Ecstasy

by Mary Sharratt

  Stationed at Gucki’s bedside, Alma indulged her rebellious streak, devouring Ibsen’s drama about the housewife Nora, as stifled as a mummy in the morass of her bourgeois existence. Patronized, infantilized. Nora, who at the end of the play abandons all security and even her children in the name of freedom.

  My husband’s genius has consumed me. But what if his brilliance was no longer enough to sustain them? What would happen to her family now that Gustav’s career seemed teetering on the edge of disaster? Thanks to her tight budgeting, they were finally clear of debt, but they had little in the way of savings. How could Gustav support them on composing alone? Meanwhile, the smear campaign against her husband had reached the point of no return. The most Gustav could do was attempt to negotiate a graceful resignation, one that allowed him to keep his pension and what remained of his dignity intact.

  “It’s not so simple, Almschi,” Gustav told her, his voice rendered strange through the crackling telephone wires. “I can’t just step down. I was appointed by imperial decree. Only the emperor can dissolve my contract.”

  Alma wished she could be holding him instead of the cold, unyielding telephone receiver. To think that during the worst crisis they had weathered thus far she and her husband were reduced to communicating through this contraption.

  “But don’t give up hope,” he said. “There are other possibilities.”

  Alma understood that he was speaking elliptically for fear that the operator might be listening in, eager to sell any tidbit of gossip to the papers.

  “A possibility that allows us to stay in Vienna?” she asked him.

  She knew that Gustav’s friends in the Vienna Conservatory were angling to offer him the post of director—a most respectable appointment, but one that paid far less than the Vienna Court Opera. Still, it was something. She wished Gustav could just be blunt and spill it out.

  “A very solid opportunity,” he said.

  That means an offer in writing, she thought, hope sparking inside her.

  “We need never worry about money again,” he added.

  She closed her eyes and felt a wash of light-headedness sweep over her. He means New York. Only the Americans could afford to offer more than the Vienna Court Opera. So that was it. Gucki was seriously ill with scarlet fever, her family torn apart by the forced quarantine. And an anti-Semitic hate campaign was driving them into foreign exile. It had all happened so fast, a vicious downward spiral.

  “Be happy,” Gustav said, speaking into her silence. “This is good news. Our salvation, Almschi.”

  She tried to find the words to congratulate him. But despite the evils spewed in the papers, she loved Vienna. Cycling in the Prater. Concerts in the Musikverein. New art at the Secession Museum. Berta Zuckerkandl’s salon. The very words New York were as daunting as they were glamorous. Could she really start a whole new existence across the ocean in a foreign metropolis, a world away from everything she knew?

  In early June, while Gucki was still convalescing, Alma sat at her daughter’s bedside and read Gustav’s long interview in the Neues Wiener Tagblatt. This was one of the few papers that had remained friendly to him. Berta Zuckerkandl’s father had founded the paper and Berta was one of the contributing journalists.

  I have not been overthrown, Gustav announced to Vienna and the world. I am leaving the Vienna Court Opera of my own accord because I have grown weary of all the lies printed about me in the press. He made no mention of the post offered to him in New York. Alma understood that this was deliberate—he was still negotiating his salary and terms with the New York Metropolitan Opera.

  Alma wished they could talk again on the telephone, but Gustav had left on a hiking expedition in the Alps near Semmering, where he intended to meet up with Anna von Mildenburg and her milquetoast fiancé. Alma had to remain here in the sweltering city until Gucki was well again. Reading about her husband in the newspaper, as though he were a stranger.

  30

  Only at the end of June did Dr. Hammerschlag declare that Gucki had recovered and that the risk of contagion had passed. Alma wept in relief. Sweet Gucki had survived this living nightmare with her eyesight and hearing undamaged. The child was thin and pale, to be sure, but delicate golden curls sprouted from her shorn head. Her eyes began to gleam in curiosity once more.

  “Yes, take her to Maiernigg, by all means,” Dr. Hammerschlag said. “The forest air will put the roses back in her cheeks. Make sure she drinks a lot of fresh milk. You’re looking rather peaked, too, Frau Direktor. Some sunshine would do you both a world of good.”

