A Lily of the Field E-Book

John Lawton

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Written by 'a sublimely elegant historical novelist as addictive as crack' (Daily Telegraph), the Inspector Troy series is perfect for fans of Le Carré, Philip Kerr and Alan Furst. Vienna, 1934. Ten-year-old cello prodigy Meret Voytek becomes a pupil of concert pianist Viktor Rosen, a Jew in exile from Germany. The Isle of Man, 1940. An interned Hungarian physicist is recruited for the Manhattan Project in Los Alomos, building the atom bomb for the Americans. Auschwitz, 1944. Meret is imprisoned but is saved from certain death to play the cello in the camp orchestra. She is playing for her life. London, 1948. Viktor Rosen wants to relinquish his Communist Party membership after thirty years. His comrade and friend reminds him that he committed for life... These seemingly unconnected strands all collide forcefully with a brazen murder on a London Underground platform, revealing an intricate web of secrecy and deception which Detective Frederick Troy must untangle.

Leseprobe

A LILY OF THE FIELD

John Lawton is the director of over forty television programmes, author of a dozen screenplays, several children’s books and seven Inspector Troy novels. Lawton’s work has earned him comparisons to John le Carré and Alan Furst. Lawton lives in a remote hilltop village in Derbyshire.

THE INSPECTOR TROY NOVELS

Black Out

Old Flames

A Little White Death

Riptide

Blue Rondo

Second Violin

A Lily of the Field

First published in the United States of America in 2011 by Grove/Atlantic Inc.

First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2011 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

This ebook edition published in Great Britain in 2012 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

Copyright © John Lawton, 2011

The moral right of John Lawton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978 1 61185 998 0 eISBN 978 1 61185 998 0

Printed in Great Britain by

Grove Press Ormond House 26-27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

For

Contents

Prologue

I

§1

§2

§3

§4

§5

§6

§7

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§11

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II

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§159

Prologue

London: March, or even February, 1948 A Park

It had not been the hardest winter. That had been the previous winter—the deluge that was 1947. London like an iceberg, the Home Counties one vast undulating eiderdown of white, snowbound villages in Derbyshire dug out by German POWs many miles and years from home—a bizarre reminder that we had “won the war.” War. Winter. He had thought he might not live through either. He had. The English, who could talk the smallest of small talk about weather, had deemed 1948 to be “not bad” or, if feeling loquacious, “nowt to write home about.” But now, as the earth cracked with the first green tips of spring, the bold budding of crocus and daffodil that seemed to bring grey-toothed smiles to the grey faces of the downtrodden victors of the World War among whom he lived, he found no joy in it. It had come too late to save him. This winter would not kill him. The last would. And all the others that preceded it.

He took a silver hip flask from his inside pocket and downed a little Armagnac.

“André, I cannot do this anymore.”

Skolnik had been pretending to read the Post, billowing pages spread out in front of him screening his face from the drifting gaze of passersby. He stopped, turned his head to look directly at Viktor.

“What?”

“I have to stop now.”

The newspaper was folded for maximum rustle. It conveyed the emotions André pretended long ago to have disowned in favor of calm, unrufflable detachment.

“Viktor. You cannot just stop. You cannot simply quit. What was it you think you joined all those years ago? A gentleman’s club? As though you can turn in your membership when brandy and billiards begin to bore you?”

Viktor took another sip of Armagnac, then passed the flask to André.

“Nineteen eighteen,” he said softly as Skolnik helped himself to a hefty swig. “Nineteen eighteen.”

“What?’

“Nineteen eighteen—that’s when I joined. Were you even born then?”

“Not that it matters, but I was at school.”

The flask was handed back, the paper slapped down between them.

“You cannot stop just because it suits you to stop.”

Viktor sighed a soft, whispery, “Really,” of exasperation. “Why can I not stop?”

“Because the Communist Party of the Soviet Union simply doesn’t work that way.”

I

Audacity

ƒ

I would love to be like the lilies of the field.

Someone who managed to read this age correctly

would surely have learned just this:

to be like a lily of the field.

