I wondered, then, whether this was Oskar’s quest or mine. Up until that point, I had just thought he was assisting me. But now this journey seemed to be just as important to him as it was to me, if not more so. I glanced at him every now and again, questioning his motivation. It seemed our acquaintance made him agitated, wrestling him away from his quiet life of retirement. We both wanted a resolution – that was clear enough. With my admission of a presence, and Oskar’s wish to see the house, my unease became deep-seated, a constant utterance in my head, faint, but audible. Whispering and whispering away.
OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1944
Annabel races down the stairs. She won’t let Mama leave, she won’t. Two men stand by Mama’s side. Papa’s nowhere to be seen, but Fritz is there, holding the door open, his face as grim as everyone else’s, aged with the hardships of war which even the continued favours granted to the Albrecht name can’t ameliorate. Something else sets him apart from the other staff though: it’s the crumpled appearance of a man who no longer cares.
A grey Opel Olympia stands outside, a sheen of drizzle rippling over its body. The headlights are off, as is the engine. There are no bombs dropping tonight and the quiet seems alien, almost unwanted.
Fritz tries to stop Annabel from going to Mama, but she pushes him aside to be with her mother and is quickly enveloped in her arms. Annabel can’t understand it. ‘She’s ill,’ is all they say.
‘I’m ill,’ Mama says again. She sounds wooden and not like Mama at all, and Annabel, gripping the folds of her mother’s raincoat in her fingers, won’t believe it. Thaddäus is gone, and nobody in this household dares utter a word about it. Not even Maria who just falls quiet and fumbles with a rosary all the time, telling her young charge to pray for her brother’s soul. But all Annabel wants is to hear those words, your brother is dead, so she can grieve and cry out all the tears she’s saved for him.
Annabel clings to Mama. ‘Please don’t leave.’
Mama kisses her on the cheek and the forehead, brushing the tears away from her face with fingers that feel as rough as the bits of old tree bark that Annabel and Oskar used to collect just a few years before.
Caught in the limbo between childhood and adolescence she searches Mama’s eyes, desperate to say something that will make her change her mind. ‘They can treat you here, surely?’
One of the men goes to move Annabel away, but it only serves to make her hold on to Mama a few moments more before she’s pulled away, her fingers unclasped from Mama’s one by one. Their fingertips touch for the last time. Now Mama cries out and it’s the mournful cry that makes most of the staff turn their heads away. Mama pulls at her hat. Strands of her hair come loose, hanging over her face, now stained with tears, and instead of wiping them away, Mama scratches her face, then tugs at her hair before the two men take each of her arms and drag her to the waiting car.
Never mind the chill in the air and her thin nightdress, Annabel runs out to Mama, but Maria catches her hand and pulls her into her body, wrapping her woollen shawl around Annabel’s shoulders.
‘Let her go, Annabel,’ her nanny whispers. Annabel looks to Mama and then to Maria, and then she catches Maria mouth something to Mama, but she can’t quite make out the words.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After seeing Oskar I stopped by the office, needing to review a presentation via conference call with colleagues in London and New York. I could easily have done it from home, but I just wanted a different backdrop. It partially worked, but I still found I drifted back to my conversation with Oskar. I stayed at the office longer than I intended, and by the time I returned home it was already past nine in the evening. On my way back I grabbed a burger and soon regretted it – the cheap meat and fries sat in my stomach, leaving a rancid aftertaste.
The sight of Oskar’s bundle of letters lying on the table soon distracted me from my makeshift dinner. I settled on the sofa, untied the string and flipped through them, deciphering the smudged ink of the postage marks for dates. Feeling the thick cut of the envelopes between my fingers, I hesitated. I felt like a voyeur, intruding on the lives of others. After my mother’s death, I could easily have rooted through her correspondence tucked away in the attic and study. But I didn’t. For me, letters held secrets, sweet nothings, fears and hopes, to be shared only with their intended recipient. I would hate it if someone read through my personal emails or the odd letter I wrote to a girlfriend during my university years. I glanced down at the three letters once more, and picked up the first one.
Isabella Maria Josefina Albrecht
Himmelhofgasse 15, Ober St. Veit, Wien
14th May, 1938
My dearest Claudia,
I was so pleased to receive your letter and relieved to hear that you arrived safely in England. I cannot begin to comprehend the chaos and horror you witnessed during your journey. My heart goes out to you, to Pieter and of course to young Oskar. I think of you all daily, as does Annabel, who misses her friend most terribly. With our young maid Eva, and now Oskar gone she has become increasingly withdrawn of late and I put her despondency down to her loneliness, a void which neither I nor Sebastian can fill.
Life here in Vienna continues regardless, although the reminders of this farcical union are everywhere in the city – from the German soldiers on the streets, to the red, black and white of Nazi insignia draped outside government buildings and even residences on the Ringstrasse. And then there are the slogans. On the façade of the Loos Haus one reads, ‘Those of the Same Blood Belong in the Same Reich!’ It’s quite horrifying how things have turned. The Ringstrasse plays constant host to either riots or parades, and at times it is impossible to go into the city. Thankfully, I still manage my visits to the orphanage. We’re all quite afraid as to what will come next. So many have left – some have disappeared; rumours are rife. It was said that Viktor Ephrussi and his son were sent to Dachau. They returned, but they are now living in two rooms in that house of theirs on the Ringstrasse. To think of it – prisoners in their own home!
