The Other Heaven Can Wait E-Book

Gerti Baldwin

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 564

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Gerti Baldwin's story is one of childhood poverty in a decrepit Viennese slum during the war years, to a life interspersed with family entanglements, separation, happier times with foster parents and her determination to succeed. Torn between her father and mother, in all her heartache and disappointment she learns the truth about them and the hardships her mother and her siblings had to endure. Despite a serious heart defect, she finds ways to cope, turning her attention to sport especially judo, joining a club and entering championships. In between Gerti is stalked and threatened with murder, but eventually finds peace and tranquillity making her home in Wales where she works as a social worker until retirement.

Leseprobe

Contents

Imprint 2

Chapter 1 3

Chapter 2 12

Chapter 3 28

Chapter 4 38

Chapter 5 60

Chapter 6 67

Chapter 7 81

Chapter 8 92

Chapter 9 98

Chapter 10 117

Chapter 11 124

Chapter 12 134

Chapter 13 150

Chapter 14 170

Chapter 15 192

Chapter 16 207

Chapter 17 229

Chapter 18 237

Chapter 19 245

Chapter 20 253

Chapter 21 262

Chapter 22 277

Chapter 23 295

Chapter 24 318

Chapter 25 337

Chapter 26 341

Chapter 27 353

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2022 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99131-273-4

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99131-274-1

Editor: Phil Kelly

Cover images: Kevin Carden, Ints Vikmanis | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting:novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Chapter 1

Wales 1992

Slipping into my bathrobe after a lovely hot shower, all I wanted was a nice cup of tea. With a long evening ahead of me I could take my time, watch TV, and perhaps read for a while. Taking it easy was not only a pleasure after a lifetime of working; it had become a necessity since my car accident. I was still in a lot of pain and easily exhausted. But tonight I would ignore the muddle and leave everything as it was. Living alone had its advantages I told myself, but I missed my son who just came home during holidays now, since working in London.

Two weeks ago I had moved here to the Pembrokeshire coast, and though quite a few packing cases still stood around, I had what I needed. Tonight I’d relax in my recliner, placed strategically by the patio door, so I could look down the wooded hills leading to Amroth Beach, with its silvery sliver of sea in the distance. My house was close to the wood, the last in a row of small dwellings, right in the countryside. It was quiet here, almost deserted most of the time. People only came for weekends or holidays, as commuting to work was too far. For me it was ideal, I needed peace and quiet to help me heal, cope with my pain, to think, and perhaps find a different way of earning a living in case I couldn’t return to my social work job.

Somehow, I’d have to start a new life.

It was a miracle I had survived. In my mind I was back on the motorway, overtaking an articulated lorry which suddenly changed lanes and went into the side of my car. I saw the giant wheel coming towards me through the metal of my car, heard this terrible grating and crashing noise, and knew nothing more for quite some time.

I have survived, I told myself again, and I will get better, and now I’ll go downstairs and make myself a cup of tea. Chamomile would be good, or lemon-balm, to help me relax.

I tried opening the bathroom door, but it wouldn’t budge. I pressed and I pushed, but try as I might, neither the door handle moved, nor the door. I checked the bolt, but it stood open as usual. I never bolted the door, living alone. Panic rose but I had to stay calm. I couldn’t really be locked in. Again I tried, pressing the handle down and pushing the door, but in vain. I had to face it, I was locked in.

How was it possible – the door had no lock, the only bolt was here on my side, and it stood open?

Again and again I tried, pushing and pulling and shoving, but to no use. The door stayed shut. Now panic was really threatening to overcome and suffocate me. I had trouble breathing. There was no window – how long would I have enough air?

Somehow I swallowed my panic and fear; to get out of here I needed my brain, to think clearly.

There must be a way out. The door handle was stuck, there was no doubt in my mind anymore. Perhaps something inside had come apart, broken off. I pulled the handle very gently, pressed on it gingerly, and then shook it as hard as I could. But whatever I tried made no difference. I really was locked in.

Weakness overcame me, and I sat down on the floor. Not even a chair was in this room. Suddenly I was angry with myself about having put this small matter off for so long. Then the seriousness of my situation hit me. No one would hear my cries for help, the bathroom lay between two bedrooms – not that it mattered, no one went past anyway, as my house was the last in the row.

