by John Wray
“The worse for him.”
“The worse for you, I’d say, Herr Minister.”
“Yes,” said Ley. “That’s all very fine. I’d like to speak with you in private now, Herr Gruppenleiter,” he said, turning abruptly to Spengler.
The security secretary sat forward, trying to speak, but was seized by a violent fit of coughing. “What’s the meaning of this, Emil?” he managed to wheeze. Ley simply leaned over and put a finger to the old man’s mouth. “You have problems with my Home Guard, I understand,” he said, keeping his eyes on Spengler.
“Figured that out all on our own, did we?” Spengler said, glancing at me.
Ley waved a hand. “A guess, Herr Spengler. Nothing more. I thought I’d heard the sound of trucks.” He paused a moment, smiling politely. “Not the best position to be in, I’d imagine—”
“Get to the point,” I interrupted.
Ley paused a moment. The security secretary was still hacking and shuddering next to him. “A word with you in private, if I might, Herr Spengler,” Ley repeated.
I kept quiet, watching them both. The vaudeville quality was building minute by minute. The Home Guard were, as far as I’d understood anything, supposed to be fighting shoulder to shoulder alongside the Brown Shirts at key points across the city; instead they were mustered in full force of arms just outside the window, sharpening their bayonets. Their commander-in-chief, who by rights should have been tearing his hair out by the roots at that very moment, railing at the faithlessness of his troops, was in fact sitting before us with his legs comfortably crossed, smiling at Spengler with a look of profound personal satisfaction. Whatever Glass’s deal had been it had obviously crumbled, and we were powerless. To this day I have no idea why Ley chose not to warn Dollfuss earlier, but of this I’m certain: everything that happened that day did so according to his whim.
The idea took hold of me briefly to get through to Glass on the telephone, but I decided to wait a little longer before I took that risk. Spengler looked at Ley another moment, then shrugged his shoulders. Two boys helped Ley to his feet. I sat down on the bench he’d just risen from, next to the secretary of security, and watched the boys lead him out of the room. The paneled door swung smoothly shut behind them.
—Arise, therefore, and walk! said Ryslavy, throwing back the bedsheets. —Ah! Excuse me, Fräulein.
—Christ above, said Voxlauer. —’Tis the dead again risen.
—What time is it? said Else, yawning.
—Breakfast time, said Ryslavy, beaming down at them. —No time for dallying.
—This is the newlywed service, you son of a pig?
—The Fräulein may sleep on if she wishes. You, however, are no newlywed. Take a look at yourself if you have any questions.
—I’d rather not, said Voxlauer, rubbing his eyes.
They ate the remains of the previous night’s supper in the barroom. The sun was already beating down on the square and they sat over their cups of coffee watching a troop of uniformed boys assembling a podium in front of the fountain. A tepid wind was blowing. The Kärnten state colors hung from bent birch poles over the platform and above them fluttered the long, gaudy banner of the Reich. A man in a brown uniform, cinched and pleated at the waist, called directions to the boys from Rindt’s patio. As the three of them watched he sat down gingerly in a chair and began fanning himself with a newspaper. The boys were uncrating a public-address system from a row of orange boxes.
—What is it? said Voxlauer, squinting. —Is it a Bible Youth meeting?
—SA, said Ryslavy.
—Brown Shirts? Those children?
—He’s looking at us, said Else.
—Who?
—The head boy. The dandy.
The man had taken off his peaked brown cap and sat shading his eyes, his head turned toward the glassless barroom windows.
—Do you know him? said Voxlauer.
—I don’t think so. She craned her neck forward. —It almost looks as though he’s smiling.
—Wave to him, said Voxlauer.
Else rose slightly from her seat and waved. The man sat bolt upright and turned his head back toward the boys, who were now unpacking microphone stands and rolls of thick blue wire from the crates.
—Must not like women much, said Ryslavy. —No great surprise.
—That’s not the miller’s boy, is it? said Voxlauer.
Else gave him a crooked smile. —When he arrives, Oskar, I’ll let you know.
