The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  The picture I now had of Oskar Edelstein was of someone as old as my mother, with a severity to match, forced into meeting a young man waving a photograph in his hand, like Neville Chamberlain post-Munich. I hadn’t looked at the photograph since my mother’s funeral, yet the image and words, You knew on its reverse remained fresh in my mind. That aside, I now wondered whether there was anything remotely insidious about it. By the time I jumped into the car on my way to Hampstead, my uncertainty was all the more entrenched.

  Outside, the scene was quite different from that of the morning: rain had now come and a bitter wind buffeted the trees, forcing their branches to bow low as if in mourning for their lost leaves. With the rain came the chaos of traffic and I found myself weaving in and out of the throng of buses, cabs and cars along the Finchley Road. Time ticked by. The last thing I wanted was to arrive late. I had imposed myself on Oskar. What if he had a straightforward explanation for the photograph: something simple, like a kind of prank? He didn’t seem the type to suffer fools gladly. I played out my potential embarrassment, almost jumping the red lights at the crossroads before the Royal Free Hospital. I clutched the steering wheel, cursing the weather, the traffic, myself for feeling the way I did.

  The windscreen wipers’ stuttered screech worsened my mood, and in my haste I missed the turning into Keats Grove. Performing a tight U-turn, I forced myself to slow down, and eventually parked outside Oskar’s house at exactly two o’clock. I took a moment to pull myself together. This feeling – the thought of feeling out of control – was quite alien to me.

  Oskar’s home was one of those four-storey eighteenth-century townhouses that looked handsome no matter the time of year – the type that American tourists would call quaint. Oskar’s was no exception, with its fiery red Virginia creeper enveloping part of the building. I walked through the gate and up the narrow path to the red door where a stout, middle-aged lady stood waiting.

  ‘I’m Angela, Mr Edelstein’s housekeeper,’ she said, offering me her hand. ‘Come in, won’t you – the weather’s just filthy.’ It seemed the cushion of her Yorkshire accent could imbue any sentence with warmth, and in this case it lifted my mood.

  ‘Mr Edelstein’s in his living room – I’ll take you through.’

  I handed her my raincoat, remembering to take out the letter and photograph, then followed her to the room.

  We found Oskar sitting in his armchair by the window overlooking part of his back garden. He looked up from his book and smiled. Shutting it, he put it down on the floor and rose to offer his hand, disturbing the golden retriever slumbering by his feet. The dog opened one eye to look at me, then promptly shut it.

  ‘Don’t mind Ripley – he seldom gives visitors the time of day.’ Oskar nodded at his housekeeper. ‘Just ask Angela.’

  In person he was quite the opposite of what I imagined. His face, though lined, had a classical air about it, his mouth turned up naturally at the edges, and through the tortoiseshell frames of his glasses, his dark eyes appeared to read everything about me with one swift look. That’s how I felt, at least, as he ushered me to the weathered Chesterfield.

  ‘I don’t entertain that much anymore, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with this room,’ he said, settling himself back in his chair.

  I mentioned again that I appreciated him meeting me. He brushed it off, but I still expected a slew of sour words.

  ‘I owe you an apology. I was quite abrupt. On occasion I get nuisance phone calls, and I must admit that I threw yours into the same bucket.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – really.’

  ‘When you requested to meet,’ he went on, ‘I wanted to gauge how serious you were. That’s why I suggested we get together at such short notice. And, I suppose, your mention of the photograph and your mother’s letter rather piqued my interest.’ He watched me as I glanced around the room, taking in the books stacked on the table and floor and, more neatly, on the bookshelf behind him. On the walls were a number of watercolours and oils, their colours diminishing the austerity of the duck-egg blue decor. A drawing above the mantelpiece caught my eye: it was a side profile sketch of a nude, the sitter’s face turned upwards with the crown of her head cut off at the edge of the paper.

  ‘A gift from my late wife,’ he said, following my gaze.

