The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  ‘Choose whoever you think’s best,’ I told him. ‘And I want them to start before Christmas.’ I just wanted to get the work done. For me, doing away with the staid grandeur of my mother’s era wasn’t just any old building project, it was like an exorcism – a dual one: to banish the presence that lingered in the house, and to ease the disturbance in my mind.

  During my flight to Vienna I glanced over Matthias’s proposals again, but I was so exhausted I struggled to keep my eyes open. I fell asleep with images of Oskar, the letters from my grandmother and the house carouselling around in my head, only to wake up with a jolt when we landed.

  As usual I stayed with Vivienne. She seemed to sense I was preoccupied – at least she steered clear of questions about work and Oskar – and over an early dinner she chattered away about other things, telling me how she had completed her computer course.

  ‘Don’t let it go to waste,’ I said.

  ‘As if I would! You know, I’m using the Internet a lot these days. I even tried to look up the dates those children died,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t have any luck.’

  My fork slipped from my hand and clattered on to my plate. ‘Oh, really?’ I mumbled.

  After dinner, Vivienne and I sat in her living room. Despite the warmth of the fire, she had draped a blanket over her legs. Orchestral music played in the background and a newspaper lay on her lap. She had turned on a couple of lamps and their muted light made it seem later in the evening than it was. I needed to review a presentation for my team before the end of the weekend, but my concentration lapsed and the only things I noticed were two glaring mistakes within the first two pages. I tossed the document on the coffee table and picked up my mobile, leaving a terse voicemail for the analyst and associate who had put it together. My voice rose as my message went on, prompting Vivienne to peer at me over her reading glasses. After I had finished my message, she put her book to one side.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘about these letters.’

  I had brought only the last one with me, but it wasn’t difficult to recall the contents of the other two. I gave her a brief rundown, omitting mention of my grandmother’s extramarital affairs. She nodded now and again as she stoked the fire, and said little other than a muttered of course when I revealed E’s identity.

  I went upstairs to fetch the letter. When I got back, Vivienne was sitting down, her eyes lit with such excited expectation that I held back from giving it to her.

  ‘Perhaps it’s better I read it out to you first,’ I said.

  She looked at me, her eyes smiling, then said, ‘Oh very well, have it your way – but don’t keep me waiting.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear it?’ I asked. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘Max, don’t treat me like a child,’ she chided, settling further into her chair, before nodding at me to begin.

  11th April, 1944

  Claudia, my dearest Claudia.

  I need you – I need your help – my sweetest, dearest friend. My children – I need to save them – it’s S – he’s a paedophile – a mdre a murderer.

  I wanted to tell you – I really did. But I didn’t have time – and wretched things got in the way you see and time – time just ran out – just like my own.

  I’ve got to think straight – THINK STRAIGHT. It’s so hard – they strap me down – shock everything out of me leaving me a shell – and then I remember and that’s the most horrific shock of all. I must

  ——I will try to explain – forgive me for spilling it out – it’s the only way I can.

  It began with Fritz’s drunken tirade – no sign of S – this time I’m the one who goes downstairs. But then I hear S – the bear as they’re wont to call him. WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? And Fritz demands more money for his silence. S growls NO – so many strings pulled – a telephone call – that’s all it takes – and the fairy tale’s over. Fritz shouts back – predilection – YOUR PREDILECTION for the young ones isn’t that right sir – got us into trouble – near got us into trouble with the Frank boy didn’t it? DIDN’T IT? To think all the lies I told, the risks I took – for you SIR. All this these ptify

  Oh but there’s proof Fritz – S now – his voice so quiet – I can pin the blame on you – for all of them. There’s screaming – on it goes until I realise it comes from me. His slap to my face shows the monster inside the man – my HUSBAND.

  S leaves – away on business he says – gone a week he says. There’s a whisper in my ear – don’t do anything silly will you – who will believe you Schatzi – in your head anything goes.