Later that day the two of them walked to the old house. —She knows everything about you already, said Voxlauer, unlatching the garden gate. —It’s useless to feel nervous. The doors of fate have long since clanged shut on you forever.
Else laughed. —Why bring me at all, then?
—To be honest, I could use the company. He swung the gate open and raised a finger to his lips. —Be as quiet as you can. It’s a game we play.
—A game?
—Shh!
—She’s an old woman, Oskar.
—You just wait.
When they reached the house she was waiting for them on the verandah. —I heard you coming over the bridge, she called down happily.
—I’ve brought somebody with me, Maman.
—Yes, yes. Come along upstairs.
They climbed to the landing and waited for her to shuffle to the blue-paned stairwell door and draw the bolt. —I hadn’t known you were coming, she said to Else. —But I heard you on the bridge.
—Yes, Maman. You always do, said Voxlauer.
—Come in! Come in and sit.
—Is there any tea?
—There’s still some, I think. Yes! There’s tea, Maman said after a moment, more confidently.
Voxlauer looked at the tea set laid out painstakingly on the table and the bone-china plates arrayed in neat arrow-shaped regiments across the carpet. —Did you have company today, Maman?
Maman raised her eyebrows. —No, Oskar. Not today.
—Those are lovely plates, said Else, smiling.
—Yes. Don’t touch them.
—Oh! No, said Else. —I wouldn’t. She glanced at Voxlauer.
—Maman. We’ll need cups at least, for the tea.
—That’s right, Oskar. Go and get them from the cabinet.
—Which one?
—The cabinet, Oskar. The cabinet. In the kitchen.
—All right, Maman. Sit down, now. I’m going.
When Voxlauer came back Else and Maman were sitting at the parlor table. Maman was holding a saucer up to the light. —How beautiful, Else was saying.
—Yes. Oskar broke most of these, the little monster.
—You must have me confused with some other little monster, Maman, said Voxlauer. She looked up and smiled at him as he set the cups and teapot down before her. Voxlauer poured the tea.
—Where did you come by these? she said after a time, studying her cup intently.
—From the kitchen, Maman, said Voxlauer after a little pause.
—Yes, that’s where they’re kept. There’s marble cake in the cupboard.
—Should I get it? said Voxlauer, rising.
—Yes. And the sugar.
—I have it here, said Else. —Here you are, Frau Voxlauer.
—Oh! Yes. Never mind, Oskar. She blinked at Else. —Oskar was born here. In this house.
—Yes?
Maman nodded gravely. —He was. She paused for an instant. —December 11, 1902. At the bottom of the stairs.
—Halfway out the door already, said Voxlauer, taking the sugar from her.
—The war took him when he was very young.
—I’m still alive, Maman.
—Yes, Oskar. And then to Russia, she said, raising her teacup.
—Oh, yes, said Else.
Voxlauer went out again into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and cupboard doors methodically one after another. Else and Maman sat across from one another at the table. After a time Maman shifted heavily in her chair and let out a sigh.
—You and I, she said, taking Else’s hand. She paused. —They go away. We sit here and wait for them. And we get old, don’t we, Irma? Don’t we get old?
—What are you doing out there, Oskar? Else called.
—I couldn’t find any cake, said Voxlauer, coming back into the room.
Maman nodded. —It’s just as well. I’ve gotten fat.
—No you haven’t, said Voxlauer, crouching down next to her and looking nervously up into her face, the corners of his mouth twisting involuntarily into a smile. His voice when he spoke was as high-pitched as a child’s, and the embarrassment he felt at his sudden fear was a child’s as well. He was angry, bitterly angry at being embarrassed in this way. His voice twisted and balled up in his throat and he couldn’t make a noise. —Maman, he said finally. —You’re not fat at all. You’re thin as a breath.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders and patted lightly with her palms at her ravelling bun of hair. —I’m glad you’ve come back, anyway, Oskar. She nodded again. —I certainly am. I’m very glad.
—I’m glad of that too, said Else, taking her hand. Voxlauer was already standing.
