by Aubrey Flegg
‘Yes, Judit! Gold never really loses its value. It’s portable, and it’s the one thing people want in a crisis. If I move fast – today – I will buy all the gold I can get before the price goes through the roof.’
Uncle Rudi reported back that evening, muttering darkly about scoundrels and sharks, but when Nathan pointed out that his investment had already more than doubled in the day, he polished his bald head until it shone.
‘Can we see it?’ asked Judit.
‘I’m afraid I put it straight into a safe deposit. Ha, ha … it’s worth its weight in gold, you see!’
The Judging of Solomons
Erich could see a light bobbing towards him down the tunnel. He bent diligently to his work, bedding the sleepers of the small underground railway into the solid salt of the tunnel floor. Holiday jobs were hard to come by here, and indeed throughout Austria. The Great Depression that had followed since the Wall Street Crash two years ago was biting throughout Europe. His work in the salt mines was important and he wanted to make a good impression.
‘Erich Hoffman?’ A voice called.
‘Yes?’
‘I have a message for you.’
Erich put down his tools and hurried down the tunnel. The golden salt crystals glinted from the light mounted on his helmet. He couldn’t see who was calling until his own light lit up the face of the mine supervisor.
‘You’re wanted in the office, Hoffman, something urgent. Follow the railway tracks, and don’t bloody well get lost!’
The mine extended for kilometres into the hill here, with tunnels and caverns like burrows one on top of the other. These were connected by wooden slides so that the miners could get to work, whizzing down from level to level. The long walk back up was less fun. He assured his supervisor that he knew the way, and set off towards the mine entrance. What could be the matter? Spreading his arms wide he could just about touch the walls on each side. Clunk! His head hit the ceiling and his headlamp nearly went out. He felt in his pocket for his safety candle and matches.
He emerged into the blinding light to find one of his father’s forestry workers at the entrance. The lorry was there, engine running.
‘It’s your father, Erich,’ the man explained as Erich climbed into the cab beside him. ‘He was trying his hand at tree felling when he collapsed; blue in the face he was. We didn’t like to move him. He said you’d know what to do. It’s only half a mile from here.’ The lorry pitched wildly as the driver turned into a rutted forest road. ‘He shouldn’t be expected to do work that’s too hard for him!’ the driver worried.
Erich managed a wry smile. Typical – even now Father denied his condition; he hadn’t told the men.
A minute or two later Erich was kneeling beside his father’s prostrate form. ‘Where’s his lunch bag?’ he demanded. They had it in a second; he snatched it and began to burrow frantically for the little bottle of pills that should be there. He found it right at the bottom, and to his relief there was one left. With the help of the anxious men, he sat Father up. Erich placed the pill on his father’s tongue and got him to swallow it with a drop of water. It took some minutes before the dreadful blue-grey drained from his face.
The men cheered when he opened his eyes. ‘He should stay in the office and leave the hard work to us,’ they whispered to Erich as they lifted him into the lorry.
As the lorry ground up the hill to the house, Father asked, ‘Are we home, Erich? I’ll be all right with a little rest. Don’t let Mother get on to Mr Solomons.’ He smiled. ‘He might be cross with me.’
Erich felt his jaw tighten. He hated the thought that Mr Solomons kept Father on the payroll out of kindness; and being grateful didn’t help him on these occasions. He wanted to be angry. Solomons might be a nice man but, according to Klaus, he was part of the great Jewish conspiracy. You don’t get smoke without a fire, Grandpa Veit would say.
Mother hurried over, wearing her painting smock, and immediately shepherded Father to bed.
‘No more heavy work, ever, Mr Hoffman!’ said the doctor, once he was satisfied that his patient was out of danger. Erich saw him off but didn’t go back into the house. He hadn’t realised what a fright Father’s collapse had given him. Grandpa Veit had always implied that Mother was, in some way, at fault for Father’s weak heart, but Erich wanted someone else to blame. Damn Solomons for sending him up here into the mountains, and why hadn’t the office in Mödling been re-built? Some nonsense about the insurance not paying up if the fire was deliberate. He remembered the speck of paint he had found on his hand when he had shaken hands with Klaus that night. But perhaps Solomons really had burned the yard himself for the insurance? Tomorrow was Saturday, if Father was out of danger then, there was a hike he’d been promising himself to do: a wide sweep right around Altaussee Lake, taking in as many of the surrounding peaks as he could. He’d walk off his depression. He went into the house, absentmindedly rubbing at his hand where the paint had been.
