by Holly Müller
In the awful silence that followed, Ursula was filled with admiring dread – no one insulted Frau Gerg, no one dared. What had possessed Frau Hillier? Did she have no care for her safety? Wind barged through the graveyard now, bending the bushes and extinguishing candles, the air full of lightning, the kind that signalled a cloudburst, flickering constantly above the treetops. People were hastily clearing out so that the little group was soon left stranded. Frau Gerg’s top lip curled upwards, showing her teeth, dainty as daisy petals, crowded closely into her gums; her gaze travelled up and down Frau Hillier’s shabby attire then came to rest on her face, which appeared very lovely to Ursula just then. Beside her, Mama fiddled with the sash of her dress, folding and unfolding it.
‘Frau Hillier,’ said Frau Gerg with measured hostility. ‘There’s something you don’t understand – and your friend here’ – she looked at Mama – ‘with her lustful appetite and that man of hers. You’re both mothers. You should look at the state of your children and know that God is not pleased. Especially your son, Frau Hillier.’ She tilted her head and gave a tight smile. ‘That unfortunate, afflicted child.’
Ursula looked at Mama. What did Frau Gerg mean, the state of the children? Was she suggesting they were idiots, like Schosi? Was it about the League meetings, her absence, lateness, or scruffy uniform? Frau Gerg’s eyes rested briefly on her, bright, exposing lamps; they saw every disobedient thing she’d done, every dirty thought and action, every time she’d cheated or sneaked or been untrue, the elaborate excuses that came so easily to her lips, dishonest boasts and made-up anecdotes, the urge to exaggerate that swelled inside her and came spilling out with a will of its own, her stealing, truanting, and secrets, the wickedness in her heart. Mama’s mouth had fallen open as if she was going to defend herself but no words arrived. Ursula heard only a rasping sound; Dorli, gripping her with clawed hand, was taking great heaving breaths as if she was trying not to suffocate.
‘Let’s go now,’ said Mama. She turned and began across the grass. She looked almost drunk, the way she walked with her head bowed and nearly tripped over the foot of a grave as she passed it. Frau Arnold and Emmalina had melted away. Frau Hillier was locked in a potent staring contest with Frau Gerg. Ursula ran after Mama who was nearly out of the churchyard heading towards the hill, and Dorli came bleating and crying behind.
The storm broke when they were on the track, a warm deluge battering Ursula’s skull. She undid her plaits and let her hair hang sodden down her back. Wet grasses bowed in silver cushions along the verge and Anton squelched through puddles beside her.
‘We’re ruined,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we?’
He didn’t reply. Their good name was muck, if they’d ever had one. It ran away in dirty rivulets like the brown water that now splashed under their feet. And things at school would only worsen.
‘Why didn’t you want me to speak to Sepp?’ she asked after a while.
‘Because he’s a bad type, Uschi,’ Anton answered immediately. ‘He and I fought only recently after some low-down things he said. He’s a Commie, you know, and a traitor.’ He shook his head. ‘While I was trying to protect us.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘From the Russians, I mean, those Sontheimers hid one in their cellar.’
‘Really?’ Ursula was astounded. ‘I heard people saying that someone did. Gosh!’ She struggled to imagine how somebody could do such a thing. Especially a quiet, godly person like Frau Sontheimer. And Sepp – so cheerful and nice. They risked the guillotine. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’ He sniffed. ‘And he’s jealous of me, that’s clear enough, because of my rank, because of the dagger and all that. He isn’t on board, you know?’ Anton wiped rain from his face then put his arm around her. ‘He’s the wrong type of boy. Don’t speak to him again.’
Ursula was silent for a while; her breath came shallow through lungs cramped with disappointment. She hadn’t thought Sepp was the fighting type or a traitor. He seemed so decent. She felt a twinge of sullen defiance. Anton had bossed her as usual. He told her what to do without any hesitation as if she were a child.
‘You’ll hurt me if you do, Uschi,’ he said and looked at her, his fringe plastered to his forehead. ‘It really would let me down.’