  ‘Klimt?’

  Oskar smiled. ‘You know much about art?’

  ‘Not really. My mother did,’ I said, reluctant to elaborate. It didn’t feel right, but Oskar stuck to the subject, pointing to a triptych of small floral watercolours behind me.

  ‘Take these Noldes. Like a lot of the things in this house, they belonged to my parents. Thankfully, my father saw the writing on the wall, sending some pieces to an aunt in Switzerland. As for the ones we left behind in Vienna – we never found them.’

  Angela returned carrying a tray laden with coffee and biscuits. She smiled, then swiftly left the room, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Please, help yourself,’ Oskar said, waving his hand towards the coffee table.

  I leaned forward for my mug of coffee, adding a drop of milk as I listened to the rest of Oskar’s story. He told me in a rather efficient way that his family fled the Nazis shortly after the Anschluss in ‘38. Several detours later – he didn’t give details – they eventually arrived in Britain, initially staying with some distant relatives in Tunbridge Wells.

  ‘We never returned. I went back for a few months, toying with the idea of a career at the Dorotheum. I thought a position there could help trace some of the paintings.’ He turned to the window before continuing. ‘But restitution is such a difficult thing, you see. Memory alone is insufficient.’

  I anticipated a story or two of his cases, perhaps even a mention of the infamous one which tainted his name. But he took a slightly different path.

  ‘Overnight, I was thinking about our conversation.’ He turned back to me. ‘Perhaps your mother had some information on our lost works – is that it?’ The lilt of hope lifted his question.

  His comment put me on my guard. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to be so blunt. All I know is that my mother would’ve been very plain about that kind of thing. She helped people in the past with their claims, often criticising the government and its reams of red tape.’

  His shoulders dropped and the flush of anticipation vanished from his face. In a show of empathy, Ripley rubbed his head against his master’s shins.

  ‘I see.’ His gaze travelled back to the Klimt and then down to the photographs resting on the mantelpiece. ‘You have a photograph you wanted to show me.’

  I got up and gave him the black and white print and the letter. I held them a little too tightly, almost unwilling to hand them over.

  His lips mouthed my mother’s words in the letter. Then he switched his focus to the picture, turning it over, as I had done, to examine those two words. He put both of them down on his lap and took off his glasses, chewing on one of the curved ends. He didn’t say anything. Not at first. But it was clear his mind was working away and I felt a little relieved. I tried to read his expression, watching the furrow of his brow, how his eyes trailed from the letter to the photograph. He sat back and closed his eyes.

  ‘Of course, I remember our old home in Ober St. Veit. I noticed your mother’s address, so I presume she lived there before the war?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said.

  ‘I recall our house as a revolving door of people,’ he went on, ‘I can’t remember who. But I think there were some people of note amongst them.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Albrecht.’ He pronounced the name with the sharp syllables intoned in a German accent. ‘I always tried …’

  ‘You knew my family?’

  Oskar didn’t answer me. He sat forward and put his glasses back on. ‘There’s the Trust – it was quite well known – is it still around?’ he asked matter-of-factly.

  ‘Very m
uch so,’ I said, wanting more. ‘Do you remember much else?’

  Again, he took his time to reply. He ruffled the fur on Ripley’s head. ‘Forgive me, it takes time for an old man to remember. Yes, I do recall: they were friends – your grandmother and my mother before we left – but they must have lost contact at some point. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘My grandmother passed away,’ was all I offered in return. ‘And my grandfather? Do you remember much about him?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘My mother mentioned once or twice how your grandparents were highly regarded for the work they did.’ He picked up the photograph. ‘I vaguely recollect this picture. It was in the garden of their – your mother’s – house.’

  ‘It’s changed a lot since.’

  A crescent of a smile appeared on his face. ‘We must have been playmates, your mother and I. I think your mother was older than me – at least, I look younger than her in this picture. I can imagine the games we …’ He stopped short, frowned, then turned back to the window, his fingers playing with the edge of the photograph. The patter of rain on the windowpane punctuated his silence.