ETTY HILLESUM, diary entry forSEPTEMBER 22, 1943

(died AuschwitzNOVEMBER 30, 1943, Etty: A Diary (published 1981)

§1

Vienna: February 9, 1934

The war began as a whisper—a creeping sussurus that she came to hear in every corner of her childhood—by the time it finally banged on the door and rattled the windows it had come to seem like nature itself. It had always been there, whispered, hinted, spoken, bawled. It was the inevitable, it was the way things were—like winter or spring.

There was a whisper of war. Even at ten years old Méret could hear it. Her father had come home from the theatre a year ago, slapped the paper down on the dining table, and in his rant against “this buffoon Hitler” had forgotten to kiss her. He always kissed her when he came home from work. The first thing he did, even before he kissed his wife. It coincided with Méret’s getting home from school. Her father was the Herr Direktor of the Artemis Theatre. He would take a couple of hours off midafternoon, before the box office opened for the evening performance, take tea with his wife and daughter in his apartment, return to the theatre and not be home again until hours after Méret had been put to bed.

“How can they let themselves be so deceived? How can Germans be so stupid? It couldn’t happen here. If he’d stayed in Austria we’d have seen through him. Imagine it—a corporal from Linz hijacking an entire country? It couldn’t happen here!”

Now he brought her the consequences of the Nazis seizing power. One year on, and some of those collared in the first roundups, in the wake of the burning of the Reichstag, were being set free. Mostly they were left-wing, intellectual, or both, and the Nazis either regarded a spell in Oranienburg as intellectual rehabilitation or they expected them to leave. Many did leave. Vienna, where most of Austria’s quarter of a million Jews lived, was swelling with an influx of German Jews, German leftwingers, and German intellectuals.

“Darling girl, if I mention the name Viktor Rosen do you know of whom I speak?”

Of course she did. Viktor Rosen might not be the most famous pianist in the German speaking world, but he was close to it.

“He is living in Vienna now. In Berggasse. Close to Professor Freud. He called in at the theatre today. I had the opportunity of a chat with him. He is taking on pupils.”

Imre paused to watch his daughter’s reaction.

She set down her teacup and with the gravitas that only a preadolescent can muster when talking to an exasperating adult, replied, “Papa, Herr Rosen is a pianist.”

“The cello is his second instrument. Just as the piano is yours.”

Now she could see what he was saying. She concealed her joy—it came naturally to her.

“And,” said her father, “he has agreed to take you on for both instruments.”

She wished she could hug him, she wished she could sing her joy. Her father scooped her up and saved her from expressions of love and gratitude that would have been clumsy and embarrassing. He hugged her and spun her around and set her back on the carpet in the middle of the room a little dizzy from the ride. He smiled his pleasure; her mother, gently tearful, wept hers. Méret would repay his joy. Of course she would. She would play for him. Music said it all. She’d never had much need of words. Music was her code.

§2

Vienna: February 11, 1934

Punctuality was her vice. She was early for everything. She had begged her father not to usher her in to her first meeting with Rosen. Instead he had seen her to the door in Berggasse and reluctantly left her to it. She had reassured him—Vienna was home, she had lived here all her life, and Herr Rosen lived but three streets away. What could befall her standing in the street?

Imre had checked his pocket watch, noted that, as ever, she had got him where they needed to be with time in hand, kissed her on her half-turned cheek, walked to the corner, turned for one last look, and left.

Méret sat on a bench, her three-quarter-size cello by Bausch of Leipzig next to her, immaculate in its battered black case, wrapped up in winter black herself—black coat, black hat, black gloves—against the February cold. She was slightly smaller than the cello.

An old man emerged from Number 19, white beard against a black collar, the glowing tip of a cigar, plumes of pungent smoke wafting over her as he passed her way. A slight wincing, a contraction of the skin around one eye, as though his jaw ached or some such.

“Good morning, young lady.”

Méret all but whispered her response. Professor Freud scared her. She had met him many times. At the Artemis Theatre where her father worked, at her home, where Sigmund and Martha Freud were numbered among her father’s guests—and she knew he had treated her cousin Elsa—“difficult cousin Elsa,” as her mother referred to her—but treated for what she did not know, no more than she knew what it was that might be difficult about Elsa. Professor Freud was some kind of doctor. The scary kind.