  With the doctor’s blessing, Alma packed their trunks. She, Gucki, and Miss Turner boarded the train to Maiernigg, where Gustav would meet them. Mama would come later with Putzi and Maria. Alma felt a tug in her heart to think she hadn’t laid eyes on Putzi in almost two months. Mama intended to keep her a few weeks longer, just to be absolutely certain there was no more risk of infection.

  And Gustav. It felt like an eternity since Alma and her husband had last been together. Since he had been truly present with her in his heart and mind. She hoped their summer by the lake would restore their harmony. Please let him finally open up and speak plainly about our future and what choices still remain.

  Alma stepped off the train in Klagenfurt and was engulfed in her husband’s arms. She tried to surrender to the sense of weightlessness when he lifted her off her feet. Like Gucki, she had lost weight during their seven weeks of agony. She yearned to lose herself in his kiss, to allow her grinding worries to drop away. We are together again and all shall be well.

  Gustav released her and took Gucki from Miss Turner. He kissed their child and made much of her until the little girl beamed.

  Riding in the carriage to their summerhouse, Alma and Gustav sat side by side with Gucki snuggled between them on the upholstered seat. Their daughter looked as though she couldn’t believe her luck to be outdoors in this beautiful world again, healthy and whole, with both her parents stroking her hair and holding her hands.

  Gustav could not stop talking about the New York Metropolitan Opera. “Almschi, they’ve offered me a four-year contract with a salary of 125,000 crowns for a six-month season!”

  Incredulous, she gaped at him. It was a veritable fortune. The Vienna Court Opera had paid Gustav 36,000 crowns for a ten-month season.

  “They’re hiring me on the same terms as Enrico Caruso, the most famous tenor in the world!” Gustav was beside himself. “Just think, I shall be directing him! The season begins January 1. We’ll sail from Cherbourg in December. On the way to Cherbourg, we must stop in Paris and visit Berta Zuckerkandl’s sister. She wants to introduce us to Auguste Rodin. He’d like me to model for a bust in bronze, can you imagine?”

  Though Gustav was famous throughout Europe, the New York Metropolitan Opera would make him an international star, practically ensuring his lasting fame. Immortalized in bronze by Rodin! Although this good news brought Alma much relief, it still seemed awful that they had to leave their home. Even with all the money Gustav would earn, she worried that everyone would say they were hounded out of Europe by rabid journalists.

  “I’ll hate to leave Mama behind,” she said.

  “A six-month season, Almschi!” He bounced Gucki in his lap in celebration. “When I’m not conducting in New York, we’ll be here in Austria enjoying a six-month holiday. We’ll have a foot in both worlds. And I’ll have so much time to compose.”

  Attempting to overcome her own reservations about New York, Alma allowed Gustav to seduce her with tales of how opulent and cosmopolitan their lives would be.

  “You’re always complaining about not having any new clothes,” he said, after she had put Gucki to bed that night. “Now you can have a whole new wardrobe. Gowns with silk trains.” As he spoke, he took her hand and led her upstairs to his bedroom. “The Metropolitan Opera is arranging for us to live in a suite of rooms in the Hotel Majestic overlooking Central Park. You can host a salon as glittering as Berta Zuckerkandl’s. We’ll
have Enrico Caruso as our dinner guest. And if you’re worried about your English, there’s a very sophisticated community of German-speaking émigrés—”

  Alma silenced him with a long, hungry kiss. The only way to purge herself of her anxieties for their future was to pull him down on the bed. It had been too long since they had last made love. She was parched for it. Oh, God, let me feel something in my body again. Let the weight of his flesh on hers still the clamor in her mind.

  Alma awakened to Gustav’s kiss. Early morning sun washed the curtains gold, and she lay naked and supremely rested, the rumpled linens wound around her limbs like twisting serpents. Her husband’s face was flushed and soft, his eyes radiant. But he was already dressed, about to walk out the door.