As Erich knew it would, his black mood had long lifted by the time he was swinging gratefully down the slope, having taken in his own little Kleinkogel peak on the way. The rhythm of walking, fresh air, and unfolding views had washed his mind. He could see the house now but was too pleasantly tired to run. Suddenly his legs stopped moving. There was a car outside the house. The doctor’s? No, he had a Citroen. It was Mr Solomons’ surely. His hands clenched. Someone must have told him about Father’s attack.
He began to walk quickly and silently over the mown grass of the meadow. The curtains of his parents’ bedroom were closed; the doctor had prescribed a sedative and Father was probably sleeping. But those in the living room, Mother’s studio, were open. He paused to look inside. Mother was talking to Mr Solomons; it looked as if she had been crying. She wiped her eyes. Suddenly the Jew reached out his arms; Mother turned into his embrace and put her forehead on his shoulder. Confusion seethed in Erich. What right had this man, Jew or no Jew, to presume that just because he had been kind to Father he had any right to lay his hands on his mother! With bold strides Erich marched up to the house and opened the door.
In Marble Halls
Waves of relief and contentment swept over Helena. How perfect for her two protegés: Izaac, twenty-two, dark and lithe, and Gretchen, eighteen, a striking beauty, her hair tamed in coils of gold, to finish their Austrian tour here in the famous Marble Hall of Salzburg’s Schloss Mirabell. While they had played a programme of Bach, Handel, Mozart and Beethoven, the light from the high French windows had faded, letting the glow from the glass chandeliers take over, first to pick out the gilt on the marble walls, then to catch the moving gold of Gretchen’s hair as she bent to the final chords of the sonata. Helena waited through the four-second pause that the sophisticated Salzburgers allowed for the notes to die away, then relaxed. The applause was full and generous. Salzburg approved.
Izaac reached out for Gretchen’s hand; she curtsied while Izaac bowed. How nice they looked together. At least here in Austria they could still play together. Helena seethed when she remembered the refusal she had got from a venue in Munich, just across the border in Germany: ‘Due to racial considerations we regret … ’ If she could have got her hands on that Nazi! But something was happening here in the hall. People in the audience were turning towards her. Izaac was beckoning. Good heavens, he wanted her to come up on the platform! She gathered up her scarves and made her way up to join them. As she walked on stage, the audience rose as one; they were standing for her … for them.
A last call, a last bow, Helena and Gretchen turned to leave the platform. As Izaac followed them, he turned and did something his concertgoerss had come to expect; he kissed his hand to the audience as if they alone were honoured. Helena knew perfectly well who he was kissing his hand to; she indulged him, and didn’t object.
A Fateful Rejection
The last thing that Erich expected when he went to be interviewed for a place in the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna was a full-scale row between his examining profe
ssors. There were three of them: Professor Boden, head of the Academy, Herr Komanski, master of painting, and a guest professor, Herr Frimmel, from the Academy of Art in Munich. It had all been going well. He had come into the interview room to find the contents of his portfolio scattered all over the table. They seemed to like his Altaussee paintings in particular. Professor Boden had hesitated over his only watercolour, a sketch of a bridge over the River Traun.
‘This is pretty, but is it good? It is difficult to judge watercolours because they have to be done so quickly; it can be just luck.’
‘You have made mistakes before!’ said the German acidly.
Erich looked up in surprise. The man reminded him a little of Klaus, he was a lot younger than the two Viennese professors. Suddenly the air was crackling. Komanski replied, ‘Ah! You mean Herr Hitler. We turned him down because he had no talent, I’m afraid.’
Frimmel went rigid. ‘I am deeply offended by that, sir, where is your respect for our Chancellor?’
‘Just as an artist, just as an artist he’s … well … scheiße!’ Herr Komanski enjoyed his reputation for bad language.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ interjected Professor Boden, but the damage had been done.