One minute before her wristwatch told her she was due, she pulled on the bell. The woodland child tapping at the door of the gingerbread house. A maid, skinny and pinch-faced, white upon black, told her to come in. The woman hardly looked at her, as though children were beneath notice. Up a wide staircase, dusty and hollow sounding, to the apartment on the first floor. Into a huge room looking out onto the Berggasse through floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed impossibly high.

“Herr Professor will be with you shortly.”

And with that the door closed behind her and she found herself alone in the room.

It was a room much like the parlour in her grandmother’s apartment. Dark-panelled walls that simply cried out for Empire furniture—for weight and substance and toe-stubbing ugliness, for curtains that cascaded in thick folds like water held in some perpetual slow motion. Once, this room had been like her grandmother’s, she could tell—marks on the boards where some heavy piece had stood for years, horizontal lines of dust along the walls where pictures had hung as long—full of the overstuffed, grandiose furniture of the last century. This room had been stripped. Acres of empty shelving, a chandelier missing half its bulbs. Now the only objects were two small armchairs, sat upon the bare, carpetless boards like perching sparrows, dwarfed by the emptiness surrounding, facing each other—and two musical instruments. A full-size concert grand piano bearing the words “Bechstein, Berlin” on its upturned lid—and a cello, propped on a stand.

She was peering into the cello through the ƒ-holes, curious as to the maker, when she heard footsteps upon the boards behind her.

“It is a Goffriler, from the eighteenth century. Far, far older than my piano.”

Méret straightened up to her full four feet ten, and found herself looking at a tall, elegant, well-dressed man of indeterminate age—older than her father, perhaps, but then how old was her father? Younger than her grandfather, greying hair, lots of fine lines about the eyes, and nicotine on the fingers of his right hand—the hand he now held out, and down, to her.

“Good afternoon, young lady. Viktor Rosen at your service. Musician.”

She shook the hand.

“Méret Voytek. Schoolgirl . . . and musician.”

This brought a smile to his face. Teeth also stained with nicotine.

“You were curious about the cello?”

“I’m sorry. Mama tells me I should not be nosy.”

“Curiosity is not nosiness, my dear. Take a peek. Do you know Latin?”

She nodded.

“There is a large, if fading, label. And while the light is too dim for my old eyes I doubt it will be for yours.”

She bent again, peered into an ƒ-hole. It was like looking into a treasure chest. A flaking paper of history . . . a pirate’s map.

She hadn’t heard of this man. She would have known the name of Stradivari, and perhaps one or two others. Perhaps all the best cello makers were once Italian, just as the English had once made the best pianos. Her cello was German.

“May I see?”

Professor Rosen was gesturing towards her cello case, palm open, not touching without permission. Méret shrugged her coat off onto the back of a chair and took the cello from its case. It was beautiful, not scarred or marked in any way and next to the Goffriler it looked cheap and modern.

Rosen peered at the instrument much as she had peered at his.

“Bausch? Am I right?”

She nodded, somewhat surprised.

“I started on a Bausch,” he said. “Shall we hear the little fellow sing?”

She had chosen the piece herself. Four minutes from the first movement of Kodály’s Cello Sonata op. 8, written almost twenty years ago, in the depth of the war.

She played it faithfully but not well, she thought. She lacked feeling, but then the piece itself lacked feeling. Or the feeling was one she could not relate to—perhaps the music was of its time, of war and misery, things of which she knew nothing.

Herr Rosen could hear this.

He said. “You don’t like the piece, do you? Why pick a piece you don’t like?”

What she did and didn’t like was contingent upon what she knew. Her father took her to concerts, she had heard many Mozart piano concertos, all of Schubert’s string quartets, and most of Mahler’s symphonies—she adored the adagio from the unfinished Tenth and his orchestration of Death and the Maiden. Papa had once taken her to a Schoenberg concert but it had not spoken to her. Papa admitted that it had been years before it spoke to him, or to anyone he knew, and that at the premiere of Schoenberg’s first Chamber Symphony—contrapuntal chaos as one critic dubbed it—he had watched Mahler stand alone amid the boos and hisses, clapping until the hall emptied.

