by Kate Hewitt
Franz was silent for a long moment, too long.
“Franz?” she asked, her voice wavering, and he rose from his chair by the window to come to stand next to her.
“I haven’t given you your Christmas present yet.”
A thrill ran through her. “I didn’t think you had one for me.”
“Of course I did.” He withdrew a small, awkwardly-shaped object from his pocket, wrapped in gold paper. “Here it is.”
Johanna took it, her fingers brushing his, making them tingle. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, the softness of his breath. She undid the paper and saw what he’d given her—a miniature model of the Eiffel Tower, perfect in every tiny detail.
“Oh…” Tears pricked her eyes as she looked up at him and Franz stepped closer, close enough that his body brushed hers at several exquisite, aching points.
“Johanna…” he murmured, and then his hand cupped her cheek and he was kissing her; her first kiss, like a starburst exploding in her heart.
Her eyes fluttered close and she nearly dropped the little tower until Franz caught it in his hand, clasping hers with his own as the kiss went on and on, her mind doing cartwheels and catapults, sending fireworks fizzing through her whole body. She’d never known it was possible to feel this way. She’d never realized.
Finally he stepped back, his breathing uneven, his hair even unrulier. Johanna laughed softly, a tremble on her lips.
“Your hair is mussed.”
“So it is.” He raked an unsteady hand through it, making it even worse. She laughed again, feeling happier than she’d ever felt before, and light inside, as if she were filled with air, as if she were rising onto her tiptoes without even realizing, and would soon float away on this wonderful, buoyant joy.
That kiss had, amazingly, answered all her unspoken questions. Suddenly it all seemed so dazzlingly simple. It was enough that he wanted to believe; it was enough for her, more than enough. None of it mattered at all any more, because she loved him, and he loved her.
“Johanna, I’m a Jew.”
She stared at him blankly, blinking slowly, his words like puzzle pieces that would not fit together.
“You’re—”
“A Jew. Jewish. That is why I am here. I’ve come to realize you didn’t know. Your father didn’t tell you.”
“No—”
“Does it make a difference?” There was a slight challenge to his voice, as well as an edge of desperation. Johanna did not know how to reply. She realized some part of her was not surprised, even as another part reeled in shock.
A Jew… that idiot Jew.
Her cruel, careless words about Janos Panov came back to taunt her now. She didn’t even know any Jews, not really. They were like characters in a fairy tale, shadows lurking in the corner, at least if the newspapers were to be believed. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, trying to frame a question. “That is why you left Vienna?” she finally asked.
“My professor, Herr Schlick, was killed on the steps of the university. He wasn’t even a Jew, but it set off a chain of violence I was caught up in. I admit, I was rash. I… acted out. Caused trouble. The police got involved.” He grimaced. “I had to leave.”
Caused trouble? Had he been violent? “How on earth did my father know about any of this?” Johanna asked, doing her best to absorb what he was telling her.
“I don’t really know. Some communists helped to get me out of Vienna. They simply said they’d found a place for me in Salzburg, as an apprentice to a clockmaker.” He shrugged. “It was enough for me.”
“And my father was involved?” Her mind was spinning. Her father detested communists, or at least what they stood for, their violence-justifying zeal, their determined atheism. How could he have possibly been involved in something like this?
“If it makes a difference,” Franz continued, trying to sound wry and not quite succeeding, “I’m only half Jewish. My father. And we were never practicing Jews. I don’t even know any Hebrew, or any of the holidays, or anything.” He let out a little laugh. “You see, I meant what I said about needing evidence.”
She shook her head slowly, not even knowing what to think or how she felt, and Franz caught her hands in his.
“Don’t turn away from me now, Johanna.”
“What about your family? They are still in Vienna?”
“My mother is safe, because she’s Catholic. So really, I’m half Catholic, although she has never practiced the way your family does. And my father has a position at the university, although who knows how long for. We thought of emigrating, but we have friends who went to London—a renowned physicist who is now sweeping streets. It would be a scandal, if anyone cared. No one does.” His eyes flashed, his mouth tightening. “Does any of it make a difference?”
“I…” She closed her eyes and he cupped her face in his hands.
“Don’t shut me out, please. I love you.”
He was pleading with her, and it tore at her heart even as she struggled to believe those wonderful words. “Why me?” she whispered. “Why have you fallen for me?”
“Why you?” He sounded surprised, which almost made her smile. “Why not you? You’re beautiful and strong and you know your own mind. I think I fell in love with you that first day, when I saw you in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen!”
“You were so capable, and yet so serene. I was mesmerized, and I knew from that moment you wouldn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Such a quality would hardly make you fall in love with me,” Johanna scoffed unevenly.
“But it did.” With his hands still cupping her face, he drew her towards him.
“Franz—”
“Please, Johanna,” he said softly. “I love you. Truly. I want to be with you.” He kissed her again, and just as before her mind reeled and her heart felt as if it were exploding inside her. Her body told the truth of it, no matter what hesitations she might have in her mind. She knew there could be no going back now, no matter what Franz told her. No matter what he was or wasn’t. Their kiss had changed everything.