  How heavenly is that week! So much to do – we need to leave – me, Annabel, Thaddäus – and heaven’s in the form of sweet Maria – she takes Thaddäus away. Just in time – you see – S comes home before the week is done.

  WHERE’S THADDÄUS? He’ll never touch my son – oh but what to do? CALM DOWN – Maria tells me. And I am cl calm when I tell them I killed him – I tossed his body in the river – a lie to protect my son. Oh his face – that monster’s face – to see it fold and crmple crumple. But it doesn’t last you see.

  Touché – S whispers a game of I won’t tell if you won’t tell – you’ll do as I say – you’ll say you need help – no police – our secret. Money makes everything go around and around and around.

  I’m to go away – paints a truer picture S says – trust me – you’ll be in Davos – Schalp Schatzalp Sanatorium – choice name don’t you think? When you return you’re free to leave – just make sure you keep your silence – like I’ll keep mine.

  What choice was there but to go along with this game? Trust him? My heart knows he plays by his own rules.

  I’m not in Davos – not in a sanatorium. I’m locked in an ASYLUM – Dante’s HELL. There is no return. Days pass when I want to kill myself but then I cannot – I must live – for the sake of my children – you see I still get letters – from Annabel – from Maria.

  And I write to them – but God only knows whether they reach – whether they’re tampered with – Oh I mustn’t think like that.

  THINK.

  I need to find my presiou precious son – to know he’s safe. I thought Annabel was safe for she has dear Maria. Yet now – oh God – what have I done? I left her in that house with HIM. And I think – I think he has touched her – her letters before pleaded – now they chill – they chill Claudia! I can barely repeat her words for fear of it being more true. Papa she writes – touches me Papa touches me hurts – I’m afraid Mama. He has touched my daughter – tainted her – and Oh God – Oh God she maybe next! I have lost my son. I will lose my daughter.

  Is this my just deserts – my comeuppance for all I have done? If it is – then God forgive me.

  Claudia – please – believe everything I’ve told you. You’re the only one. Help me – save Annabel – find Thaddäus – help me get out before they KILL MY MIND – before they take EVERYTHING away from me. YOU CARRY MY Hope HOPE.

  When I had finished, I looked to Vivienne for her response. Although her lips were pursed, she showed no sign of shock or surprise.

  ‘Can I see for myself?’ she asked.

  I got up and handed her the letter, perching on the arm of her chair to reread the contents over her shoulder.

  ‘What do you think?’ I got up and went over to the window, wanting to put physical distance between me and my grandmother’s words.

  ‘Could it be – really – that your grandfather did such a thing?’ Vivienne said. ‘To … that … he could have touched those children, touched …’ Her fingers went to her mouth. ‘It … everything … it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  I dug my hands into my pockets, fidgeting with some loose change.

  Vivienne turned to me. ‘He was such an honourable man, but …’

  ‘But what, Vivienne? You never knew him,’ I snapped.

  ‘There’s no need to lash out, Max. I’m just as disturbed as you are, but you need to calm down.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just this
letter,’ I said. ‘On its own, it reads like textbook hysteria, like she was some sort of paranoid schizophrenic, exercising delusions that her husband – my grandfather – was a paedophile, a murderer, that he threatened her children. Perhaps she was in constant denial about what she did to Thaddäus because she was so ill. Maybe my grandfather covered up the real place she was sent to to keep up appearances.’ I shook my head. ‘But then when you put it next to the notebook, with those newspaper articles – and then I can’t stop thinking that if what he did was true and if he did it to Mama …’

  The look on Vivienne’s face disrupted my train of thought. It wasn’t that she appeared visibly upset. It was just her stance, the way she sat back in her armchair. She had removed her glasses and her fingers teased at the chain.

  ‘It makes more sense now.’ I couldn’t tell whether she was talking to herself or addressing me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s better if you sit down, Max,’ she said.

  I did as she suggested.