“My grandfather bought me the score,” she said.

“Your Hungarian grandfather? Herr Voytek?”

“Yes.”

“So, simple patriotism, perhaps? A Hungarian grandfather buys you the score of Hungary’s leading composer?”

Méret had nothing to say to this. Was patriotism simple? She had no idea. There were so many countries in her family history about which to feel remotely patriotic.

“Laudable,” said Rosen, “but patriotism is never enough.”

“And . . .” she hesitated, not wishing to invoke another response she would not understand. “And there is so little written for solo cello. So much is with piano accompaniment. Papa plays the piano, but Papa is hardly ever at home in the evenings.”

“Quite so . . . the theatre.”

“Yes. The theatre.”

“Then we must find . . . no, I must arrange music for you. I shall be as fast and as cavalier as Liszt was with Bach. Now tell me, who do you really like?”

In truth she did not dislike Kodály. His Háry János spoke to her as a fairy tale might. The music made her want to laugh and dance, although she did little of either.

“Schubert,” she said, and meant it. “And Mozart and Scarlatti and Bach and Fauré and Debussy and—”

“Stop, stop,” said Rosen. But he was smiling as he said it.

“And what of Johann Strauss? Is he not synonymous with Vienna? Is he not part and parcel with Klimt and Schnitzler?”

She’d never heard of Klimt or Schnitzler. She thought synonymous might mean “the same as” and took her chance.

“That would simply be patriotic,” she said. “Besides, one can have too much of a good thing.”

Rosen was laughing now, happily hoist with his own petard. He rose from his chair, touched her gently on the shoulder, took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket, tapped one against the silver case, lit up and stood, still smiling, almost giggling through the first puffs of smoke, looking out of the window onto the Berggasse.

When he returned, stubbing out the cigarette with a muttered “filthy habit,” he said, “How right you are, young lady. One cannot waltz through life. The waltz is . . . a pleasant diversion . . . let us save it for a celebration. Now, is there anything you would like to ask me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am to tell Papa when I get home whether or not I am your pupil.”

“Child, could you not read my face, the pleasure I took in your playing of a miserable work? Indeed, you are my pupil. I have never heard anyone of your age play so well.”

“And . . .”

“And?”

If she understood what he had said about the waltz aright, he had given her her cue.

“Papa says we live in interesting times.”

Rosen looked a little baffled, but nodded and agreed.

“But Papa doesn’t mean interesting, he means bad.”

Rosen thought for a moment.

“And your question is?”

“Papa says the Germans locked you up. Is that true?”

“Yes,” said Rosen. “Not for long, but they imprisoned me near Berlin, in a camp called Oranienburg.”

“Was it . . . awful?”

“Yes. It was awful, but it could have been worse. The Nazis weren’t trying to kill us, they were trying to scare us.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why were they trying to scare us or why did they lock us up?”

She had meant both and said so softly, wondering if she had not already overstepped the mark. But Rosen sighed and stretched and seemed far more sad than annoyed.

“They locked up many artists and intellectuals. We were all people who did not share their politics or who had no politics at all—although I find that hard to believe whenever I hear it uttered, and in the long run ‘I have no politics’ is a cardboard shield that won’t stop a single bullet—and the hope was that we would be frightened into conforming or leaving. As you can see, I chose the latter.”

“Why Vienna? Why not London or Paris?”

“It’s easier to say why not Vienna than why Vienna? Music flows through the city deeper than the Danube. The opera houses thrill to Wagner every evening, and every afternoon the cafés relax to a thé dansant. Haydn, Schubert, and Mozart all lived and worked here . . . Beethoven even played piano in a café on Himmelpfortgasse . . . to this day Franz Lehár sits at his piano and composes fripperies with a songbird perched upon his shoulder and, who knows, perhaps whispering the melody in his ear? What do you suppose the bird is? A linnet? A nightingale?”

One hand seemed to pluck the linnet from his shoulder, to cup and hold it at his ear—then the palm opened and released the invisible bird to the air.