No one would hear me. My neighbors were away, even if they came at the weekend, they would not look for me, or hear my screams.

My son phoned rarely. Only last night I had called him, and told him how lovely it was here. For a week or two he would not think something was wrong if he couldn’t reach me.

I had no friends here, and my old friends would not come looking soon enough. I could be locked in for days, even weeks, die here in the end. But not quickly, because I had water.

At least I had a toilet, I reflected, so when I was found – I pushed this frightening thought far away. This was not the direction I wanted my thoughts to meander, at least not now, when I had to find a way out of here.

But these thoughts were not so easily banished; they persisted, focusing on death and pain. It was not death I feared most, but pain. I had no medication here in this room, and knew from experience that my pains would get worse, especially with no comfortable chair to sit on and no bed. I’d have to sit on the toilet or the floor, where, eventually, I would die, going crazy with pain, or suffocating because no air came in.

Pull yourself together Gerti, I told myself. There has to be a way out, and you must find it.

Again I concentrated on the door, pushing carefully and gently at first, then with force, again and again, but I was just wasting my strength. I tried thinking of another way out of here, but couldn’t find one. No window, the walls were thick, the ceiling solid, and all the tools at my disposal were my back-brush, the toilet-brush, a plastic beaker, and my toothbrush. None of it was any help, though I poked around a bit at walls and ceiling and tried pushing the brush-handle under the door to lever it, but it was no good. Defeated, I sat down on the floor again, exhausted, in pain, my brain switched off, my mind almost blank.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a clear picture appeared in my mind. I saw another door, white painted wood like this one. I remembered seeing it, when I visited a couple who had problems with their boy. I was their social worker. As I entered, the husband stood in front of the living room door, blocking my way. When I looked at him, he stepped aside to let me pass, and I noticed a dent in the door.

Like a little boy found out in a misdemeanor, he grinned self-consciously. “I lost control,” he admitted. “I hit the door with my fist – or I might have hit her.”

Looking sideways at his wife, he added, but very quietly: “She deserved it.”

The picture vanished as fast as it had come, but it gave me an idea. If he could make a dent in his door, I could do it in mine. And a dent can be the beginning of a hole.

I hit the door as hard as I could with the brush, but it broke, and the other brush followed suit. I too had to hit the door with my fist.

But I was no young and strong man, but a woman of fifty, and the accident had made me weak.

This is the way to get out of here, perhaps the only way. I have to do it, I told myself. Forget about weakness and pain, Gerti, and gather your strength.

I concentrated, took a deep breath in, and with all my power hit the middle of the door with my fist. The pain was enormous, engulfing me in a red cloud. But through the red, I saw a minute crack in the white of the paint. I hit this spot with my other fist, and then with the broken bits of the brushes, but it made little difference. I had to use my right fist again and then again, before the crack in the paint became a small dent.

Scraping minute bits of paint from the wood with my nails, eventually I succeeded in getting to the pressed wood underneath, carrying on, dislodging tiny pieces of wood with fingertips and nails. I did not stop until I had dug a small hole, just big enough to push a finger through. But a new problem confronted me: there were two panels to this door; I had only broken through the inner part. With my fingertip I could feel the space between the inner panel and the outer, which I also needed to break. But now I had hope. Somehow I would break through the second panel too.

But not yet. I was so exhausted, I collapsed on the floor, and for a while just lay there, unable to move. Eventually I did manage to get up, and drank some water. I longed to bathe my hands and wrap them in towels, the pain was hard to bear, especially where the splinters stuck under my nails.

Not now, I told myself. I have to carry on, however much I hurt.

So I forced my bleeding hands to continue their work. The hole grew slowly bigger, but very slowly.

Painful hours went by as I carried on in this way, but finally my hole was big enough to attack the outer panel with my fist. Eventually I broke through, and the broken handle of my brush went all the way through the door. I turned it around and around, angling it, to increase the hole, but it just removed some splinters. But now I could look through. I couldn’t see anything, the hall was in darkness. It was already night.