  “Here’s your dressing gown, Almschi,” he said, veiling her body in slippery silk. “Gucki will be up soon and wanting her mama.”

  Before he could dash off to his composing hut, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Like a cat, she rubbed her face against his chest. Anything to keep them both rooted here, in the world she knew, instead of drifting across the ocean into an alien land that frightened her.

  Laughing indulgently, Gustav extricated himself. “Almscherl, I have new music sounding inside my head. I must write it down now or it shall be lost forever.”

  When he left the room, Alma fell back on the bed with a pang of emptiness.

  Through the closed door, she could hear Gustav speaking to Elise. “Today? That can’t be. It’s too soon.”

  “Herr Direktor, it’s too late to tell them they can’t come,” Elise said, when Alma, wrapped in her silk dressing gown, came padding down the stairs. “They’re taking the early train.”

  “What’s this?” Alma looked from her husband to her maid. She hoped Mildenburg and her fiancé wouldn’t be descending upon them.

  “A telegram arrived,” Gustav said shortly. “Your mother is coming up with Maria and Putzi. Today!”

  “Why shouldn’t she?” Alma was delighted and didn’t understand how Gustav could be so perturbed.

  “I thought they would wait another two weeks,” he said. “What if Gucki’s still contagious?”

  “Nonsense,” Alma said, losing patience with him. “The doctor gave her the all clear.”

  Mama and the girls arrived by carriage from the train station in time to join them for supper. While Mama and Maria made more stately progress walking up the path, Putzi raced toward her parents with her arms stretched wide in glee. Alma’s heart lifted to see her again, her beautiful firstborn daughter. Every part of the child seemed to blaze with high spirits and good health. Putzi had always been the sturdier child, the more confident child, the one most likely to succeed in forging her trail through life.

  At the sight of her sister, Gucki squealed and clapped her hands. Alma hoped that some of Putzi’s vitality, her sheer Lebensfreude, might rub off on her younger sister and make her as resilient and strong.

  Alma expected Putzi to fly straight into her father’s embrace. Instead, Putzi threw herself at Alma, clinging to her skirts as though she’d never let her go.

  “Mama!” the little girl cried, as Alma hugged her close, inhaling Putzi’s clean scent. This was the longest she had ever been separated from either of her children, and it appeared that Putzi had pined for Alma as much as Alma had longed for her.

  “Would it have not been more prudent to keep Putzi at the Hohe Warte for a few more weeks?” Gustav asked Mama.

  Alma winced, for she’d never heard her husband speaking so sternly to her mother.

  “Who am I to question the wisdom of Dr. Hammerschlag?” Mama asked him mildly. “Besides, Putzi missed her mama so much she was inconsolable.”

  In the following three days, Putzi hardly let Alma out of her sight. Never had her eldest daughter lavished such affection on her, hugging her, chattering to her, picking flowers for her, drawing pictures to make her mama proud.

  While Gustav was sequestered in his composing hut, Gucki, Putzi, and Maria held hands and danced in circles across the blooming meadow. Alma watched the little girls twirling and spinning until they tumbled down in the soft grass. She was supposed to keep the children quiet so they didn’t disturb Gustav, but she’d had her fill of quiet in the sickroom, had endured enough silence to gag on. It felt like an eternity since she’d last heard her daughters laugh and sing. She reveled in their voices, their out-of-key melodies. Let no one ever rob my girls of their music.

  Her ebullient Putzi was oddly quiet at breakfast the next morning. Though the day was already warm, the child shivered and didn’t touch her fresh bread roll, which Alma had spread with sweet butter and Putzi’s favorite apricot preserves.

  “At least drink your milk, darling.” Alma lifted the china cup with the cow on it to her daughter’s mouth.

  But the little girl sputtered and choked, milk dribbling down her chin. She burst into tears—not the crying of a tantrum but of a child racked with pain and fear. Alma placed a shaking hand on Putzi’s forehead. Her daughter’s skin was as hot as a brand.

  “What is it?” Mama asked. “Don’t tell me Putzi’s ill.”