  ‘You remember I mentioned that your mother talked about a lot of things towards the end of her life.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Some things she said were quite puzzling, and some … disturbing.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I wanted to forget them and I didn’t want to burden you with things that I couldn’t fathom myself.’

  She spoke slowly as she attempted to pull together threads of various conversations she had had with my mother, the three grooves between her eyebrows becoming more pronounced.

  ‘One day, Annabel called me. It was quite early in the morning. She told me she’d been up all night, in the attic, tidying things up, as she put it. She needed to see me. By the time I arrived at the house, she was lying in the drawing room, drowsy from the painkillers she’d just taken. I offered to come back later, but she pressed me to stay, telling me it was important. She began to describe how she had stumbled across a few things from her childhood.’ Vivienne glanced at the notebook by my side. ‘She said they’d stirred up memories of happier times before the war. She mentioned Oskar Edelstein and then began reminiscing about their friendship, reeling out stories one after another. They all seemed to blur into one and I couldn’t tell when one anecdote ended and the next began.’ A brief smile edged on to her face. ‘And then she started talking about the cellar, how she was loath to go down there, ever since … Ever since what? I asked her. She spoke about a game of hide-and-seek with Oskar and how it had gone quite wrong. Then Annabel mentioned a photograph, which I assume is the one she sent you of her and Oskar as children. But after that, much as I tried to understand what she was getting at, it sounded like she was throwing out a jumble of memories. All I know is that she wanted you to find out more. That’s why I didn’t want you to give up so quickly on Oskar.’

  ‘Did she ever mention the words on the back of the photograph?’

  Vivienne shook her head. ‘She could well have done, but it probably got lost in the rush of everything she said and I just missed it. It was as if she was trying to offload everything before she passed away. The only thing that was clear to me was that the subject made her very restless. She said she’d written you a letter asking you to contact her. I told her it would be better to call you, but she was quite sure you’d refuse to speak to her.’

  I chewed my lip.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty for not getting in touch. The things she said to you the last time you saw each other were disgraceful. I even told her so myself, and I think that day Annabel regretted them.’

  After a moment or two, Vivienne returned to her story. ‘The effort of telling me about Oskar had exhausted your mother and she rested for a while after taking another painkiller. She wanted me to sit by her side, which I did. After an hour or so, she woke up quite confused and far from her lucid self.’

  Vivienne glanced at the hearth. She stretched over for the poker and began to prod at the logs with little effect. I got up and finished the job for her while she continued, her eyes watching the lick of flames.

  ‘Your mother had her eyes closed while she talked. At times her words trailed off and it was difficult to follow her. But what came through loud and clear was how everything went wrong during the war. And then she said that she only had herself to blame and that she had been an utter coward for hiding too much. I said something like, Don’t be silly, Annabel, and at that she became quite angry. How would you know? she’d said.’ Vivienne looked up at me. ‘And then she laughed, Max. She laughed. She frightened me. It was as if she were a different woman … I didn’t know what to say. In the end, I had to leave the room. I put it down to the painkillers, but …’

  ‘Did Mama mention anything about my grandfather, about him …’ I couldn’t say it out loud. I felt sick. The words, Papa she writes – Papa touches me, soughed in my ear.

  ‘No, she didn’t, Max.’ Tears welled in Vivienne’s eyes. ‘Not once. Not then. Not before.’

  ‘Perhaps she knew all along, about my grandfather, about all of this.’

  She stared back at me, shaking her head.

  Inside, I couldn’t let it go. I thought of the notebook and its contents, which by now I could visualise well. The words accompanying my mother’s crude image of the girl came to mind:

  Run.

  Away. Away.

  Quietly now. Quietly.

  Eyes closed. Mouth sealed.

  The gentle skip of the music and the occasional spit of flames filled the silence between us, as if cajoling us to speak. Vivienne blinked her tears away. She picked up her tale where she left off, stopping once or twice when her voice faltered.

