The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  On my way to Vienna International Airport I called Mr Edelstein. He answered the phone just as I was about to hang up. My taxi went under a bridge and the reception cut out, fusing my name into a crackled abbreviation.

  ‘Who is this?’

  I repeated my name, then told him about my mother, her letter and the photograph. I didn’t tell him about the words on the back.

  ‘I don’t remember any Albrecht, or photograph. And frankly, I have no idea what your mother could have wanted from me.’ His impatience cut through his reply, throwing me off guard.

  ‘She said it was important.’ I tried to think of ways to prevent him from hanging up. Despite his impeccable English, I detected the slight accent edging his words, so I asked if we could speak in German. My request seemed to take him by surprise and his tone of voice softened. So I continued, joining strands of observations from Frederik Müller and Vivienne to embellish my story. ‘She must have discovered the photograph shortly before her death. She said it had something to do with making amends.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said, ‘I hope she wasn’t seeking to atone for the sins of her forebears.’ This time it was his language which caught me out.

  ‘No – nothing like that at all. We – I mean my grandparents – distanced themselves from the Nazis, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Go on.’ Although there was a touch of humour in his voice, in this situation I felt I was on the back foot. I had no idea what my mother wanted from him. Worse, I knew little of the man on the other end of the line. I decided to be open and told him about the words on the back of the photograph – the phrase, You knew.

  There was a long pause before he spoke again. ‘I have no idea. Sorry, my mind’s a blank,’ he said quickly, as if he were eager to end the call.

  ‘Can I at least show you the photograph? I’m based in London. It’s easy enough to …’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, I really am, but I’m not sure …’

  ‘Just this one meeting. After that, I won’t bother you again. I give you my word.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’ll be of any use.’

  ‘It’s important. Not just to my mother, but to me.’

  He sighed down the phone. ‘Very well. Week days would be best, when my housekeeper’s around.’

  I sensed he wanted someone to be there; for all he knew, I might be a psychopath. I heard the rustle of pages. ‘It’ll have to be this week. Tomorrow.’ Before I could utter a response, he said, ‘Afternoon. Two p.m. I’m at 6 Keats Grove, Hampstead. Towards the Heath end of the road.’ And that was it – no discussion, no room to negotiate a time and place – just a curt thank-you-very-much-and-goodbye before the click of the receiver.

  With the conversation over, I slumped back into the seat of the taxi feeling quite deflated. My only consolation was that at least I had tried to reach out to the man. But that wasn’t good enough and I wasn’t sure if it would have been good enough for Vivienne.

  Once more, I went through the possible explanations behind my mother’s desire to trace him. He couldn’t have been at the orphanage: the agency mentioned that both his parents had been alive when the family left Vienna in 1938. Too tired to consider it further, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes. It did little good. Instead of Oskar, it was the house and my night-time experiences there that skittered back and forth and I found myself rationalising them away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to the taxi driver. He glanced at me through his rear-view mirror. ‘Can we make a slight detour – back to Ober St. Veit – Himmelhofgasse.’ I still had plenty of time before my flight and I wanted to prove to myself that the house was normal, that I hadn’t seen, heard or felt anything other than the tug of my wayward imagination.

  ‘Now you tell me!’ he said, his eyes darting back at me. We were close to the airport. ‘My shift – it’s almost done.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just want to see the house where my mother lived. Just one more time.’ I noticed the mention of my mother awakened some empathy in him.

  ‘Is she still alive – your mother?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘I am very sorry. Don’t worry, I take you there. No problem.’

  I turned back to the window while the driver took out his mobile phone. Although I couldn’t understand what he was saying I could tell by his hushed voice, and the repeated words, that the driver was placating the person on the other end. Then he held the phone away from his ear. I heard the crackle of a female voice above the thrum of the car.

  ‘Your wife?’ I asked when he put down his phone.

  The driver rubbed his forehead. ‘She is not happy.’

  ‘I won’t be long – I promise.’

  As we pulled up to the house, the driver gazed up at the building. ‘Take your time.’

  I walked along the driveway, keeping my mind blank while my fingers felt for the house key inside the pocket of my jeans. I jogged up the steps. For a split second I hesitated, the to and fro of a debate about to begin in my head. I cut it short with a twist of the key and a push of the door. I glanced over my shoulder, catching the eye of my taxi driver. He had got out of the car and was standing by its bonnet. He smiled and said something I didn’t quite catch as I entered the house.

  Immediately, I switched on the chandelier in the hall, its crystalline light extinguishing the stretching shadows. Then I looked to the study. That’s where I’d begin.

  I went straight in. The photograph stood where I had seen it that morning, on the bookshelf. I walked right out. I did the same with each of the rooms on the ground floor: in, quick spot-check, then out, like a prison guard doing his rounds. As I came out of each room, my shoulders loosened, my doubts eased, my pulse slowed. I felt much better, even when I passed the cellar door.

  I looked up to the first floor and then the second, before glancing through the side window by the entrance. I glimpsed the taxi driver, who had now opened up the bonnet of his car and had something like an oilcan in his hand.