I put my nose to the hole, breathing in, feeling fresh, cool air in my nostrils going down to my lungs. For a while I stayed like this, the deep breathing calming me down. I’d get out of here, everything would be all right.

I drank some water again, and lay down on the floor to rest for a while. I tried to recover a little, but the pain in my hands and in my whole body, did not allow it. Afraid of losing consciousness, I got up to carry on with my task. And finally, after what seemed a lifetime, my hole was big enough to squeeze my whole body through.

I collapsed on the other side of the door, totally exhausted, and totally happy. I had made it.

Much later when I had some control of my body again, I went down the stairs to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and sat down in my recliner. It was half past four in the morning, soon it would get light. Only ten hours had passed since going to the bathroom, but it seemed an eternity.

The kettle had long turned itself off, and still I sat here, my whole body shaking. The fear and the panic I had not allowed myself to feel, had me fully in its power, engulfing me now.

Finally I did get up and, with great difficulty, made the tea. Then I swallowed two Tramadol tablets to lessen the pain. My hands were so swollen and bloody, I couldn’t hold the mug, but had to bring my head down to where it stood.

Again and again new waves of panic hit me. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being locked in, never to breathe fresh air again.

It was over, it was in the past, I told myself. But somehow it was not. Suddenly I realized these terrible feelings were not new, they had been with me a long time, hidden so deeply within me and only rarely raising their head. I didn’t know they were there. The trauma of being locked in had brought them back, re-awoken them fully.

I knew where I had felt like this. And though it was so long ago, in my mind I was there now. It was all happening now. I was split in two pieces, divided. The adult Gerti sat right here and the other Gerti, the small Gerti was here too, but somewhere else at the same time. And suddenly I was just this Gerti, the child.

I was small, lying close to my mother and holding her hand. It was dark, I was struggling to breathe, as so much dust was in the air. We lay buried in the cellar, this much I knew. The bomb had hit our building, and here we were, under a whole house of rubble and debris.

It was the last year of the war, and I was not quite three.

As I lived through it all again, I knew, that what I had buried a lifetime ago, was still somewhere inside of me, even now. And with it, came all the feelings, the emotions I had felt then. They were engulfing me now.

For a long time I just sat, overwhelmed. Only much later I thought: and what now?

Should I bury it all again? Could I keep it all for another time when I was stronger?

But I was stronger, I told myself, at least mentally. I had to face my past, and with it my emotions, which were alive again and threatening to engulf me and overcome me. I shivered, I was suddenly very afraid.

All my old feelings of panic and fear had erupted; they would not disappear, if I tried pushing them down – this much I knew. I had to relive it, face what had happened. By transforming the trauma into memories, they’d lose their power over me.

For a long time I sat in silence – lost. I was totally in the past. But this past was alive, and I was in it, a little girl.

The pain in my hands and my whole body brought me back to the present. I would face my past; remember it all, because being bombed in the war was not the only trauma. There was so much more. And by remembering it, I’d come to terms with what happened. Writing it down might help.

I’d write about my childhood, my siblings and my mother and the people in Vienna, the panic and terror we felt, and how life carried on somehow.

For now, writing was impossible – my hands were too painful. They needed a week or two in order to heal. But I didn’t need to wait – only yesterday I had unpacked my tape recorder, and the dictating gadget from work. If I switched to voice activation, it would only tape when I spoke.

But first, after soaking my hands in warm water laced with Dettol, I’d try to get some splinters and bits of wood from under my nails, hoping I didn’t have to tell the doctor, who was bound to ask what had happened. And I was not yet ready to talk.

And I had to find someone to take the door off and replace it – I would not crawl through the hole again. For now, a bucket would have to do.

I knew a builder; he had looked over the property two days ago. It needed some minor changes. I would phone him.

With my plans in place, I soaked my hands, and then activated the recorder, ready to record.

I took another Tramadol, and as I felt the pain recede I began digging out the horrors in my hands, and then lay back in my recliner.

I began speaking, but didn’t know what I said. It could all wait, I thought, as sleep finally overcame me.