Chapter Nine
Birgit
January 1937
Birgit had a secret. She’d been keeping it since the night the police had raided the coffeehouse in Elisabeth-Vorstadt, and a strange soldier had rescued her from being arrested.
When he’d asked her to accompany him to a café for a cup of coffee, she’d barely known what she was saying, her mind still dazed from everything that had happened, her lips tingling from when he’d kissed her.
She’d let him lead her down the street as if she were a child, and she’d followed, hardly noticing her surroundings, until they’d entered the warm fug of a coffeehouse on Linzergasse and she’d half-collapsed into a seat across from him.
“Well.” The smile he’d given her was easy and open. “That was quite an adventure.” He’d raised sandy eyebrows. “What were you doing, getting mixed up with that sort of crowd?”
“My friend brought me along to it,” Birgit lied without thinking. “I didn’t realize what it was.”
“Some friend,” he said dryly, and she’d nodded uncomfortably. She hadn’t been sure why she’d lied, only that it felt like the right thing to do. She couldn’t have him asking questions about the meetings or what she did there.
A waiter had come to the table and with a glance of enquiry he had ordered them both mélange coffees, the Viennese specialty of espresso topped with steamed and then foamed milk. The waiter had given Birgit a glance that made her put her hands to her hair, quickly tidying it as best as she could.
“You look a bit windswept,” he had told her with a laugh, “but I don’t mind.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Werner Haas. And yours?”
“Birgit. Birgit Eder.”
He’d smiled, and she’d smiled back, suddenly aware that she was sitting at a table with a man who was looking at her with frank admiration, a m
an who had already kissed her. Without realizing what she was doing, she’d put her fingers to her lips. Werner had smiled.
“Why did you rescue me?” she’d asked as she’d yanked her hand away from her mouth.
“Well, like I said before, I couldn’t resist such a lovely lady in distress.”
“Don’t,” Birgit had whispered, looking away. Was he teasing her? He had to be. No one ever said things like that to her.
“I mean it,” Werner had replied, and for a second Birgit had thought he was going to reach for her hand, but then he hadn’t.
Their coffees had arrived, and she’d spent the next few minutes avoiding Werner’s gaze as she’d sipped her coffee. Finally, she’d felt composed enough to say in what she hoped was a normal tone, “Whatever the case, I must thank you for your chivalry. I shudder to think what could have happened.”
“So do I.”
She’d forced herself to look at him, aiming her gaze at his uniform rather than his face. “You are in the Alpine corps?”
“Yes, sixth division, out of Innsbruck. I was given leave until Christmas and so I came home.”
“You’re from Salzburg, then?”
“Yes, just outside. I grew up in Aigen. There is only my father and me left.” His mouth had pulled down at the corners, and Birgit had felt a rush of sympathy.
“Oh, I am sorry.”
He’d shrugged, his mouth still downturned. “My mother and sister both died in 1920, from the flu.”
“You must have been quite young.”
“Ten, as it happens.” He’d smiled. “But what about you? You live here, as well?”
“Yes, on Getreidegasse. My father is a clockmaker.”
“Eder Clockmaking?” Werner had guessed, and Birgit had blushed with pleasure. “My father came in a few months ago, to have our clock repaired. It was a wall clock, a Vienna regulator.”
“I think I remember it,” she’d cried, realizing she was more delighted by this discovery than perhaps was warranted. “It was a Wilhelm Bauer. My father was the one who handled the repair.” She paused, ducking her head. “I work with him.”
“You are a clockmaker, as well?” Werner had asked in surprise.
“Repairs, but yes, essentially.”
“Goodness.” He had looked genuinely impressed, which thrilled Birgit, especially after her pride had been so wounded by the arrival of Franz. “You are talented,” he’d murmured, and she hadn’t been able to keep from protesting rather feebly,
“No—”
“But why not admit it? I certainly can’t repair a clock.”
She’d laughed. “And I can’t—I don’t know—ski down a mountain!”
He’d laughed back, a loud, clear sound that reminded Birgit of the ringing of a bell. “Have you ever been skiing?”
She’d thought of Johanna and the ski trip she’d gone on; there had been no money for anyone else to go. Not, Birgit acknowledged fairly, that she’d really wanted to. “No, I haven’t,” she’d told Werner.
“One day, perhaps,” he’d said, and as he sipped his coffee there was a look in his eyes that made her lips tingle again.
She didn’t remember exactly what else they’d talked about as they slowly sipped their coffees, Birgit trying to make hers last. He asked her about her family, and she’d asked about his Alpine unit; Werner told her how his father had fought in the Alpine corps during the war, and how he’d felt he had to follow. Somehow the conversation had stretched out until she’d realized it was getting late and her parents would be worried.
“I should go.” She’d lurched up rather suddenly from the table, and unfazed, Werner had risen as well.
“Let me walk you home. Getreidegasse, yes?”
“Yes, but you don’t—”
“Of course I will.”
He’d paid for their coffees, while Birgit had murmured her thanks, and then he’d taken her arm as they headed down the street, towards the old town.