He was playing with her. She realized that. Grown-ups who had little knowledge of children, grown-ups without children of their own, often played more than her parents, and hence overplayed. The mixture of playful gestures and complex words did not win her. She had no idea what a frippery was and Lehár was just a name to her.

“And if music were not enough,” he went on, strung out on the washing line of his own words, “it is a city of ideas, of Freud and Herzl and Wittgenstein. Did you know the Emperor Marcus Aurelius died here?”

Of all those names the only one she knew was Professor Freud’s.

“No,” she replied, “I did not. But I know Professor Freud. He lives in the next apartment block.”

“Ah, . . . I have not yet had the honour.”

“I could introduce you.”

Rosen smiled at the precocity of this, and her brain found time to catch up with her tongue.

“I mean . . . Papa could.”

“Of course. Papa.”

“Papa says . . .”

She felt the sentence dribble away to nothing.

“Papa says?”

“Papa says that you left everything behind when you fled Germany.”

Rosen gazed around the room, his right hand sweeping in an encompassing gesture, encouraging her to look where he looked.

“Well, not everything. The cello came with me, the piano followed a day later. And while these bookcases look to me as though they have stood here empty since Franz Josef was a boy, my books will arrive from Berlin any day now to fill them. And behind my cartloads of books, there will be German Jews by the thousand, some lucky enough to take it all with them, some who will most certainly, as you put it, leave everything behind.”

“Papa says it could not happen here. But he says it in the same tone of voice with which he says ‘let Papa kiss it better.’”

She could tell Professor Rosen was weighing up what he might say next. He was holding in the balance her urgent questions and her tender age.

“Your father is a kind and clever man. Without him I might be stranded at the border, or searching fruitlessly for an apartment. But . . .”

He let the word hang, just as though he had his foot upon the sustain pedal. A prolonged “but” dying away in the vast emptiness of the room, only to be caught at its faintest.

“But . . . you hear the music in your father’s voice aright. He cannot kiss it better. This is beyond repair. It could happen here. It will happen here.”

“Will you tell me? Will you tell when you think ‘it’ will happen here?”

“If I have foresight enough to know, I will tell anyone who will listen, but first of all I shall tell you. I will leave before it happens here. And if I leave, you will be the first to know.”

“And should I leave? Should Mama and Papa leave?”

“It’s not for me to say. It is for your father to decide. And, of course, you’re not Jewish.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“In a year or two or five who knows? Right now it is all the difference in the world. But we are forgetting something vital as we redraw the map of Europe.”

“We are?”

“The piano. You have prepared a piece for the piano?”

“Yes. But I have another question.”

“Ask, child.”

“Whatever happens when I play the piano, I am still your pupil? You said I was your pupil.”

“And so you are.”

“Whatever happens?”

“Whatever happens.”

She played what Papa called her party piece, as she had played it at family gatherings since the age of five. It had been played by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of children over a century and more—hammered out in dissonance and delight for parental pleasure.

A Beethoven bagatelle in A minor: Für Elise.

But she played it to perfection, and brought a smile to Rosen’s lips.

§3

Vienna: February 12, 1934

At the end of the street, the red and cream trams turned around and the conductor would emerge with a long, hooked pole and reverse the steel arm that skated along the overhead wires to pick up the current. It was a common sight to see trams stand idle awhile, two crews chatting and smoking as their routes and shifts met a five-minute overlap. There was even a glass and iron hut with a dull copper roof and a belching, coal-burning stove to accommodate them on winter mornings such as this.

But these trams had been idle too long, and when the conductor locked the doors and took his leather bag of small change and walked off to the hut, a word was whispered down the long queue that in its present context baffled her.

“Strike.”

On the tabula of the mind she tried to write the word. Streik? Streich? In fairy tales, the ones her father had read to her when she was very small, giants and ogres were felled by a streich—often tripped up by cunning, giggling boys and girls. It was close to meaning a prank. But who was playing a prank on whom?

It was close to meaningless.

“Strike.”

Suddenly, her mother was behind her, a hand upon her shoulder, saying, “You must come home, now.”

“But . . . but . . . school. It is Monday. A school day.”

