This Great Escape

by Andrew Steinmetz

  2 My novel Eva’s Threepenny Theatre, published in 2008, had made the rounds.

  Letters To Eva

  21 JANUARY 1967 FROM VIENNA

  It is very difficult for me to write this letter to you, as it contains news that will affect you just as deeply as it has affected me.

  Du must allen Mut und alle Kraft zusammen nehmen, um die schreckliche Tatsache aufnehmen und ertragen zu koennen.

  You need to gather all your courage and all your strength in order to absorb and deal with the awful facts.

  Her lips part then bump like clouds. This is Karl Paryla’s handwriting. Sounding words, knowing meaning will strike not much later.

  I can’t believe it yet myself and I don’t know where to turn or to seek comfort. Aber—But—I have taken it upon myself to deliver terrible news; the worst thing that could have happened to us. Unser Michael ist nicht mehr. Our Michael is no more. He died last night in Hamburg.

  The incident is still completely inexplicable, but I see it as my duty to immediately inform you of anything I know. Michael was supposed to go on stage at the Thalia Theatre in Hamburg yesterday; when he didn’t show up, they broke into his room and he was lying in his bed, sleeping.

  Eva breaks here—numb, mumbling ‘lying in his bed, sleeping’—and follows the route upstairs from the kitchen and along the narrow hall. Pressing her skirt between her legs, she slips into his bedroom to find the sunshine amassed on the rug and the cat warm on the pillow at the head of his bed. Aber. Michael is no more. But. Memory believes. Memory is certain of a hole before Karl’s letter grips her again and she slumps on her side on the bed: Michael with a fever after having his tonsils removed, Michael and his barking cough, when it was past time to turn out the light and stop him reading. When it was morning again, she would wake him, a boy of fourteen, fifteen, her fine blond boy. Her son. Her only child.

  Beside him, a half-empty bottle of whisky and a pill bottle, from which he had evidently taken sleeping pills. He suffered from insomnia and the pills had been prescribed by a doctor. He was brought to St. Georg Hospital by ambulance, where a Dr. Wuehler (with whom I’ve spoken on the phone) attempted resuscitation. Herzmassage, cardiac massage, artificial respiration. But nothing helped anymore.

  Because it was already broken. His heart. Or because they broke it with force, compressing his ribs, shooting blood through four chambers, they tried to squeeze him out from underneath but the weight … it was too much, he was already so weak.

  He was already so weak and exhausted that he died, without regaining consciousness, shortly after entering the hospital.

  She reads from left to right, in one eye out the other: Das Motiv eines Selbstmordes war nicht auszuschliessen, suicide was not discounted, even though there was no indication to that effect. Only further investigation will shed light on the matter.

  Eva rests her head on the pillow. The cat hops off the bed. The telephone rings. Antoine. Calling from the lab. What loneliness she feels. She inhales linen, a mouthful of the dry fabric sticks, the tingling cuts her tongue. Selbstmordes. Self-murder. Self-slaughter. Which is better? German or English? She can taste his scalp. He would reek like black pepper when he sweated, when she held him in her arms and kissed the crown of his head. What good is it? Michael is no more. Whosoever has seen a happy thing fall, has stood at the abyss …

  I am interrupting my work here in Vienna and will drive to Hamburg and only then will I be able to gain some clarity on all the circumstances surrounding his death. All the people I questioned over the phone today, and who had been in close contact with him, tend to believe it was an accident. A combination of sleeping pills and alcohol. A few weeks ago I was able to see him for myself in Hamburg. I spent a lot of time with him and got the impression that he had matured and was on the right path. He was in great shape and great spirits. He had a respectable contract, a successful career, good prospects.