8
By harvest time, not long after Ursula’s fourteenth birthday, Mama’s pregnancy was an open fact in the household. For the first week or so it was a favourite topic of debate between Anton and Ursula. Anton said that the baby was Siegfried’s bastard while Ursula held fast in her conviction that it was in fact Papa’s, until she asked Dorli’s opinion on the matter.
‘There are some things you shouldn’t talk about, Uschi,’ she said. ‘You never seem to understand that. But to answer your question – the child has nothing to do with Papa.’ She paused and a tragic look passed over her face. ‘I don’t know what will become of me now. I don’t know what Herr Oberndorfer will think of me.’ She went out to milk the cow looking miserable but Ursula couldn’t feel sorry for her; she always behaved as though she was the only one who suffered.
Anton was exultant. ‘She can’t lie after this. She’s got herself a bastard. A bloody bastard kid.’
Siegfried’s visits became more frequent, as did Frau Hillier’s. Frau Hillier often called by on her way home from work or came to help in the garden at the weekend; she said her own garden was so small and shaded that it was virtually useless and it was a joy to tend vegetables that would actually grow. She seemed not to look down on Mama for the bulge that nestled beneath her apron. On these visits Schosi came with her.
‘I can’t stop him,’ she said. ‘Nothing I do makes a difference. So I may as well bring him myself. Meeting your Ursula has really gone to his head.’
Ursula was pleased that Schosi liked her so much; it warmed her more than she’d care to admit. She found herself glad to see him and eager for his company. She was glad also that he was allowed more freedom. It was wrong to keep him shut away – surely there was no need for it. It made him happy to wander further afield. Ursula sometimes saw him on the track picking wild strawberries as he slowly made his way to call on her, while trying to shoo his beloved Simmy back towards home. Simmy, a stocky ginger tom, who seemed more like a dog in his propensity to follow Schosi about, was placidly unresponsive. Ursula began to understand why Schosi had screamed so tragically and run on to the ice that day. He exuded love for the cat, as attentive as if it were another human being.
On one of Frau Hillier’s visits, she, Mama, Ursula and Schosi were weeding the vegetable beds that edged the field, and it was Ursula’s job to take the weed-filled buckets to the animals. On the third occasion, when she returned, Schosi had gone to the outhouse and the women had paused in their work and were talking in hushed tones.
‘She can ask all she likes,’ said Frau Hillier. ‘They’ll have nothing to tell.’
‘So she’s digging about then?’ said Mama. ‘Oh God! I’m afraid for you! That woman is poisonous, Gita.’
Ursula squatted beside them. ‘Who is?’
‘That woman is bitter,’ said Frau Hillier with a vicious stab of her trowel into the soil. ‘She had one of her own, a few years back. Did you know?’ Mama shook her head and Frau Hillier glanced to check whether Schosi was still out of earshot. ‘A late baby, not entirely right. She wrote to them herself – gave him up willingly.’
‘How vile! How heartless!’
‘Are you talking about Frau Gerg?’ asked Ursula.
‘But then not everyone’s got a heart.’
‘What happened?’ said Ursula more loudly. ‘What did she do?’
‘Nothing, dear,’ said Mama, placating her with a pat to the knee.
Ursula was offended – she was old enough to understand; they were rude to exclude her. She stood and snatched up the bucket. Just then, Schosi reappeared, and Frau Hillier called, ‘Schatzi, come!’ She went and hugged him and tickled under his arms until he doubled over, gasping. ‘Come, my little mouse, my little rabbit.’ Sh
e chuckled. ‘What have you been doing?’
Ursula wandered off, irritated. Let them gossip, talk in half-sentences, make a drama. She didn’t care what Frau Gerg had done, though she could well imagine her as heartless, hollow-chested, a dark space beneath her ribs filled only with bubbling bile. Frau Hillier was probably making a fuss about nothing; she just liked to bundle Schosi about and keep him close like a baby; that was all. He was quite safe.
Schosi disentangled himself from his mother and followed Ursula across the yard. She waited for him, somewhat cheered. She no longer believed what Anton had said about him being mad or perverted. He lost his stutter as long as he was at ease and spoke in a hushed monotone; he didn’t fidget so much any more with his piece of cloth.