The hand slipped from shoulder to upper arm, gripping her firmly and pulling her out of the queue.

“Don’t argue. We are going home. Today you must study at home.”

Her mother took her by the hand and walked her back the way she had come.

“But I have art today. I can’t possibly miss art!”

“You shall miss everything until all this is over. Do you hear me? You must not go out of the house until all this is over.”

“Until all what is over?”

In the afternoon. As the light of day faded. In her room. She paused in practicing her scales at the sound of raised voices—a misnomer, only her mother’s voice was ever raised.

“Why must you get involved? It’s got nothing to do with us!”

She could not hear her father’s reply. Only a tone of voice she knew well . . . the reasonable, placatory, futile, gentle music of a gentle man.

And then her mother once more.

“For Christ’s sake, Imre, are you trying to get us all killed?”

Her father did not come home between opening up the theatre and the night’s performance. Méret and her mother ate in near silence. Méret not daring to ask any questions, her mother mouthing only platitudes about Méret’s studies, telling her she was bright enough to miss a few days at school. Besides, nobody else would be going to school, either, so what was lost?

At night she heard noises in the street. Not close by but not distant.

In the morning, her father came into her bedroom, hugged her and told her she was a lucky girl who’d been given another day off school.

On the second night she heard gunfire, not pistols or rifles but big guns, cannons, echoing across the city from the workingmen’s apartments in Karlmarxhof.

Her bedroom door opened quietly. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, smelt the dark scent of cologne and tobacco that seemed always to wrap itself around her father, inviting her to bury her face in his clothes, and then heard him whisper, “It’s alright. She’s sleeping.”

In the morning the barber called. It was her father’s treat to have the barber call on him, rather than he on the barber, two or three times a week. When she was smaller she had thought it fun to let Herr Knobloch daub her face with foam from the brush and pretend to shave her. But blade never touched flesh—the gleaming edge of his cutthroat razor lay folded in a stainless steel bowl—only the back of a plastic comb shaved the white blobs from her top lip and hairless chin.

Today, her father stretched out in the chair he kept at his desk in the study, the razor gliding gently, bloodlessly across his cheeks, exchanging wisdom with Herr Knobloch.

“I mean,” Knobloch was saying, “it can’t happen here, but all the same . . . you can’t help worrying . . . I mean . . . where’s it all going to end? A bloke doesn’t feel safe in his own home. What with Heimwehr bully boys and those Nazis taking their orders from Germany . . . I ask you, are we part of Germany now?”

Most days Imre could make Knobloch laugh—gently pricking at the bubbles of his workingman’s pride and his workingman’s half-hearted mix of opportunism and socialism. Today he didn’t even try.

“Not yet,” he said simply.

“Not yet? You mean . . . ?”

“Yes. One day. And perhaps soon.”

“What? Greater Germany? I’m not German. You’re not German. I ask you, Herr Direktor, what is Germany? Brown shirts, boiled cabbage, and jackboots. What is Vienna? A good cup of coffee and a fag. That’s Vienna. Caffs and barber shops . . . and . . .”

“Theatres,” Imre concluded for him.

“Yeah. Sorry. O’course. Theatres too. Not that I ever been in one.”

“You should. We serve a good cup of coffee and we sell fags.”

Now Knobloch laughed. Now Knobloch noticed Méret.

“Hello, young lady.”

Her muttered reply was scarcely audible. She loved to watch the morning ritual of her father’s shave. It was better than any parade, as good as any film at the cinema. Because her father was the star, relaxed and trusting and pampered—waited on cheek and jowl. And the touch of magic as his face was revealed, strip by strip, the peeling away of layers, a gentle flaying, as the razor skimmed across his skin. She knew the strokes of the razor by heart. Knobloch never varied. He had mapped the face so well, knew which flick of the blade would catch what bristle. She loved to watch. She hated to speak. Knobloch was so friendly it was . . . scary.

“Remember when I used to shave you?”

Now he leaned down and dabbed a single fleck of foam onto her top lip. Now he grinned, now he laughed.

Her father was standing. Smiling.

“Knobloch, Knobloch. You will get us all shot.”