  But. Eva knows he was a clown. Michael was a practical joker. At Collegiate High-school, the first year they had arrived in Canada, from Germany, his teachers had told her this; and Eva never forgot it—the expression was one she had never heard before: ‘Practical joker’. ‘Your son is a practical joker.’ Was it something good? Maybe it was. Laughter is lucky. In any event, to Eva the expression sounded like Canada and America, it was a confirmation or a baptism. There had been exile and immigration; and now, assimilation. Canada was a land of practical jokers and her son Michael and his new friend Ken Taylor were maybe the biggest jokers in all Sault Ste. Marie. For teenage boys, they were harmless, which she liked. They went fishing together and for ‘picnics’ (which also sounded very nice). They played on the railway tracks and in the schoolyard. She liked it that boys this age could be soft and that Michael and Ken were buddies. ‘Buddies’. Buddies and practical jokers. Michael had matured and was on the right path, alright, alright, but Eva hadn’t forgotten that Michael was a practical joker—which is to say he might have surprised them all, but not her, not his own mother—Michael had spent the war in Austria and in Switzerland, and then two years in war-destroyed Berlin, before emigrating here to the land of milk and cookies and picnics with bosom buddies. Michael had been a DP from birth. At fourteen, he was more sophisticated than any of his teachers or buddies could fathom. He was good at hiding who he was. And where he was from. He was a natural. Out there he was acting. But inside Michael was at war. Eva knew.

  Also, it is in no way certain whether a sudden physical distress didn’t cause his death. I will find out and let you know. His ‘wife’, with whom he had been living for years, was not there with him. But they were on excellent terms and they loved each other very much.

  Eva, it would be easier for me than it actually is if I could tell you something about his death, and I can only ask that Antoine stands by you. It’s terrible that I can only express myself in words now, and from such a great distance, and not take the two of you in my arms as friends.

  Believe me, Eva, I feel your pain, along with mine. The letter was sent Express and mailed to the wrong address. There is no indication as to when it arrived nor whether it is by this means that Eva first learned of Michael’s death. Cross-Atlantic telephone calls were not the norm at the time. My sorrowful condolences. I embrace you. Your Karl.

  21 APRIL 1967 FROM VIENNA

  Liebe Eva. A second correspondence from Karl sent Registered Mail. This is a lengthy letter, three pages, both sides, tightly scrawled. He waited three months to respond to her letter because he was on a Germany-wide tour that lasted several months.

  I was often driving the Autobahn 8 hours per day, then stepping on stage, to perform every night, before travelling the next day to the next place in the next city. I also hesitated because I wanted to obtain more facts about Michi’s death. To complicate matters, the pathologist (Professor Franz) insisted on transmitting the autopsy report in person, and so I had to wait until I could go to Hamburg strictly for this purpose.

  I had a long talk with Professor Franz, and it turns out that Michi effectively was not healthy, and that scars in his myocardium decisively contributed to his unfortunate passing. He also asked me about his childhood illnesses, among other things, whether he had had jaundice. I remember that you once wrote to me worriedly about this from Canada. In his opinion, the scars or damage in his myocardium could have stemmed from an infection following an operation to the tonsils. Aside from that, there were no other critical findings. In any case, Antoine and Hermann Hans will better be able to discern the facts from the autopsy report, a copy of which I’m enclosing. The report as you will see for yourself is thorough and well done.

  While in Hamburg, I also spoke in person with the doctor who was in charge of incoming patients at the hospital. Dr. Wuehler made a good impression; he is a serious young doctor. Trust me, he did everything in his power to help Michael, but, regretfully, the condition was too advanced. He made all the customary and necessary a
ttempts, but it had been too late for Michi, the drug had been in his body for too long, total exhaustion, comatose.

  At his apartment everything was as it had been after the incident. No evidence of suicide. He was alone. The door was locked from the inside.

  At 6:00 (obviously pm) the alarm clock went off. Michi surely wanted to be awoken for the evening’s performance.

  At 8:00 pm, the theatre staff noticed he was missing. Approximately two hours elapsed before the administrative director, Rolf Mares—who I met, and is very kind and considerate—telephoned everywhere, and Margaret, who was in Munich, said (when she was contacted) to break open the apartment.