Our own place has undergone a bit of a transformation. Sebastian decided to build a war bunker downstairs – he says the writing’s on the wall. I’ve left him to it. Over the last month or so he’s become quite restless. I suppose it’s the political climate, the loss of sovereignty. The good news is that his old injury rules him out of being drafted.
At times I feel like I live in my own ivory tower, protected, but not protected. I feel outraged for what has happened and then a mute passiveness. Is that terrible of me? Our friends now seem to accept the status quo and many talk of support.
My dearest, I’m afraid to share my thoughts with others, share my fears of what may come, and I long for our tête-à-têtes. Just the other day, I had tea with Henriette von Hildenberg. As you well know she’s quite a tiresome woman, but she’s Sebastian’s cousin, so I am obliged to endure her company. The only good thing about my visit was her selection of cakes from Demel. She began to espouse her view on the ‘Jewish problem’, as she phrased it, and even sullied your and Pieter’s good name. Well, I couldn’t just sit there. I argued back and as I did so, she looked at me with something bordering on shock and disdain. I stopped mid-sentence. In the end, I could bear to sit with her no longer, and feigned a headache to bring our engagement to an end …
The next few lines suggested some indiscretion by my grandmother, which made me feel like a reader of one of those celebrity magazines. I didn’t want to read on. Until then, I’d had this picture of my grandparents as bastions of society with a perfect marriage, and this knowledge of my grandmother’s infidelity felt like an immense let-down. Then I found myself wondering if my mother knew. Perhaps if my grandparents had lived for longer she would have found out. And I couldn’t help but think about my own parents’ marriage – had it been solid before my father died? I liked to think it was, and I didn’t want that image shattered.
I returned to the letter. The mention of an Eva had caught my attention. I fetched the notebook a
nd scanned the first few entries. The E in the notebook probably referred to this Eva. That piece of the jigsaw now fitted.
I turned to the next letter, dated five years later.
21st March, 1943
My dearest Claudia,
Too much time has gone by. I blame neither the war nor the post. I did receive your two letters and I’m sorry that I haven’t written back to you until now. I don’t have much of an excuse except that I am expecting another child. I’m sure that news will be as much of a shock to you as it was for me, given what the doctors had said. Sebastian is over the moon. And yes, my dear, there’s no question that the child is his. In fact, I feel myself falling in love with him all over again. He has been quite attentive of late – the more so since I’ve been suffering from such terrible morning sickness which leaves me bedridden most days. The war isn’t helping with the rations, and there’s a shortage of basic medication. On the whole, I’m feeling quite depleted of energy and I’m unable to make my usual visits to the orphanage.
Despite all this, the baby is growing inside me and I think even now I can feel its little kicks. Annabel is ever so excited and likes to touch my tummy. Perhaps she’s seen the others do it, but she likes to fuss around me and sits with me reading or drawing – her talent really is coming along quite nicely …
I tried to picture my mother’s excitement at the prospect of a sibling’s arrival, putting an end to her loneliness. I imagined her sitting with my grandmother, silently drawing or writing away. I looked back at the letter.
I do worry about her, and for our unborn child. I don’t know when this will all end, what future they will have. Nowadays, Annabel seems to be quite content in her own company. Her studies are going well and her tutor seems to be pleased with her progress. Her father is less ambitious for her than I am, and I keep urging him to let her continue her studies at the university when the time comes. She seems determined enough and she certainly has a curious mind. I can imagine her travelling the world one day. I think Sebastian would like to keep her here for as long as he can, to have her accompany him on his walks through the woods until he’s no longer able. She’ll forever be special to him, I think.
And how is Oskar? I do hope things are getting better for him at school. You were quite right to take him out of that place – the boys and staff sound frightful. Perhaps home schooling will be better. You know, I came across a photograph of him with Annabel. It must have been taken just before you all left. It’s quite endearing – the poor boy looks petrified though, as if he was quite afraid to have his picture taken. I had set it aside to send with this letter, but when I looked for it in my study this morning, I couldn’t find it – goodness knows where it’s got to …
The letter finished with a summary of society gossip and the tiresome Fritz and his drinking problem, which she had delegated to my grandfather to manage. I glanced through the excerpt about Oskar again. It piqued my sympathy. An image of a severe English boarding school tucked away somewhere in the countryside immediately came to mind. It made me root more for Oskar, and it seemed that my grandmother did too with her reference to the photograph. I wondered whether my grandmother had mislaid it, or whether someone had taken it. I noted that she hadn’t mentioned the writing on the reverse. Presumably she would have said something if it had been there while she was alive. That was my assumption, at least.