‘If you wish to see his talents, Herr Komanski,’ Frimmel said coldly, ‘just look over your border to see what we are doing in Germany!’
Now Professor Boden tried to change the subject. ‘As you can see, gentlemen, student Hoffman has undoubted talent in drawing and in oils. Perhaps you know of his mother, Herr Frimmel, Frau Sabine Hoffman? She created quite a stir at your Munich exposition on modern art.’
Erich was startled to hear his mother brought into the conversation.
‘Not under my directorship, Herr Professor,’ came the clipped reply. ‘That exhibition should never have been allowed. Degenerate art, the lot of it! You just have to compare those daubs with what you have in your galleries here in Vienna to see how art is being degraded. You foster your Jews, you let in Negro jazz, and now you encourage paintings that could have been done by monkeys. No wonder your country is in a mess.’
Erich had been watching their faces like a spectator at a tennis match as Professor Boden tried to calm Herr Frimmel, and prevent Herr Komanski from exploding. The professor shot an apologetic look at Erich for the slight against his mother.
Fortunately Herr Frimmel looked at his watch. ‘I must be going.’ He turned to Erich. ‘Stand up and be counted, lad, we need you. Stick to your classical style, a master race requires master painters. He turned to Professor Boden. ‘Thank you, Professor, most revealing meeting.’ He glanced significantly at Komanski. ‘Heil … pardon’ he said scornfully, ‘… auf Wiedersehen,’ and he left the room.
‘Did you see him!’ said Komanski, shooting up his arm in mock salute. ‘Heil … I’ll Heil him.’
‘Komanski … order!’ Professor Boden turned to Erich. ‘Now, Mr Hoffman, so you wish to specialise in, let me see … “History of Art with an emphasis on Dutch art in the seventeenth century?” That’s going to be demanding. You see, we require that students develop the skills of their subjects…’
As the professor elaborated on the schedule Eich would have to undertake, he soon wondered if he shouldn’t have chosen mediaeval flower painting.
Blood Must Flow
There had been no trouble during Izaac’s concert in Berlin; Berliners love music almost as much as the Viennese, but he was delayed in leaving by people wanting autographs. The stage door, like most stage doors, opened into a dark alley. No sooner had it clicked shut behind Izaac than a disorganised mob of young men and women wearing red shirts and scarves tumbled into one end of the alley: Communists? They turned briefly to face some unseen enemy behind them.
Then he heard their attackers, singing, if singing it could be called: ‘Blut muss fließen, Blut muss…’
Nazi storm troopers!
‘Blood must flow, blood must flow! Blood must flow, cudgels thick as hail! Let’s smash it up, let’s smash it up! That goddamned Jewish republic!’
It didn’t seem to matter that these were not Jews but young Communists, running, terrified, towards Izaac. After them came the brown-shirted storm troopers, bats and bludgeons raised, smashing them down on the heads and shoulders of the young protesters. One of these, a lad holding a hammer and sickle, turned in defiance. In a second he was felled by a single blow. Izaac heard the boy’s skull crack.
Terrified, he tucked himself back into the stage door and huddled over his violin. The tide had swept past before he dared to look up to find a middle-aged man in a brown shirt staring at him.
‘Hey lads,’ the man roared, ‘a bloody Jew!’
Just then a girl’s terrified scream came from further down the lane. ‘Damn, I’m missing the fun!’ and he was gone.
Izaac lost no time in getting back to his lodgings. When he recounted the incident to his host, he said, ‘Izaac, you were very lucky. The Nazis are taking anyone who opposes them, beating them, torturing them, and leaving them for dead in the street. As soon as they have killed all the Communists they will start to kill the Jews. That concert tour you have lined up in America is your opportunity. Take my advice, when you get off the ship in America, stay there.’