  ‘I had a cup of tea with Ludmilla in the kitchen. When I came back to the drawing room, Annabel had fallen asleep again. I stayed by her side. Her sleep was quite disturbed and she drifted in and out of consciousness. Every now and again, she would mutter a word or say someone’s name – she mentioned you, Max, just once.’ At that, Vivienne threw me a fleeting smile. ‘On and off she mumbled another name, someone I didn’t know, but now after what you’ve told me, I’m certain it sounded like Eva … That’s it. Eva. Over and over again. And then she said something like, Being there when Papa died. My life began when I saw him dead.’

  ‘Do you think Mama murdered my grandfather?’ I asked. ‘Because of what he did to her?’

  ‘I can’t believe she’d do such a thing,’ Vivienne said. ‘And to keep it hidden like that. She confided in me. But this? The drawing she made in that notebook shows his death. She was still so young … We’ve both seen pictures of your grandfather. He would have overpowered her … I didn’t know her then. Only afterwards …’ Pain flickered on Vivienne’s face.

  ‘So if my grandfather really locked up my grandmother to keep her quiet, then is it possible that Thaddäus may be alive?’ Nothing could stop the theories multiplying in my head, each born from a word or a phrase in my grandmother’s final letter.

  ‘With the notebook you discovered, and now this letter, you can read something into everything. But we’re still none the wiser,’ said Vivienne, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘Did Mama say anything else?’

  ‘No. But she began to weep, saying that she knew and how sorry she was, but sorry wasn’t good enough for Eva – she mentioned that same name again. I must find him, she’d said, because he knew too. She must have been talking about Oskar Edelstein,’ she said. ‘Then your mother woke and stood up, shaking off my efforts to help her. She looked at me and said, They’ll never trust this family again.’

  Vivienne stared at her hands, now resting in her lap. She summoned up a smile, trying to look brighter than she obviously felt. ‘That night she took her life.’

  Vivienne put the letter and her glasses to one side and got up to switch on the main light by the door. ‘It’s too much, isn’t it?’ she said, squeezing my shoulder.

  I put my hand over hers, wanting her to keep it there, but she soon moved it away and went upstairs to her bedroom.

&n
bsp; I remained on my own in the living room until the fire burned out, reflecting on the things I had learned. They were like stars thrown randomly together, except when you stood back, they formed a constellation that was clear enough.

  So this was the conclusion that formed in my mind: my grandfather, Sebastian Alexander Albrecht, was a paedophile and murderer. He was a father, a husband and a philanthropist who abused his position of responsibility, who abused my mother and who imprisoned my grandmother. Revulsion wound its way through me, tightening around my chest. A part of me hoped that this tale I had pieced together was like a Chinese whisper, the story growing taller as the years went by. Yet a mosaic of facts had come to light that made it all the less fanciful. Other things, too, rubbed away at the sheen of my family name: the mysterious death of my mother’s brother, Thaddäus; the chilling ambiguity of my grandmother’s last letter to Claudia Edelstein; the photograph of Oskar and my mother; the words You knew on its reverse, and then the scrawled riddle in Young Gerber.

  As for Eva, I considered the words that Vivienne told me my mother had spoken in her fitful sleep. If they were true, and I believed they were, then something must have happened to Eva to have plagued my mother’s conscience. I just sat there, unable to stop the reel of events. I wondered, then, if it had been my mother – not my grandmother – who had written the years above the names of the victims in those articles; I wondered if she had found something else that pointed to my grandfather’s involvement in their deaths, if she had worked it all out, if she had connected Eva with the things that my grandfather had done. As I recalled from my mother’s diary entries, Eva – this E that she referred to – had gone away to Salzburg. Maybe she was one of the lucky ones who had escaped. Maybe she had run away, far from the clutches of my grandfather. And maybe, just maybe, my mother had worked that one out too and wanted to find Eva, the girl she had once been close to, to tell her how sorry she was.