“I hope you’ll give that friend of yours a wide berth,” Werner had remarked as they turned on to Staatsbrücke. “Unless she didn’t realize, either?”
“Realize what, exactly?” she’d asked cautiously.
“That the meeting was run by communists.” He’d turned to smile at her, eyebrows raised. “You don’t want to get involved with that sort.”
Birgit had wished then that she hadn’t lied about it all, but it was too late now, and in any case, she’d most likely never see him again, a prospect that already caused her a flash of disappointment as well as a flicker of relief. She hadn’t wanted to get caught up in lies, had known she wouldn’t be able to manage it. “I don’t know if she did,” she’d said finally.
“They’re not the sort of people to get mixed up with,” Werner had warned her seriously. “They’re coming down hard on those kinds of groups now. They have to.”
“Why do they have to?” Birgit had asked, curious as to what he’d thought about it all.
“Well, we can’t have a Soviet threat, can we?” he’d answered reasonably.
“You think the Soviets are a threat?”
“The Soviets want to take over the world even more than Germany does. Besides, Hitler is a far better leader than Stalin. Look what he’s done for the German economy. They don’t have the problem with inflation we still have here in Austria.” His mouth had twisted. “My father lost his fortune because of the inflation after the war. Germany has recovered in a way Austria hasn’t been able to. And besides, Hitler himself is Austrian.” He’d given her a teasing grin, but Birgit hadn’t been ready to let it go, even though part of her had known it would be wiser to. She’d never spoken to someone personally who had shown any approval for Hitler, and Werner’s easy certainty had disconcerted her.
“And what of the Jews?” she’d asked after a moment.
Werner had taken a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and offered her one. Birgit had shaken her head, and he’d taken one and lit it, drawing in and exhaling before he’d answered. “What of them?”
“It’s—it’s not fair, is it,” she’d stated slowly. As she’d said the words, she realized how childish they sounded, as if she were talking about cheating at a game of marbles. “The laws and things they have in Germany now. The way the Jews are blamed for everything. The way people treat them. It’s not right.”
Werner had nodded in agreement, as easy in this as in his approval of the man who had made such laws. “Perhaps, but it’s understandable, isn’t it, to blame the Jews for at least some of the problems we’ve had?” He’d shrugged, looking so very reasonable. “They’ve as good as controlled the banking system for decades. The stock market, as well, not letting anyone else so much as a look in. They keep it all to themselves and get rich off everyone else’s hard work. Surely it’s their fault at least a little bit if we’re all broke?” He’d smiled, flashing his teeth and raising his eyebrows. Birgit realized she didn’t know enough to argue or agree with him.
“I saw a Jew being beaten in the street,” she’d said quietly, the memory of poor, broken Janos reverberating through her. “The man who grinds our knives. He had nothing. He wasn’t to blame for anything.”
Werner had nodded sympathetically. “That’s unfortunate, of course. But there are bullies and thugs everywhere. It doesn’t mean the policies are wrong.”
“I suppose,” Birgit had said slowly, because she hadn’t known what else to say, and her ignorance had shamed her, even as she acknowledged how much more pleasant it would be if she simply let it go. “My friend believes there will be a war,” she’d ventured after a moment.
“Of course there’ll be a war, but it won’t be with us.”
“It won’t?” Again his certainty had surprised her.
“No. The real question is who will challenge Germany and her right to Lebensraum?” He’d shrugged. “Certainly not Austria.”
“So if there is a war, you wouldn’t fight?” Birgit had asked, and he turned to her with a teasing smile.
>
“Worried about me?”
“No,” she’d cried, blushing, “I mean, not—”
“I’m just teasing, Birgit.” They’d reached Getreidegasse, their footsteps instinctively slowing. “How did we end up talking politics for so long?” He’d laughed and shaken his head, and Birgit had smiled.
“I don’t know.”
“I knew you were smart when you told me you could repair a clock.” He’d turned to her, flicking his cigarette into the street before hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket. “Come with me to the cinema next week?”
“The cinema…” Her had mind spun at the thought of an actual date… if that’s what it was?
“They’re showing Under Blazing Heavens, with Austria’s very own Lotte Lang.”
Birgit had hesitated, wondering what her parents would think of her stepping out with someone they’d never met. Then she’d reminded herself she was twenty years old, and most women her age were stepping out all the time, or at least occasionally. “That would be fun,” she’d said firmly, and Werner’s face had split into a wide smile that had her smiling back.
“Wunderbar! Shall I meet you there at seven on Friday? The cinema on Gislekai. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
They had reached the shop now, its windows shuttered for the night. Werner had taken a step closer to her, and Birgit’s heart fluttered. She’d tried to smile but her lips had trembled.
“Goodnight, Birgit. I’m very glad to have met you.”
“Yes, as am I…” she’d whispered, and then he’d leaned in to brush his lips against her cheek. She’d breathed in the sharp, citrusy scent of his aftershave, which had startled her with its strangeness.
“See you on Friday,” he’d said, and then he was walking down the street, disappearing into the darkness.