  Nach deutscher Art wurde erst Polizei und Feuerwehr geholt; leider leider kein Arzt.

  In German fashion, first the police and fire department came; regrettably, regrettably no doctor. This was a mistake. Perhaps he should not have been transported to the hospital. Some days ago I read an article reporting from a medical conference that said rapid transportation is no longer recommended in the case of cardiovascular collapse. On-site transfusions are apparently in order. In Vienna, a doctor comes along with the rescue crew. That was not the case in Hamburg; Michael did not come under a doctor’s care until he reached the hospital.

  I also thought of crime. Hamburg is a wild city. The St. Pauli borough, where Michi stayed, is known for prostitution and drugs and home to mobs from around the world. The police investigated the case, but quickly dropped the hypothesis of foul play as unlikely. In my opinion, the conduct of the police was negligent to say the least; and I’m not excluding the possibility that someone put a drug in Michael’s drink, sometime during the day, in order to steal from him. One reads such stories in the newspapers all the time. Narcotics used for the sake of robbery. As a matter of fact, the police were unable to determine who had been with Michi during the final 24 hours before his death.

  As far as I was informed, he didn’t lead an unusual or dissolute life; on the contrary, it was built on humanity and camaraderie. That’s clear. His friend Ralf Becher, a stage director in Bremen, a very proper chap, with whom Michi stayed, says that he was just always into the nightlife and was difficult to persuade to stay home once in a while. But perhaps he was neither physically nor psychologically suited for this lifestyle. Despite his success Michi suffered from insomnia. And so in terms of his health, he bit off more than he could chew.

  But all in all, his career was the most important thing to him. Acting was his life’s hope and purpose. This I know. This I can understand.

  I have to say that, when she was with him, Margaret fostered a certain careless sense of allegiance in him. What you told me about her doesn’t surprise me. Unfortunately, she would also cause rifts between Michael and us [Hortense and Karl Paryla] every so often. But he was attached to her and viewed her expressly as his wife, even though she wasn’t officially. The story with Jerry, for instance, also drove us apart. We were very opposed to her sending her child away. But she presented it all to us through rose-coloured glasses. The two of you apparently exchanged the friendliest of letters. And the scandal was that you had found Jerry to be a nutcase. Trips and telephone calls had cost a fortune. 1 Michael later came to me for money. I told him that Margaret was responsible for this whole affair. And since repayment was out of the question, all contact with Michi broke off. I didn’t see him again until months later in Hamburg, and we got along very nicely and fondly.

  I couldn’t understand what he had against you and why he didn’t write to you. What was it? What did he have against his own mother? Hortense and I always told him to write to you, and he promised he would. Regrettably, regrettably, you and I were no example. We had no contact. Perhaps together we could have influenced certain things. Perhaps together we could have done more for him? The right thing to do was once very simple. I am immensely reproachful toward myself. Certainly, a grown man is no longer a child that one can raise; certainly, one can entertain objections against one’s children’s partners. I always did against Margaret—swindling, magniloquent and yarn-spinning Margaret—whose character Michi obviously relished, but finally one should fight for those we love so dearly without holding back.

  Nevertheless, we can’t blame Margaret for our child’s death. She took great care of him; he had a nice, positively luxurious home of which he was very proud, and he was well-adjusted, he felt like the head of the family. They were still badly off when Jerry went to visit you; at the time, Michi worked odd jobs, and you might have viewed his existence as a dismal one—but that had since changed and he no longer lived in the jungle anymore. He had fixed contracts, in which I passionately encouraged him—though every now and then he dreamed of a fast-track star career in the U.S.

  Overall, though, his life had become too middle-class for my taste. I am giving you such a detailed account of everything so that you get the right impression.