An hour later, as they stepped out of the Niessener Hof with Ryslavy, the square was already full of people. Old faces familiar to Voxlauer looked out uncertainly from rows of younger faces fixed in proud solemnity. Rindt, his grease-flecked tapper’s bib tucked sharply through a wide brown leather belt, made the rounds with a platter of yellow beer. Here and there a gray or black uniform stood out among the linen jackets and dirndl dresses.
—Where are the guests of honor? said Else.
—Guests of honor are always late.
—We won’t have any trouble recognizing them, at any rate, she said. —They’ll be dressed in harvest colors.
—I’ll be in my cellar, if anybody asks, said Ryslavy. —Call me if that fat bastard runs out of beer.
—In case you’ve forgotten, Pauli, said Voxlauer—we drank your last bottle yesterday.
—I might have a case or two somewhere, tucked away, said Ryslavy. He bowed to them gravely and stepped back into the ruins of his foyer.
As Voxlauer and Else moved into the crowd a rift opened on the east side of the square and the first wedge of SA marched in, alternating kick steps like horses in trap, holding their rifle stocks diagonally out in front of them. —We used to call that Gypsy-marching, back in my time, said Voxlauer, smiling to himself at the irony of it. Else was a few paces in front of him and didn’t answer.
A man in a peaked, black-fronted hat, like a chauffeur’s cap, called out commands from the little podium, rocking back and forth excitedly on his heels. The SA themselves were hatless and their cropped, tanned heads rotated briskly in execution of the drills. Here and there in the crowd arms were spontaneously raised in excited Heils. Elsewhere men were drinking beer and laughing and ignoring the SA altogether.
Voxlauer followed behind Else, who was making her way steadily through the spectators to the northwestern corner of the square. The upper floors of the houses were hung with crimson flags and banners. Those who hadn’t been given flags had hung capes and dresses and bedsheets from their windows. The ruin had been decorated with torches and a long red banner with reticulated trim now graced the leftmost of its arches. Else waited for Voxlauer on the Polizeihaus steps.
Column after column of SA filed into the square from its eastern side, forcing the onlookers back onto the curbs. The platform was filling rapidly with officers. A fat, five-pointed star of brown now fulminated in the square, spinning like a leaf caught in a gentle current. The crowd, too, appeared to be twisting along its edges. The black-capped officer surveyed the square a moment, stamped his heels with satisfaction, then stepped back from the podium. Grudgingly the bodies came to rest. —It’s almost beautiful, said Else, looking down at Voxlauer from her place above him on the steps.
—Do you think so?
—No. But it is a thing to see. It’s so very strange.
—Are you still afraid?
—Oh! said Else suddenly, looking past him.
A man in a black field jacket approached the podium with both arms raised. He began to speak into the microphone and his voice seemed to intermingle with its hum, trembling over the massed heads of the crowd and carrying back in waves of half-articulated sound to the platform. The sound spread over the square like an awning, making everything but listening impossible. It kept on and fell back on itself and brightened and became louder and louder. At predetermined points the voice would cease, and the crowd would answer in quick joyous bursts of noise. The speaker would acknowledge the crowd with a brief, careless salute and the Brown Shirts would respond with a deafening chorus of Sieg Heils.
—Blessed Christ, it’s loud, a woman next to Voxlauer said.
Voxlauer didn’t look at her. He was looking at the podium.
—Look! said Else.
—I am, said Voxlauer.
—Look who it is.
—I know. I see him.
On the platform Kurt was smiling now and lifting his arms.
My feelings about the putsch had changed. I was no longer thinking of it in terms of success or failure; I knew now that it could only end badly. I sat a long while on the bench in the little room, thinking only about my own skin. The secretary of security made regular requests for glasses of water, which were just as regularly ignored by myself and the two other boys on watch. Eventually Dollfuss sat up in his corner and mumbled a few words in what might have been Italian. An idea came to me then, or the start of one, and I stood up from the bench.