  ‘Is it the words on the back?’ I asked.

  He still didn’t reply. His lips were pinched and it seemed as if he was trying to remember something else. He looked again at the photograph.

  ‘My face … I …’ He turned the picture over again, rereading the words. ‘It was just a game. I never saw …’

  At least, that’s what I thought he said – his voice was barely audible. Oskar looked up at me. His eyes were wide, with something like fear at their edges. Then he blinked and it was gone.

  Handing back the photograph and letter, he pushed himself up and went over to the fireplace. ‘My early years,’ he said, regarding the other photographs sitting on the mantelpiece, ‘are just a muddle, really. What I may remember – what it is that I’m supposed to know – may simply be fiction.’

  Before I could coax more from him the telephone rang. Angela’s dulcet tone echoed down the hallway as she answered it, soon followed by her footsteps and a knock on the door.

  ‘That was the gallery again wanting to know if you’ll accept their invitation.’

  Oskar followed Angela out of the room. I glanced at Ripley. He returned my gaze, then got up, went to the door, pawed it open and trotted out to find his master.

  While Oskar was gone I picked up the photograph. I searched for clues in the image, homing in on the young boy’s face. Except for his expression, there was little else to go on. I was sure Oskar remembered something, something that seemed to unsettle him. In my view, his professed jumble of memories was merely an excuse. Yet how could I press him?

  Frustrated with this apparent dead end, I set aside the print, finished my coffee and got up to take a look at the photographs on the mantelpiece under the Klimt. Many of them were black and white; two were of Oskar with a woman I assumed to be his second wife. One of them was from their wedding. For me, at least, it stood out from the rest; it reminded me of the lack of pictures of my mother and father. I imagined them to have been just like Oskar and his wife: always smiling, radiant, content. I would never really know. I studied the other photograph of the couple. It appeared to be more recent. In it his wife seemed quite frail and there was something odd about the left side of her body and face.

  ‘The second stroke killed her.’

  I hadn’t heard Oskar slip back into the living room. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea,’ I said.

  ‘That’s old age for you.’ He blinked, as though to stem the threat of tears, then picked up the photograph of his late wife. ‘We had a good life, Catharine and I. She kept me straight. No children. Perhaps that was my comeuppance. Not that it mattered in the end. But I have Angela to look after me – she’s been with us for years now.’

  Ripley padded in, turned his head to the window and, with his tail wagging, looked at Oskar.

  ‘I think this one needs his afternoon walk,’ he said, crouching down to stroke Ripley’s head. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, but Oskar insisted, so I accepted, hoping that the walk would encourage him to open up more. Out in the hallway, I regarded Oskar as he readied himself. His attire smacked of an Englishman through and through: tweed peaked cap, wax jacket and corduroys tucked into army-green wellington boots, garb which Angela gently poked fun at.

  ‘Mr Edelstein always makes me laugh,’ she said. ‘If Ripley were a collie, Mr Edelstein would be right at home where I come from.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Oskar. ‘What would I do on a farm all day!’ He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Be careful. She’s always joking, this one.’

  We strode up Parliament Hill. The rain had since eased off, and a light drizzle hazed our surroundings, although it seemed to bother me more than Oskar.

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said, reining in Ripley’s leash. ‘My heart’s not the same as it used to be, but walking does me good. Not that I mind it. I like the ruggedness of the Heath. In some respects it feels a world away from London.’

  I tried to edge my way back to the subject of my mother. ‘Have you been to Vienna recently?’ I asked, dodging two oversized Labradors bounding towards me.

  ‘Not for a year or so, but I’m due to go just before Christmas. I’ve got an invitation from a gallery to do a talk – they called just now.’

  I took my chance. ‘Perhaps if you do go, you could come by the house – have a look round, if …’

  ‘If it would help?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Help who exactly?’ He bent down to unhook Ripley’s leash and watched him run off towards the top of the hill.