Just before her father wiped her lip clean, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The old joker had given her a Hitler toothbrush moustache. Even her father thought it was funny.

§4

Méret perceived the politics of her time and place in the only way a child can. In pieces. A jigsaw she would never be able to arrange into a whole. Her father made efforts to explain to her what had happened, but her mother stopped him with, “The girl is only ten, Imre.” Just as she had said at all the punctuation points of Méret’s life—“only seven,” “only eight,” “only nine.” She wondered if one day her mother might mention her age without the prefacing “only.” When she was twenty-one would she be “only twenty-one”?

What she knew was what she saw—sandbags set out at street corners to shield machine-gun emplacements—slogans painted onto brick walls—young men in uniform, some in black trousers, some in brown shirts, some, oddly, in white socks—emblematic of she knew not what. What she knew was what she heard: cries in the street, whispers in the cafés, the occasional explosion, the less occasional sound of gunfire, the rumble of an armoured car across the cobblestones; arguments between her parents that were hushed the moment they could see that she was listening.

It was an unassembled pattern of fragments, and as such she perceived her native land aright. Austria was an unassembled pattern of fragments.

Two weeks later, at her sixth visit to Rosen’s apartment, she arrived to find the floor littered with packing cases and books, and Rosen sitting in the middle, not, as was his habit, in a neat two-piece black suit, but in braces and shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back, blowing the dust off a book.

“We will begin a little late today,” he said. “I have to clear a way through or you’ll never find a spot to put down your cello. Indeed, I cannot get to the piano. The complete works of Count Tolstoy have become an obstacle course.”

She had never seen so many books. When she was very small it had seemed to her that her father possessed all the books in the world. They lined all four sides of his study—under the window, over the window—and reached right up to the ceiling. Then, one afternoon, he had taken her to call on Professor Freud and she realized that her father possessed most of the books in the world but that Professor Freud possessed more. Herr Rosen had almost as many as Freud and she wasn’t counting the volumes of sheet music.

Stacking up the Russians on the shelves she noticed the title of one very fat book, in faded gold along its spine: Memoirs of a Revolutionist by Prince Peter Kropotkin.

“May I ask,” she said, “what is a revolutionist?”

“One who makes a revolution. Or are you no wiser with that definition?”

“It is something that revolves. Like a wheel?”

“In a sense. It is a change in the order of society. In that sense it revolves and another group finds itself at the top. As though a wheel of people had been spun. In France a hundred and fifty years ago, the poor took over, killed the rich, and made all the changes they could . . . from fixing the price of bread to changing the names of the months in the calendar.”

“How odd. Why would they do that?”

“I’ve never really understood it myself. But it has a romantic feel to it. And, of course, a descriptive quality. November means nothing. It isn’t even the ninth month. Brumaire . . . now that really says something about the autumn, doesn’t it?”

“Foggy?”

“Yes, foggy.”

“And where would we be now on the poor people’s calendar?”

Rosen had to think about this.

“I can’t be certain. It’s a long time since I studied history . . . but tell me, what was the day like as you walked here?”

“It was windy.”

“Then I think we would be in Ventôse. The windy month.”

She had finished sorting the Kropotkins as they spoke and was well into the Tolstoys.

“My father will not tell me what happened.”

Rosen looked baffled.

“What happened when?”

“In the middle of the month. In the days after I first came here. Was that a revolution?”

“Well, my dear, I am not your father, and with all respect to your father . . . if I had children I would answer their questions.”

“It is Mama,” she said. “It always is. If she gets her way I’ll never know what happens. I’ll never know where babies come from and I’ll end up believing the nonsense the other girls tell me at school.”

Rosen grinned. She thought he might even have swallowed laughter.

“I won’t answer the latter. That really is a matter for your mother. But I am happy to talk politics to you. No, it was not a revolution. If anything it was a counterrevolution. The powers that be trying to nip the activities and the workers in the bud with a surprise attack. The result? The workers struck, they refused to go to work, no trains, no trams . . . and the powers that be attacked them again. This time not with rifle butts but with Howitzers.”

“Cannons?”

