the route one takes.”
“Some are easier than others?”
; “From the other side, it is laughable. One has hardly to climb; one merely walks. But the recognised route is up the east col, and that is the way Herr Biel will assuredly take. The direct route over the glacier is considered impossible.”
“Die Liebenden,” said a small voice from the end of the table; Martin’s voice. Mann smiled at him.
“Yes. The Lovers. Nine hundred metres of blue ice; quite impassable.”
“How long does it take,” said Johnny, interested in spite of himself, “the route over the east col?”
“Four days. It is possible, no doubt, to do it in less. An intelligent climber would take four days.”
“And have you ever climbed it alone?”
Mann smiled modestly. “Yes. Once. And we have climbed it together three times; I, Eva and the boy. Martin is, indeed, almost as good a mountaineer as I.”
Martin looked down at his plate, and said nothing. And Johnny, more puzzled than ever, did exactly the same thing. He was aware of having got precisely nowhere in his investigation. For the remainder of the meal; he made light conversation and opened no fresh subjects…
Marie-Andrée followed his lead, and by the end of the dinner period had established quite an entente with Eva Mann, who seemed – for an outdoor girl – surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of current Parisian fashions. She was fully embarked on a rousing description of the advantages of the tube skirt when a sharp ringing noise from the next room interrupted her. Helmut – looking rather relieved – hurriedly placed his napkin on the table, excused himself and departed.
“What was that?” asked Johnny.
Mann yawned, surreptitiously. “Somebody at the front door. A fresh arrival, possibly; though it’s a little late for that.”
“That bell must be worked electrically, too. Herr Helmut’s son appears to be an assiduous young man.”
“Doubtless,” said Mann, yawning again. He looked at his wife and drummed on the table with his fingers. “Shall we move to the other room…?”