  ‘Both of us perhaps.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said as we resumed our walk, ‘why, at my age, I would want to look again at a photograph from a childhood friend – a photograph that on the face of it appears quite chilling? Forgive my directness, but you appear out of the blue, chasing a demand from your mother to find me. And now you have. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘I thought it would be too.’ We had reached the top of Parliament Hill. Retrieving a blue cloth from his jacket pocket, he proceeded to wipe down one of the benches. ‘But there’s something more – I’m sure,’ I said as we both sat down. ‘Stopping by the house could help trigger a memory or two.’

  Oskar turned to me. ‘Why is it so important to you? Have you asked yourself that?’

  ‘It was her last wish, that’s all.’ My knee-jerk reason – a shallow one, I admit – seemed to resonate with him.

  ‘The dying and their wishes. Catharine made me promise not to wallow in my unhappiness. She impressed it upon our friends too. They’ve been on suicide watch for a while now,’ he said with a touch of humour. ‘But I’ve been trying.’ He looked out towards the eastern reaches of the city and the sloth-like sway of the cranes in the distance. ‘This skyline – ever changing, isn’t it? I think that sums London up.’

  ‘So you’ll come visit the house?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Ripley rejoined us and sat by Oskar. ‘I rarely give out advice,’ he said, stroking the dog’s coat. ‘I dislike receiving it myself. But let me give you one small piece: chasing memories turns into an obsession.’

  I looked at him, not sure how to respond.

  ‘Tread with care – that’s all.’ His words seemed like an apology, more for his own misdemeanours than for anything else. I was just relieved that he’d consider seeing the house.

  For the remainder of our time together he asked about my career in the City, my education in the US versus Austria. He didn’t ask much about my mother, or, at least, the way he asked about her was through his questions about The Albrecht Trust and her involvement in it. I noticed he spoke little about himself, and when we parted I was left none the wiser about the details of his life after his family’s flight from Austria.

  Later that evening, I called Vivienne to tell her about my meeting with Oskar. ‘You could te
ll he was holding back, but he wouldn’t share more – I don’t know why. Claimed he couldn’t remember,’ I said. ‘If it were me, I’d want to get it out in the open. Be done with the whole thing, you know?’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not Oskar, are you?’

  She suggested that I could look for more information on the link between our two families. ‘Something reflecting happier times before the Edelsteins’ flight,’ she said. ‘Something that may prompt him to open up.’

  Vivienne sounded happier now that I had finally met Oskar. I think it stirred up her curiosity as she asked me for details of what he looked like, his expressions and responses. She, too, seemed keen for him to visit the house.

  ‘Tell me again why it matters so much? It’s not just about keeping a candle burning is it?’ I said. In this instance, she was quick to reply, ready with an explanation that rendered my own quite flippant.

  ‘Your mother – well, she seemed troubled towards the end.’

  ‘Isn’t that normal? She was dying,’ I said. ‘Besides – why mention this now?’

  ‘Because … well, it just didn’t seem right to bring it up so soon after she died,’ she said. ‘And then with the funeral and so on … But now that you’ve met Oskar – it feels right to mention there were things that Annabel said about her family, things that can’t have been true.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Max. She didn’t seem to be making much sense. She was taking strong medication to lessen the pain and she wasn’t lucid at times. What was clear was that Oskar Edelstein held some sort of proof.’

  Now Vivienne was talking in riddles. I pressed her for more.

  ‘She would jump from one thing to the next. It was difficult to follow her, it really was. But what she did say – repeatedly – was that her family could never be trusted. How will they ever forgive me, she had said. I asked her who they were, but she just shook her head.’

  I suddenly realised that, up until that point, I had never asked Vivienne about my mother’s last days, about her illness and how it affected her. For me, it had been black and white: she was alive, and then in the blink of an eye she was dead. I didn’t even know how long she’d been ill.