  Alma’s tears blurred her vision. How could this be? Dr. Hammerschlag had sworn there was no danger of contagion. Seated across the table, Gucki looked perfectly healthy, eating her semolina porridge with gusto.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor,” Miss Turner said, leaping into motion.

  Since they had no telephone at the summerhouse, the nanny would have to cycle into Klagenfurt to hunt down a physician.

  While all this unfolded, Gustav was off in his composing hut, in his world of blissful introspection. He will be furious, Alma thought, as she changed Putzi into her flannel nightgown and tucked her under the eiderdown quilt with her little stuffed dachshund, her daughter’s favorite toy. He’ll blame this on Mama and me. She could almost see his face, frozen in horror. He’ll never forgive us.

  Not yet daring to tell him, she tried to coax Putzi to swallow some aspirin powders. Godless though she was, Alma knelt on the rag rug and prayed that this was just a passing spell, perhaps a bout of flu. That when the doctor arrived Putzi’s fever would be down and he would scold Alma for wasting his time.

  While Alma sat in vigil at her daughter’s bedside, the parlor clock chimed the passing hours. By noon, Putzi showed no sign of improvement but only seemed to sink deeper into malaise.

  “Speak to me, my darling,” Alma begged her, cradling the limp little girl in her arms.

  Dark blue eyes as big as galaxies. Long black lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

  “Mama” was all Putzi could croak, and even that seemed a mighty effort.

  When another hour had passed, Putzi couldn’t speak at all. Could barely swallow. Could only wheeze and cough and choke. This was what it meant to be truly voiceless, as though strangled from within. Peering into her daughter’s mouth, Alma saw the thick white film coating the girl’s tongue. White, not red. Not the scarlet fever then. Would that make Gustav any less outraged? Putzi’s glands were swollen, her throat tender and puffy.

  “Diphtheria,” Dr. Blumenthal said, when he arrived in the late afternoon.

  Alma shrank to hear the diagnosis, for this was a malady even deadlier than scarlet fever. Gustav was as livid as she had feared, too incensed to even look at her. She had to endure his anger alone now, since Mama had taken the precaution of returning to Vienna with Maria.

  “What can be done?” Gustav asked the doctor. “Shall I take her to the hospital in Klagenfurt? On the express train to Vienna?” He conferred with the physician as though Alma wasn’t even there.

  “She’s too weak to move,” the doctor said. “We can only hope her condition doesn’t get any worse. If it does, she’ll die of suffocation.”

  So passed fourteen days of agony. With Elise caring for Gucki, Alma and Miss Turner took turns watching over Putzi, making sure she could still breathe. They struggled to get her to sip water and weak broth without choking on it. Gust
av shut himself up in his study, as though that was the only way he could cope with the possibility of losing his most beloved child. He hardly spoke to Alma, whose thoughts whirled around in a tortured litany. He thinks this is my fault. Is it my fault? Was this her punishment for being careless? A bad mother? Hadn’t she been filled with resentment when Putzi was just a helpless baby, jealous of the adoration Gustav had heaped on the girl?

  Putzi’s condition had deteriorated to the point where Dr. Blumenthal said that the only way he could save her from asphyxiation was by performing an emergency tracheotomy to open her throat and windpipe.

  Alma’s heart no longer beat in orderly fashion but raced sickly out of control while she and Miss Turner worked to turn the kitchen into a makeshift operating room. After Elise had scoured the kitchen table with carbolic soap and boiling water, Alma and Miss Turner sterilized the table, the gauze dressing, and surgical instruments with carbolic acid spray from the apparatus Dr. Blumenthal had provided. At least Miss Turner remained calm and knew what to do. She had trained as a nurse back in England and would be assisting the doctor with the operation.

  “Be my brave girl,” Alma murmured, squeezing Putzi’s hand and struggling not to weep while Miss Turner held the linen mask soaked in chloroform to the child’s mouth to anaesthetize her.

  But before Dr. Blumenthal so much as washed his hands in preparation for the procedure, he escorted Alma out of the room. “This may take all night. Perhaps you should retire to bed, Frau Direktor.”