Chapter 2

Vienna 1944

At first, as I started to remember, I got lost in dark, horrible emotions. Mostly I experienced fear, a huge living presence which I knew only too well. To me fear was a terrifying ‘She’ who would lurk anywhere; waiting and ready to pounce. The cellar was her domain, where she was at her strongest. Silently, like a huge black cat would she creep from a dark corner, come ever closer, touching each one of us. Reaching me, she’d wrap herself around me, until the real Gerti disappeared. Only fear would be left, mingling with my family’s fear, and the fear of other people sitting in the cellar, waiting like us. What we waited for, I did not know; until the bomb dropped. Then I knew, and every time thereafter I sat in a cellar, I too waited for the bomb.

And though no one ever talked of fear by her name, I knew that we all knew her well.

With my fresh emotions of panic still alive, mixing with similar feelings of the past, I remembered what it was like to lay buried in the cellar, in complete dark, with the rubble of a big building on top of us. Mama, next to me, was powerless, but holding her hand gave me some comfort.

Then, as this picture faded, there was nothing for a while. My mind was blank, until suddenly the next scene appeared where I saw us standing in the street, not knowing where to go or what to do, because our mother didn’t know and just stood there, gathering us children close to her. Some people moved about, without any purpose so it seemed to me, others just stood like us. Everywhere was rubble and debris, and so much dust it was as if we were in a fog. I still had trouble breathing. On the opposite side of the street broken parts of a building rose steeply up into the sky. It must have been our building; I could see the staircase and half a bedroom with a bed, a wardrobe still in one piece. All this lay exposed for everyone to see. It seemed indecent to see the private parts of a house in such a way, the rooms where people had slept not so long ago – where we had slept.

The sound of the plane above us changed, but this time the bomb was not for us. Mama let out her breath and eased the painful hold on my hand. We had survived, all of us, she said, finally finding her voice. Not that I knew much about survival then, I was not even three. But in the next weeks and months, I should learn quickly.

My uncle, Onkel Karl, took us in. He was Mama’s brother, a small very thin man, who needed to stay calm and not exert himself because of his heart. His wife, Tante Mali, was big, but we were not allowed to say so because it was rude and besides, she looked like this because she had a certain illness, my sister told me. But I just had to look at her again and again, because I had never seen anyone who was fat. She and Onkel Karl had a small flat, just a kitchen and living room serving also as their bedroom. We children and Mama slept in the kitchen on the floor, rolled into blankets with our coats on top, because it was so very cold.

Onkel Karl was nice to us, but Tante Mali did not want us there. We were constantly under her feet, she complained. So, when Mama heard about an empty flat up the street, we moved there.

Our new home was even smaller than Tante Mali’s, just a kitchen and a small room called das Kabinett, which became our bedroom. We were five, Mama and four children. My two sisters, Lilly and Christl, were fourteen and ten, and I was nearly three. My full name was Gertrude, but I was called Gerti, which I liked.

Willi, my brother, was five. At this time we still called him Pepi, until some years later he decided otherwise, answering only to Willi. This name stayed with my brother in spite of Lilly’s protests. She found it stupid because her name and his were so alike. Mama also did not like to call him Willi; she loved the name Pepi, short for Joseph, which was also the name of our father.

Papa was no longer with us. I hardly remembered him, and did not want to, it hurt too much.

The fear followed us to this flat, perhaps it had already been there, waiting, or the people living here before us had left it behind. But although I could sense its presence as soon as we moved in, the real home of this monster was in the cellar, two stories under the ground, where it smelled of damp, decay and death – and of fear.

The fear of the bombs I now understood, but the fear of the Gestapo was new to me. Gestapo was just a strange word without any real meaning, like the black man, the bogey man. No one explained anything, all my questions were ignored. I only knew the Gestapo would take someone away, probably us, if we said something. What we shouldn’t say Willi and I didn’t know, or, what the Gestapo would do with us – only that it was terrible, worse than the bombs.

In the cellar, if we younger children talked, Mama stopped us with a ‘ssh …’ or Lilly would try to get our attention with a story or a word game, and everyone around grew silent, aware of our presence. But if we sat quietly in a dark corner, the grown-ups forgot we were there and talked. In this way we found out that our Tante Rosa had gassed herself, because Rudi, her son and our cousin, had joined the SS and got shot. I did not understand about gassing, and Christl told me Tante Rosa had killed herself by putting her head in the oven, and she was dead. I tried to find out if she had killed herself because Rudi had been in the SS, or because he died, but Mama talked only about his age. He was eighteen, only three years older than Lilly, who took it very hard, having played with him before the war.