Between the Mountains and the Sea
23 MAY 1933 STOP IZAAC ABRAHAMS PASSENGER SS MUNENCHEN HAMBURG NEW-YORK STOP USA AGENT REGRETS CANCELLATION TOUR DUE ECONOMIC SITUATION STOP SUGGEST DISEMBARK COBH IRELAND STOP NEGOTIATING CONCERTS DUBLIN LONDON STOP MACCORMAC MOUSTACHE WILL MEET YOU COBH STOP AGENTS MEYER & MEYER VIENNA STOP
Izaac looked in amazement at the telegraph form the radio officer had just handed him. It was barely twenty-four hours since he had embarked from Hamburg for his first transatlantic crossing. Now he would have to go down and pack again, ready to disembark. His passenger liner was already nosing its way into Cork harbour. Wooded hills and pastures rose out of still waters. Gulls whirled and screeched above his head. He had never seen the sea until they had steamed out of Hamburg, and he didn’t want to leave it. He hated Europe at this moment.
Now he stood on the quay in Cobh, in the turmoil of embarking and disembarking passengers. There were women in floods of tears and young men with cardboard suitcases tied with rope. There were beauties in hats and pearls, and gentlemen in suits. For the third time came the appeal: Would Mr McCormack Moustache come to the gangplank where Mr Abrahams is waiting for him. All at once Izaac was confronted by a man with a red face who was pumping his hand, flooding him with explanations and apologies in what might have been Gaelic but turned out to be English.
‘I’m Paddy McCormack. God help me, I never recognised my own name as they were calling it. You see, I told your agent that you would know me by my moustache!’ He roared with laughter, pointed to the luxurious growth that covered half his face, called a porter, and seized a couple of bags himself. Izaac followed in a daze. ‘This is how it is, Mr Abrahams,’ he said as they walked. ‘We have the Gaiety Theatre in Dublin booked for you in a week’s time. It’s just between runs, so we’re lucky. In the meantime I’ve been told to look after you. I have an allowance of a guinea a day for the two of us, which will be grand in the country. If it’s the city you want, we’ll have to go easy on the Guinness. What will it be then, the city or the country?’ At last two words that Izaac understood.
‘Herr McCormack, danke. Ja, I would like the country best, best of all the sea. We have no sea in my country, you understand?’
‘God bless you, Mr Izaac, we’ll give you a drop to take home with you. Now, we can fix your cabin case to the back of the car. The rest can go by train to Dublin for you. Will you keep the little fella there?’
‘The little … Oh, my violin. Yes, please. Perhaps first the telegraph office? I must tell my family and friends where I am and what I am doing.’
Izaac dispatched short telegrams to his parents and to Madame Helena, and a slightly longer one to Gretchen. Then Paddy McCormack and he set forth, neither of them fully understanding what
the other was saying. When they came to a crossroads, Izaac would say, ‘West, Paddy bitte,’ or ‘The Sea, Paddy bitte,’ while Paddy would say, ‘The pub, Mr Izaac, bitte.’ It took them the best part of the week to travel up through the west of Ireland: Cork and Kerry, into Clare, and then out west to Connemara in County Galway.
On their last day Paddy drove him as far west as he could, beyond the mountains, until only the sea remained. Couldn’t he stay here, Izaac wondered, safe beyond the mountains that now glowed behind him in the evening light? They would never get him here – the Nazi louts on the streets of Berlin; the poisonous children in the Vienna woods – they’d never find him here between the mountains and the sea. He would bring Gretchen and they would make music and Louise would be with them, and they would all laugh again. If only he could persuade his parents to leave Vienna, it would all be perfect.
He laid his violin case on the sand and began to play. Without thinking, he played Helena’s Humoresque. The sun sank in a riot of colour and he heard Louise say quite distinctly, ‘Your fingers are stiff as pokers, what have you been up to?’ So he played the sun into the sea and then he told her all that had happened to him.
CHAPTER 15
Edelweiss and New Boots
Erich sat back in a corner of the wide wooden shelf that served for a communal bed in the mountain refuge. He looked down on a group of five climbers who were cooking their evening meal on a primus stove. Erich had arrived earlier, in time to stretch out in the evening sun and ease his feet. His new climbing boots had been stiff and uncomfortable. The crisp rim of toothed nails designed to dig in and hold tight to the rock made them heavy. He had been woken from a doze by the arrival of the new group as they had dropped their coiled ropes and equipment beside his boots at the refuge door. Now the smell of their cooking was tantalising; he had already eaten the little he had brought, and was starving again.