I looked across to the third and final piece of correspondence, hopeful that its contents might reveal more. The postmark was smudged, but it seemed to be Swiss. Gone were the thoughtful sentences, the straight horizontal lines of my grandmother’s impeccable hand. The handwriting was urgent, sloppy even; words had been crossed out making it difficult to decipher. In places, the ink had pooled, as if my grandmother wept as she wrote. There were half-formed phrases, muddled thoughts – in all, a stream of hysteria. Under other circumstances, this would have offered proof of my grandmother’s breakdown, but the letter’s rambling madness made it seem all the more authentic, and what I read horrified me; what it implied made my blood freeze.
I got up from the sofa, clutching the letter and walked over to one of the windows. My attention drifted to the building opposite, to a light in the window on the fourth floor. A boy sat at his desk, all hunched shoulders, his face lit up by the glow of his computer. He looked up, no doubt sensing someone watching him. I moved away and glanced down at the letter once more. I reread it – and read it again. What if, came to mind. What if it was true?
I slid out the articles tucked at the back of my mother’s notebook. I reread these too, placing them alongside the letter. I looked at the way the numbers, or the years, as Vivienne had suggested, were written, and searched for numbers in my grandmother’s letters, trying to compare them. Anyone could have circled those names and noted those figures. Had she searched out these news reports, circled the names and written the years in which these children had died after learning what she did? But then again, how could she if she was in the place she really claimed she was?
My mind went to Oskar. I hadn’t thought to ask him about what he had taken from the letters. I just presumed that the content was more for my interest than his. I glanced at my watch. The late hour didn’t stop me from picking up the phone to ring him. But no one answered, not even Angela. I left a message, asking him to call me back. I waited all of five minutes before I called him again. Still there was no answer. So I tried again after another few minutes. In the end, I left a second message, unable to mask the urgency in my voice.
OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1944
Annabel runs straight to her bedroom, ignoring Maria’s calls. She shuts the door and locks it. Catching her breath, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. It’s shaking, and then she realises she’s quaking all over. The skirt she’s wearing is torn at the bottom where she caught it as she tried to run away, and the button at the top has been ripped off. There’s a stain, too, that Maria will notice straight away. There’ll be questions, and then what? Annabel’s petrified. Her mind blanks and she feels the caustic taste of bile in her mouth. She wants to retch, but she mustn’t be sick, she mustn’t. Slumping against the door, Annabel prays no one will come knocking. The wood steadies her. She takes off her skirt, shakes it down her legs and tries to step out of it, but losing her balance she collapses to the floor like a limp puppet.
She pokes the pink and blue bruises smudging her thighs. There must be marks on her neck too, where his large hands had gripped her and pinned her down. Tears sting at her eyes.
From the beginning there was something disquieting about that outing of theirs. His mood was as dark as the soil peeking through the snow beneath their boots: his strange muteness, his need for Annabel to hold his hand, the way he stroked the back of it, his thumb smoothing her skin, massaging it before he placed her hand on him.
‘You’ll always be special to me. Let me show you how much,’ he had said to her. Yet what he did next only served to confuse and repulse her. She had tried to run from him, but he was too quick – or she was too slow. She must have done something to deserve this, she thinks, but it’s no good, as her head still rings from the blow she took when he knocked her to the ground.
She retches again, her hand straying subconsciously to her mouth before she quails, remembering. She drags herself over to the washstand, rubbing at her hands, at her face, inside her mouth. Then she pulls down her underwear and holding a cloth in her trembling hand, she wipes herself. A smell, reminding her of cleaning fluid clings to her, and no matter how much she scrubs, she feels stained.
She goes to her bed and climbs in, curling up underneath the bed covers, and cuddles her old doll, Esther.
There’s a knock on the door. The sporadic three taps mean it can only be Maria.
‘Annabel, your tea’s ready.’
Annabel pulls the bedcovers tightly over her. I wish I were invisible, I wish I were gone.
‘Annabel?’
The door handle rattles.
And with a
ll the will Annabel can muster, in a small, strained voice she says, ‘I’m really not feeling well.’
If only Mama were here. She’d wrap her arms around Annabel and somehow make the fear go away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I tried to get hold of Oskar the following day, and again a couple of days after that. I didn’t hear back from him. Meetings, conference calls, a day-trip to Frankfurt, followed by a day and a night in New York left me little time for anything, let alone trying to call him once more. If we had spoken, my shock might have lessened, but Oskar’s silence and the lack of an explanation made me feel much worse, and I found myself venting my frustration on my more junior colleagues.
I did manage a couple of calls with my architect, Matthias Ropach, who seemed to work 24/7. He had since sent me finalised plans for his renovations and couldn’t stop telling me how he loved the house, understanding immediately what I had in mind when he set foot inside.
‘What did you make of the cellar?’ I asked.
‘Just as you described it,’ Matthias said. ‘There’s something about it, though. I’ll show you when we meet.’
I felt the jump of my heart. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’ll be easier to explain when I show you – but don’t worry. Could be something interesting.’ Matthias’s eagerness only augmented my disquiet and made me question again whether everything I had experienced there had taken place only inside my own head. He wouldn’t let me probe more, and he quickly jumped to discussing subcontractors. He said he had a couple in mind and hoped he could get some quotes before we met.
The Silent Children Page 14