‘Play with Uschi?’ he said once he reached her. ‘Little bear,’ he added, putting his hands up to make a pair of ears.
Startled that he knew the meaning of her name, she cuffed him on the arm then led him to the cowshed. There, she tossed hay down from the loft while he put it in the mangers. Afterwards, he leaned against the nail-bitten frame of the door to watch the cow and goats and caged rabbits. He seemed to love the warm, dust-moted shed, strung with sunbeams that threaded through the ageing planks, sweet-smelling of the animals’ bodies and buttery straw. It was a safe place, thought Ursula, a slow place. And he brought an even deeper calm. She stood next to him, not speaking, and his air of quiet contentment stilled the flutter in her mind, turned her limbs soft and heavy, drove away the dark things just out of view.
Siegfried arrived in his car at odd times of the night, the vehicle much scruffier these days, the paintwork scratched by flying debris, an awful dent in the bonnet where Siegfried said a large chunk of masonry had fallen from a parapet as he drove beneath. He held Mama’s arm whenever she rose from the settle and ran around the table to pull a chair out for her, and generally behaved very oddly. He rebuked the children once or twice when they were unhelpful or lazy.
‘Your mother’s in no state to be dealing with disobedience. Do as you’re told!’
The children took these remonstrations with a silent malevolence. Ursula tried to remember Papa’s face, but it was fading. The nut-brown skin and crooked nose blended with the plump cheeks and dark moustache of Siegfried. Siegfried was the man who sat in the armchair in the living room and stayed sitting up with Mama long after the children went to bed. He carved the meat at mealtimes and was served first by Mama. He leaned on the edge of the kitchen work surface as Mama hurried through her tasks, talking to her about things happening in the capital. He made comments about the Russians and the political situation. They talked about the state of Austria, about the future of Austria, about Stalin. They shook their heads. He joined in with the cleaning; the house hadn’t received a thorough clean since Papa died. He helped Ursula to beat the rugs, which were thrown over the washing line. Grey clouds enveloped them and they coughed and spluttered, the dull thwack of their woven cane paddles finding a rhythm. He called out ‘One and two and three and four’ and they kept on until the rugs were bright and the dirt gone. Ursula enjoyed the sport of it but felt disloyal. She wondered whether amongst the dust there was something of Papa floating away on the breeze. When Siegfried interfered with the feeding of the animals, using dandelion leaves to play tug of war with the rabbits through the wire, brought her gifts and repaired her rickety bed, when he sang while shaving and filled the house with good cheer, when he was kinder to Mama than Papa had ever been, Ursula made an effort to despise him.
‘Why’s your Mama so fat?’ the kids chanted at school. ‘What’s she keeping in the oven?’
They threw dirt in Ursula’s hair and stuck their feet out to trip her in the corridor. She kept close to Anton as much as she could. He often reminded her about their plan to report Siegfried. He’d investigated Siegfried’s car one night and found a secret compartment beneath the carpeted lining of the boot, a flap that revealed a space below in which to hide things. It’d be so easy, he cajoled when they met on the balcony. ‘Or are we just going to let them play happy families? Like we never existed. Like Papa never existed. You changed your mind yet?’
She deliberated, torn. It seemed more tempting now, more necessary. This man was ruining everything: who knew what he’d do next? Would she and Anton and Dorli be turned out? Anton said it was possible. Mama seemed delirious whenever Siegfried was around; whenever he came or went she was on the doorstep, arms waving madly above her head like a conductor. Ursula had seen them kissing in the house when they thought they were unobserved, faces squashed together in a way that looked painful, jaws working. She didn’t like to see her mother behave so unguardedly and her dreams were filled with anxiety about a home that wasn’t home but full of strangers. But it would be too cruel – unforgivable. It would hurt Mama terribly. And how could she condemn a man for stealing when her own hands twitched in every shop and she often took what wasn’t hers?
‘What about Mama?’ She tried the same tack.
‘She’d be all right. He’s the one they want. He’s the thief. We’ll just mention the car. Give the registration.’