I could not find out, what the SS was, only that it was terrible.

When we were not in the cellar, Mama went out trying to buy food, leaving Willi and me in the flat, often on our own. Mama’s main occupation was to get food, which wasn’t easy, she said. Obtaining it seemed to worry her more than anything else, even more than the bombs. My sisters were allowed to go with Mama, or they visited friends living in one of the other flats in our building. Willi and I never went anywhere; we had no friends and had to stay in our flat.

I hated it. At least in the cellar were other people, even children, and one girl had a tortoise, which sometimes she let me stroke. In our flat were no animals, no plants, and no one visited. I could no longer see the sunlight, as in our old flat, and I never felt a breath of fresh air. The kitchen window led into a narrow shaft, called Lichthof, but no sunlight came in. Next to ours was the window of the toilet we shared with other people, and Mama opened our window only in emergencies, usually when something caught fire.

Our second window was in the small bedroom. Big, almost reaching the floor, this window overlooked the yard in the center of our building. A metal walkway in front of it led to other flats, and I could see the legs of people going past. I could have touched them when this window was open. I worried someone would step over the windowsill into our flat. But Mama said, we had nothing to steal, and needed fresh air. Though this fresh air smelled terrible on times, we lived on the first floor and the stink of the rubbish bins drifted up to us. They were full to overflowing, as no one collected any rubbish.

Although not much was thrown away, except a dead woman once, but she was left in our toilet. One morning, as Lilly opened the toilet door, this dead woman fell on her. Mama said someone must have put her there, because she was stiff, and if she had died in the toilet, she would have fallen over. Since then, Lilly refused to go to the toilet alone. What had happened to the dead woman I couldn’t find out, but at least she was gone.

Our new flat was crammed full with the things we needed most. Four narrow beds stood in the bedroom, two by two, the space between so narrow, I had to squeeze through to get to the window. In the middle, between the two sets of beds and opposite the door stood a small chest of drawers.

I slept in the kitchen. For me there was no space in the Kabinett, and so each night our four chairs were pushed together, a folded blanket laid on top. This was my bed.

During the day, my chairs stood around the kitchen table, a small cupboard fitted into one corner of the kitchen. The stove stood in the other corner, next to the gas cooker. I often wondered how all this stuff came to be here. It was from our previous flat. Our father had a hand cart. He was a carpenter and needed it to deliver furniture, and to transport wood and other material. But if he had brought our stuff, surely he would have visited us?

All my efforts to find out why Papa was no longer with us were in vain. Mama only said we had been lucky, the bomb went only through part of our flat, so some of our things had been saved. But we had not enough space in our flat, so some pieces were left outside on the landing. And sometimes, especially if it was very cold, Mama would take the saw and a hammer to attack a piece of furniture, chopping the wood small enough to fit through the door of our stove. On these lucky days we would not freeze, but sit close to the stove enjoying the warmth.

Suddenly, from one day to the next, everything changed, even the fear. We were no longer afraid of the bombs, but of the Russians. The war had ended, someone said, and the Russians were coming. They were approaching Vienna and on their way to us.

And soon they reached our district, and then they were here.

I remember how we all sat in the cellar, on long wooden planks supported by rubble and bricks, two flights of stairs below the ground. I hated the cellar. Shut in so deeply below, I felt there was not enough air to breathe, and the horrible smell of damp and decay was worse than ever, especially as the cellar door was closed now. A single candle gave some light, but created huge frightening shadows, moving slowly as if they were alive. The fear around me was stronger than ever.

We waited; women, children, two very old men. Mama sat next to me, with Willi on her other side. Christl had dirt smeared over her face, an old shawl covered her head. She was told to stay in the corner where it was darkest, but didn’t like it there and begun to complain. But she was ordered to stay there, not to move or speak. Not only Mama said so quite sharply, but also several of the women. Christl was not used to be treated in this way, but she did shut up and stay put.