  I still had a bit of time and I wanted to do a round of the rooms upstairs. I jogged up the staircase, then along the gallery towards my bedroom, my hand skimming the wooden banister. A song I’d heard on the taxi driver’s radio buzzed around my head and I began to hum it out loud. But as I neared my old room, the chandelier lights flickered, then died out. I stopped humming.

  Old wiring, that’s all.

  I recalled my conversation with Vivienne and let out a half-hearted laugh, calling myself an idiot, amongst other things. And so I carried on, checking the rest of the rooms, albeit with a bit more haste and a little less humming.

  My bedroom was just how I left it. The others contained nothing untoward. Relief wafted through me. I shook my head, rueing my imagination and stupidity.

  Since I hadn’t ventured up there at all during my stay, I decided to check the second floor. It housed the door to the attic and three spare bedrooms. I went inside each one. Apart from the skeleton furniture, they lay quite empty and still. I approached the door that led to a steep, narrow staircase running up to the attic. As I reached for the doorknob I thought I heard something scurrying away. Looking up at the ceiling I frowned to myself before wrapping my hand around the metal handle, feeling its curve knead my palm as I twisted it. The door held fast. I was sure my mother had never locked it and I expected it to be no different now. I assumed it was just stuck, so I rattled the bulb of the handle this way, then that, but it didn’t give. The door’s stubbornness stoked my need to force it open. In a last attempt I kicked it, but still it refused to budge. I was about to kick it again when I heard footsteps. They seemed to come from downstairs. I cocked my head to one side.

  ‘Who’s there?’ My shout rang hollow through the house.

  ‘Hello? Sir?’ The taxi driver’s voice drifted up to the second floor. ‘Hello?’

  I brought my head to the door, laughing at myself. I took a moment then gave the attic door one last cursory look before hastening downstairs to fi
nd the driver in the hallway looking up at me. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing a straggle of dark hair on his forearms. ‘We have a slight problem.’ An air of apology hung around his smile. ‘My car – it’s broken down.’

  I think my reaction must have been one of relief pitted with annoyance.

  ‘But do not worry,’ he continued, ‘I fix it, but I need your help.’

  After I locked up behind us, I felt the urge to look back at the windows, just like I had earlier that morning. But this time, I managed to ignore it, concentrating instead on helping the taxi driver fix his car.

  For about an hour, the driver – his name was Zoran – tinkered with the engine. My job was to stay behind the wheel, testing the ignition when he gave me the nod. On the first three attempts, the engine emitted a strangled whine. On the fourth, I began to berate myself for bringing us back to Ober St. Veit. On the fifth, Zoran gave me a grin and a thumbs up when the engine let out a low rumble. I clambered out and gave him a pat on the back.

  ‘This car – it gives me much trouble,’ he said, waiting for me to climb into the back seat. ‘You will still make your flight?’ I nodded in reply. He scrambled behind the steering wheel, revved the engine, then slowly rolled down Himmelhofgasse. ‘It is hard – I mean – losing your mother?’

  ‘Yes … and no,’ I said, the relief of leaving the house feeling like a welcome breeze on my face. In the rear-view mirror I caught the question in his eyes. ‘We didn’t get along. At least, I tried. She kept her distance. But it’s strange without her.’

  He didn’t say anything until he pulled on to Hietzinger Hauptstrasse. ‘The house – it is very beautiful.’ He tapped the steering wheel. ‘There is someone there?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  He scratched his forehead. ‘Oh, I thought I see someone upstairs. Well – I see curtains move.’

  A chill ran through me.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It was probably me.’ But I knew full well that I hadn’t looked out of any of the windows, that I hadn’t touched any curtains. Zoran frowned. He glanced at me again. His lips moved as if he was about to say something else, but then he appeared to change his mind.

  I couldn’t let myself dwell on what he’d said and I clung to the idea that he’d probably imagined it, just as I had imagined the figure. It was my imagination. I closed my eyes, willing away the picture that my mind, in all its tiredness, had imprinted there. As for the cellar, I was simply mistaken. I couldn’t relax during our drive to the airport. Before our chat, I had felt reassured by my check through the house. But now, even with my internal ripostes – both rational and logical – I struggled to dismiss Zoran’s observation.

  In an attempt to push those seeds of doubt away, I steered our conversation to other things – the weather, his family. A lot of what he said washed over me as my mind slipped back to the house. At the airport Zoran got out to fetch my bag from his boot. I handed him a tip, larger than my usual, with the request that he get his car seen to properly. I moved to shake his hand, but he took my hand in both of his.

  ‘God be with you.’

  I nodded, wondering at his faith in this God of his.

  At the door to the terminal I turned my head. Zoran was still standing by the car, watching me. He looked the way Vivienne did whenever she was concerned: his smile was there, but his eyes betrayed a fleeting apprehension which I caught before his smile turned into a beam as he waved goodbye.

  I wandered over to the check-in desks, reflecting on what he had said, his show of paternal concern, the warmth of his goodbye, the way he’d wished me well. I tried not to think of it as anything more than old-fashioned politeness, but I couldn’t help thinking that he was warning me.

  OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1938

  Fritz grabs Annabel and she shrieks with delight as he tickles and tickles her until she can’t breathe anymore.

  ‘Stop it,’ she says through fitful giggles and tears. His fingers prod through her dress, digging into her ribs. ‘That hurts!’ she cries, wringing herself free. Brushing her blonde curls out of her face she shoots him a glare, then puts her hands on her hips.

  ‘If you ask me again, I’ll tickle you some more,’ says Fritz, wagging his finger at her. His dark eyes sparkle like the light caught in a river, and his face, faintly lined, but still carrying a glow of youth, says everything about the love he has for the young girl of the house.

  ‘She’s been gone for the whole month of March and you’ve still to give me a proper answer,’ Annabel says, narrowing her eyes and looking up at him in a way she knows will butter up his heart.

  ‘You know you’re for it if Maria catches you down here, Fräulein Annabel.’

  ‘Why do you have to change the subject?’ she says, watching Fritz limp over to the kitchen shelf where Elisabet’s freshly made Linzer torte sits.

  ‘Would you like a slice, Fräulein Annabel?’ he says.

  Annabel thinks for a moment. She really would love a piece, for she knows Maria won’t give her any for her tea after she spilt milk down her new dress. Annabel doesn’t like the dress, as it’s teal and she simply hates teal, and Maria has tied the velvet bow at the back so tightly that she can barely breathe.

  ‘No thank you, Fritz,’ she says, summoning up willpower she never thought she had.

  ‘I don’t believe that for one moment, meine Prinzessin,’ Fritz says, cake slice in one hand, plate in the other.

  ‘Annabel?’ Maria’s voice floats down to the kitchens. Then Annabel hears her nanny’s footsteps clump down the stairs.

  Annabel’s face pales because she knows she’s in trouble. She turns on her heels and runs out the door, but comes back and pokes her head into the room: ‘Please save me a slice for later.’

  ‘Anything for my little special one,’ Fritz says, a smile as broad as she has ever seen spreading across his face.

  ‘I’m not little anymore.’

  ‘Just special then.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On my return to London that night I checked my emails: the agency’s report on Oskar Edelstein was not amongst them. Not that I minded; it gave me less to think about. Lying in bed later, the constant rush of traffic down Wimpole Street took me away from my mother’s house and my conversation with Zoran. I found that I had actually missed the sounds of the capital – from the rumble of refuse collection trucks on their late and early-bird rounds, to the clamour of London voices, the hollering of builders and children’s cries. This felt normal; this was how my life should be. And for the first time in days I actually slept soundly.

  Next morning, feeling refreshed, I went for a run around Regent’s Park and up towards Primrose Hill. Autumn had well and truly arrived in England. The leaves had morphed from green to muddy orange, doing little to offset the sunless morning with its seeping dampness.

  I hadn’t been for a run for at least a couple of weeks and my legs and lungs felt the strain as I ran up the hill. I struggled more as I found I could neither put aside what I’d experienced at the house nor dismiss the taxi driver’s claim that he had seen someone at one of the upstairs windows. It seemed sleep acted only as a temporary anaesthetic against the unsettling whir of my mind. As I quickened my step up the incline, his comment came back to me: There is someone there. Was it a question … or a statement of fact? It needled away at me, as did the other incidents that plucked away at my threads of reason, leaving me with a creeping fear that my mind was unravelling. At the top of Primrose Hill, I stopped, unable to go on. Bent over, my breath coming in short rasps, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. Grey spots floated before my eyes.

  I needed to get home. I stood upright, still feeling unsteady in mind and body as I jogged back.

  After showering I felt somewhat better, although the thought of my impending meeting with Oskar Edelstein dragged me down. While I clutched on to it with a persistent hope, part of me wondered if it would really draw a line under my mother’s death.


  The agency’s report finally had arrived in my inbox earlier that morning. I printed it off and, armed with a cup of coffee, I sat down at my kitchen table and began to read. It comprised two pages of crisp reportage, starting with the basic facts: Oskar was Jewish, of Austrian origin, and had been married twice. As an art historian, he’d ascended the ranks of Sotheby’s, the auction house, and despite his retirement, he remained quite well known in the art world. That was the first page. I turned to the second: he was a believer in justice; he’d fought hard on behalf of his family as well as other relatives of Jewish victims of Nazi persecution to reclaim what belonged to their families.

  There was nothing wrong with that, I thought.

  However, in one instance he had gone too far, the agency reported. He had near ruined an elderly couple who, he believed, were the wrongful owners of a Renoir. Even though they had sufficient documentation to prove its provenance, he continued to plague them with overriding evidence. It pushed the husband over the edge and he died of a heart attack. Later, it transpired that Oskar Edelstein had fabricated his evidence. Despite an apology and a swift retraction, a whiff of scandal followed him thereafter. For a while he wandered in the wilderness before getting another chance with a second marriage that lasted thirty years and a fortuitous position at Sotheby’s.