‘Someone will see us if we go to the police station.’
‘We go in the night, after the station’s shut, you dummy.’
A sweat broke out on Ursula’s skin – it would be terribly frightening sneaking out after curfew to do such a thing. But most of all she fretted because it would be wrong.
The following evening the house was blind and dark by dinnertime and the apple tree whipped against the cladding in disjointed rhythms. The wind was so strong it sounded as though an army shook the doors till the latches jumped, boomed the shutters and threw whistling grenades down the flue pipe. Ursula huddled close to the Tirolia – Anton hadn’t come home after school. He was more than likely with Rudi and this made her skittish. At around six o’clock planes went over, their engines guttural and menacing, just audible above the wind. Ursula ran to the upstairs balcony. All that was visible was the thick, fast-flying clouds, but hidden above was the enemy. Mama prayed for Siegfried who was in the city overnight – the wireless reported terrible destruction in Vienna, Graz, Salzburg, Linz; smoking holes in buildings, civilians masked against gases.
Not long after seven, Frau Hillier arrived with Schosi in tow – Ursula’s mood sank further to find it was not Anton. They’d brought candles in case there was another power cut, of which there’d been plenty of late, and some of Herr Esterbauer’s home-made schnapps. Frau Hillier was soon talking with Mama, both ensconced in easy chairs with drinks in hand, and Schosi watched Ursula finish her homework, which was to stitch a sampler with the word ‘Deutschland’. He sat very close and dug his fingers into the coloured balls of thread. Mama launched into a diatribe about Anton’s worsening behaviour, his selfishness and disrespect, while Frau Hillier grunted her agreement. Ursula sensed the influence of Siegfried in Mama’s galvanised air. She and Anton fought continually these days; the air crackled between them.
‘Tonight, he can go hungry!’ she retorted. ‘I didn’t save his portion, and why should I?’
‘Quite,’ said Frau Hillier.
When Anton arrived close to eight, he merely walked into the kitchen, swiped bread from the pantry, stuffed it into his mouth then dropped into a chair, chewing.
‘That’s rationed, you know!’ Mama uncrossed her legs as if to stand.
Anton eyed her, malignant.
Schosi began to stammer, fumbled for Ursula’s hand and drew his chair close. Mama glowered at Anton then reached for the schnapps bottle, stretching to where it stood on the table with some difficulty due to her boulder-like belly. She poured herself a second glassful.
‘Fat pig,’ said Anton loudly. ‘Fat bitch.’
There was a sharp silence. Anton’s eyelids lowered; languorous, satisfied.
Schosi clung to Ursula as though he hoped to be cradled, his hand almost crushing hers. Frau Hillier gaped in outrage. Mama heaved herself upright, strode across the kitchen and hit Anto
n across the cheek, a resounding whack right from the shoulder. He leapt from his seat, chest puffed like a swan. He glared at Mama for a few seconds then stalked from the room.
Mama buckled into her chair, weeping. She pressed her fingers to the creases in her forehead. She wailed, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him! I can’t fight him any more!’
‘Have strength. You did the right thing.’ Frau Hillier spoke tersely, her fists balled. ‘He’s got a nasty streak, that’s for sure.’
‘No, he hasn’t!’ said Ursula hotly. ‘You don’t understand! You shouldn’t speak of him that way. It isn’t fair.’ She stood and wriggled her hand free of Schosi’s. ‘Mama, you’re hurting him!’ Mama looked at her, tear-streaked and baffled. ‘He’s just unhappy. And ashamed, and misses Papa.’ But perhaps, she thought as she walked to the kitchen door, there was something wrong with him. Something underneath. He was always angry, always ready with venom. Dorli appeared, barging Ursula aside as she entered. She went immediately to Mama and took her hand, saying that Anton was an ungrateful hoodlum with the kind of manners one found everywhere nowadays amongst boys. They had no respect for their elders and believed themselves superior. Ursula thought her sister sounded like an old grandmother; she couldn’t abide the sickly, consoling expression that she always used at times like this.
‘He’ll be back with his tail between his legs, you’ll see.’