“Yes, cannons. You must have heard them. The police and the army fired upon the workers’ flats.”

“Were the poor people killed?”

“Yes. I think many were killed. But I have heard figures bandied about from dozens to hundreds. Only one thing is certain.”

“What is that?”

“That many more have been locked up. The camp at Wöllersdorf must be bulging at the seams. But then there are so many factions one could lock up . . . the fascists, the socialists, the social democrats, the communists, the patriots—who in reality are Nazis. In a country of six million there may well be six million factions.”

He could see now that he had lost her.

She wiped the spine of a Tolstoy and read out, “The Kreutzer Sonata. It is a book of music?”

“No, my dear. It is a book about music, a novel about the power of music to affect us. Have you not heard of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata?”

She shook her head. Now that Tolstoy was shelved, the way through to the piano and his cello was clear. He crossed the floor, set the Goffriler between his legs, tilted the neck slightly to the left, and with the bow in his right hand struck up the intense, dramatic opening of the adagio sostenuto, the first movement of the Kreutzer Sonata.

He stopped at the moment the piano should cut in.

“You like?” he said simply.

Like? She felt blasted, as though the notes had pierced her flesh and entered her blood.

She just nodded.

“I have only two hands,” he said. “Unpack your cello. I will find the score and we shall learn the piece. No exercises today, no scales, we shall play the music of the gods.”

§5

When, four months later, the chancellor of Austria, Engelbert Dollfuss—a man so short he was known as Millimetternich—was assassinated in a failed Nazi coup, it was Rosen, not her father, who explained things to her.

He had no idea how much she understood. For all that she asked questions, the child seemed to have so few reactions. She nodded as she always did, accepting silently what he said.

Then they went back to Beethoven.

§6

April 1936

She was twelve now and had grown surprisingly quickly. Rosen insisted on measuring her. She was baffled, but compliant. She slipped off her shoes, stood on the end of the tape. He put his hand flat on the top of her head, compressing the thick waves of black hair, and told her she was a fraction over one metre fifty-five.

“Why?”

“I just wanted to be certain. You are such a slender girl, you have a knack of looking smaller than you are. I wanted to be certain you were big enough.”

“Big enough for what?”

Rosen gestured, an open palm and extended arm, across the room to where his Goffriler cello stood poised upon its metal mount.

“You’re joking.”

“My dear girl, I know I make a lot of jokes. It is a weakness and often lands me in hot water. But not this time, or did you really think you could perform in public on your child’s cello?”

“I’m performing in public? Do you think I’m ready?”

“I think with a bit of practice we might both be ready.”

She sat, wrapped around the cello, fingertips touching the patina of centuries, feeling the muted orange glow of the wood all but seep into her hands.

She drew the bow across the strings, back and forth, hearing the upper register like a bird trilling in the treetops, the low like the rumble of an approaching train in a tunnel.

She was grinning at Rosen now. Brimful of pleasure. Revelling in the tones of a perfect instrument.

“It fits,” he said simply.

“You didn’t have to measure me for this,” she replied.

“Perhaps not. But it was fun.”

“And we are performing where exactly?”

7

May 1936

Imre Voytek was immensely proud of his theatre on Josefstadt. The Artemis had been begun in the year of the Secession movement, 1898, in the modern style, the Jugendstil, favoured by the architect Otto Wagner, with flourishes and filigree by Kolo Moser. The money soon ran out. The interior boasted a frieze that was considered daringly decadent in its depiction of the goddess after whom the theatre was named, that might or might not be the work of Gustav Klimt. No one was quite sure. The Secessionists had been approached, a frieze commissioned, and in the autumn of 1899 a short, silent, beardy bloke wearing a smock the size of a bell tent had shown up and spent three days roughing out a design, fresco-style, onto the still damp plaster above the bar. He might have been Klimt. He might not. No one had dared break the silence to ask. On the fourth day, the day the money ran out, it was unfinished and the artist conspicuously as absent as the funding. It was still unfinished when Klimt died in 1918. It was still unfinished when Imre took over the theatre some ten years later. But Imres first act was to engage a disciple of Klimts to finish it in the style of Klimt.