  Liebe Eva, I feel your crushing pain. I think of you often and, when I do, I am frightened, my heart is filled with shock and compassion. I have three children and am very attached to them, but you know what Michi meant and always will mean to us; like you, I can hardly grasp what’s happened and, now that I’ve gotten old, I’ll never get over it.

  This very child is a part of our life, a part that has since fallen away; I can find neither comfort nor solace. I will think of him and grieve with you for as long as I live. I went to see his grave today and spoke with him—as a communist I can’t be religious—I spoke with his memory: his memory is alive. I held the deceased Michael in my arms and kissed him, but all I ever see is the living, cheerful Michael, and I hear him speak every day; I can’t imagine the deceased Michael. He lies in a very beautiful, unusual cemetery in the woods; his wish was to be in Munich—the city held a special place in his heart. It is the Waldfriedhof in Grünewald. The forest extends seamlessly behind the cemetery; the street is called Am Wildwechsel. Tall trees tower over his grave. From here, by the moss and the tall forest trees above his resting place, I send my regards to you with this letter. Yours, Karl.

  For the next while, until about mid-June, I will be in Stuttgart. Hotel Buchenhof. Otherwise, Vienna.

  Bottom page, under his signature:

  Eva: I had a death mask made of Michi; it turned out beautifully. Since it’s made of plaster (I have a second one for you), I can’t really send it over. But, if you want, I could have a bronze cast made in Vienna and send it to you. This would be much better.

  Things are brittle as they are. He leaves it up to her.

  15 JULY 1967, PALACE HOTEL MEGGIORATO, ABANO TERME

  Liebe Eva, I am in Italy, finally enjoying a badly needed vacation and have the time to answer your letter. Marianne, with the two girls, visited us in Stuttgart; she is still the same exceptionally calming person. I was thrilled to see her again; it’s a pity that Hermann Hans was not with us. It’s especially a pity that they have all gone to Vietnam now. Only this morning I read in the newspaper about Vietnam. It is a war I cannot understand. Hopefully they will return from the witch’s cauldron soon. Especially because you need the closeness of those dearest to you, those whose influence and sympathy are important to you especially now.

  Eva flattens the letter on the table and looks straight out the kitchen window. Marianne. First a friend, then sister-in-law. Undoubtedly she was the same, the same exceptionally calming person. Almost an un-person. Marianne was on her way with Hermann Hans to Vietnam, where as a volunteer psychiatrist with the American Hospital Association he would be put in charge of establishing the Bien Hoa Mental Hospital. Her brother knew his way around the globe of human theatre. Hermann Hans got himself on Hitler’s blacklist and had left Germany in 1935. Hermann Hans and Marianne got themselves on a boat that sailed from Italy to South America. Colombia. Yes, alright, but Hermann Hans had gotten himself on Eva’s blacklist way back in 1928, when he, along with her father, Emil, had committed her to an asylum. In order to make her bend to th
eir will. In order to break her. In those days, many years ago, they had strongly advised Eva to give up the theatre, and had discouraged her relationship with Karl. She didn’t listen to them, so they twisted her arm, fractured perhaps but had not broken her spirit. Karl’s good manners when writing about Hermann Hans and family represent, what? That a troubled past is forgiven. Present lives are arduous enough.

  I spoke with Marianne at length about Michi and all concomitant circumstances. She also showed me letters from Michi. But to what end? I cannot find peace anywhere. I also find it unsettling that there is so little convincing evidence surrounding any cause or blame for Michi’s death. You say you showed the autopsy report to experts. But your judgment of the clinical finding from the St. Georg Hospital is completely aberrant. You must believe me that Michi’s health was not the greatest. I told you, he had a previous collapse in Bremen. He suffered a nervous breakdown that apparently significantly affected the condition that led to his death. It is conceivable, even likely, that this episode would have ended in death for Michael, but fortunately in Bremen he was not alone, and he received treatment for a long while and recovered, unfortunately under the supervision of a doctor whom I wouldn’t necessarily trust. But where are trustworthy doctors to be found?