Going out the paneled door to the cabinet room, I found Spengler and Ley huddled together at the far end of the table, plotting away in their very best church whispers. Neither looked up as I passed. I went to the sideboard and took down the decanter of brandy and poured out a generous snifter, golden and amber-smelling. Ley and Spengler kept right on with their conference. I tipped my head back, downed the brandy and filled the glass a second time. The bottle was very old and clouded over and smelled faintly of cork and mildew. Above the sideboard hung a portrait of some earlier, more normal-sized head of state flanked by his thirteen ministers, examining a weighty-looking sheaf of yellow papers. A muffled, static hum, like the buzzing on a telephone line, rose out of the radio. I stood at the cabinet a moment longer, trying to make out what Ley and Spengler were whispering, then put the bottle down and walked back to the table over the thick-loomed Persian carpet. “Our man’s come to,” I announced in my shrillest, most military tone of voice.
Spengler glanced up at me. “Has he? Well, Herr Minister! Let’s go have a look!”
The two of them stood up from the table, overflowing with mutual goodwill. I pointed at the minister. “Pardon my curiosity, Heinrich, but shouldn’t this one be in the dunce’s corner, with the other dunces?”
Spengler took a deep breath, mustered his resources and smiled the most patronizing smile he was capable of. Even I was surprised by its effectiveness. “No no, Bauer. Herr Ley is our new minister of war.”
Ley stepped out from behind Spengler and patted me on the shoulder. “With all due regard, Obersturmführer, you might learn to treat your representatives in government with a slight bit more civility. After you, my commandant!” he said, turning again to Spengler. It was all I could do to avoid being ill.
“Come on out, boys!” Spengler called, opening the door. The two boys I’d left on guard came out, looking at us questioningly. Little Ernst and some others came in at the same time from the anteroom, sensing that something was about to happen. Ley went in to Dollfuss first and I made a move to follow but Spengler held me back. “We won’t be needing you just now, Bauer,” he said softly.
“What won’t you be needing me for, Heinrich?” I asked. Spengler only blinked and pulled the little door firmly closed behind him.
After a few seconds Ley’s voice sounded dimly through the paneling. I listened for a while with my ear pressed to the keyhole, all thought of savi
ng face with the rest of the boys abandoned, then glanced back to where they stood in a loose half-circle, watching me. After a moment or two Little Ernst stepped over. “Ley’s bought himself in right neatly, hasn’t he?”
“He’s bought himself time, that’s all. Take a look downstairs, will you, Ernst? And take all these Bolshevists here with you. Go on,” I said, pointing at the other boys, who were watching us even more intently now.
Ernst clicked his tongue against his teeth for a few seconds, not answering. “As you say, Obersturmführer,” he said thoughtfully after a moment. Something in his tone had changed, and I watched this change register, slowly but surely, with the others. I pretended not to notice and slapped Ernst cheerfully on the back as he went out. They know something’s gone wrong, or is going wrong now, I thought. As soon as I was alone I crossed the room and poured myself another snifter.
Standing under the portrait sipping at my brandy, I tried again to think. Could this have been the way Glass wanted it? That seemed suddenly very likely. I forgot Spengler and Dollfuss and Ley and the rest of it and imagined Glass reclining that very moment on his couch by the teletype, sleepy and content, or speeding away in his apple-green Horch convertible, a present from the Reichsführer-SS himself, through the flat wheat and fir-covered hills to the border.
One week later, as Voxlauer was working in the villa’s garden, the sound of Kurt’s motorcycle carried up to him. He stood slowly and leaned his shovel against the fence and looked at Else through the parlor window. She motioned to him to come, made another gesture he wasn’t able to decipher, then stepped away from the glass. Voxlauer swung open the low gate and stood for perhaps half a minute in the house’s shadow, leaning against the cool dark wall and looking down at his hands. By the time the sound drew even with the house and stopped he was breathing quietly. —Hello, Kurt, he said, stepping around the house into the sunlight.
—Sieg Heil, Oskar! said Kurt, giving Voxlauer a mock salute. —Is Her Ladyship receiving visitors? I have no appointment.