I can’t remember where Lilly sat, and why she didn’t stay with us. Only many years later did I realize why I suppressed what happened to her during that night.

As we sat waiting, Mama remembered her rings. They were still on her fingers. She hid them under the makeshift bench, because the Russians would take anything of value, and whatever took their fancy, someone said.

Time seemed to stand still.

For a very long time nothing happened as we sat waiting silently in the semi-dark of the cellar. It was as if now there was nothing left to talk about anymore. Suddenly I heard the sound of many heavy footsteps coming down the cellar stairs, rough voices talking loudly, the door was pushed open with a rifle and they stood there, pointing their guns at us.

In spite of the guns I felt kind of disappointed, having expected terrible monsters. But these Russians were just a bunch of dirty men in strange clothes, talking loudly, yet I couldn’t understand a word. They walked between the makeshift benches where we huddled together. One soldier shone a light into each of our faces in turn. They looked at us closely, one after the other, made remarks, and laughed. One man said something which must have been very funny to them, because their laughter grew louder. I knew they talked about us, and that their words were not really funny, because the fear around me grew even stronger. One of the men put his arm around the shoulders of a woman sitting across me, and tipped up her chin. Mama held her breath, holding my hand so tight, it hurt. But I made no sound, just held my breath like she did, until we both had to breathe out.

Later, most of the Russians left our cellar, their guns pointing at the girls and women walking in front of them. Some of the men stayed, one soldier stood directly in front of us, pointing his gun so closely at Mama, it almost touched her face.

After an eternity, one Russian gave a loud order, and they all left.

Slowly the people began talking again, at first in whispers; until two women got up and opened the cellar door to be sure all the Russians had left.

“They wrote: ‘Stary Baba’ on the door,” said one.

“That means old women,” the old man in the corner informed us.

Christl, who had first left the cellar with the other girls, but had been sent back when they were hardly out of the door, piped up now.

“I am not an old woman.” Her voice sounded indignant.

“Be grateful,” a harsh voice came from the dark. “Be grateful whatever they thought, and thank God that you are here with us.”

I don’t think Christl understood any more than I did.

No one said anything about Lilly, or the other girls and women who went with the Russians and had not come back. But I had no time to ask, because the next group of Russians came down the stairs. They stopped in front of our door. ‘Stary Baba,’ said a rough voice, followed by loud laughter and some remarks, perhaps a Russian oath. But they also came into the cellar. And, like their colleagues before them, they pointed their guns at us and shone their lights into our faces and made remarks I could not understand. But I knew they were nasty remarks. And the women they chose had to leave with them. So it went on. One group came after the other. Sometimes, they would just read Stary Baba, and go back up the cellar stairs. Others would enter, in spite of the message on the door. And so it went on and on, hour after hour, or was it days? To me it was a whole eternity. And each time they left, people sighed as though relieved.

But no one said a word about Lilly and the others who had not come back.

I lost all sense of time. We seemed to sit in the cellar forever. Mama did not care I was hungry, thirsty and tired, and going to the toilet behind a blanket used as a curtain was a great problem for all of us. And again and again I heard the footsteps approaching, pausing outside the cellar door; someone might curse reading the message, or there would be laughter. And each time the Russians departed, a little of our fear would go too.

Finally it seemed to be over.

The Russians had not found my mother’s rings, but they were gone nevertheless. Mama shrugged her shoulders in resignation: at least we were alive, she said, and her younger children were unharmed. She said nothing about Lilly, and I was afraid to ask. Willi, on Mama’s other side, had not said one word throughout the whole nightmare, except when he got up to go behind the curtain.

As we returned to our flat we found the door wide open, our rooms had been ransacked, with everything strewn all over the place. Mama looked terribly ill and exhausted, she just collapsed on a bed, and we children pushed things out of the way, found our blankets, and covered her. And then we all huddled together, and sleep overtook us.

I did see Lilly again, but she only came for a visit. She lived with Tante Paula now, who was Mama’s sister. My big sister was not like she used to be. She was quiet and hardly talked. I missed her so much, and was not even glad to have her bed. Much rather would I have continued to sleep in the kitchen, if only she had been here with us.

Everything changed in our family, and always for the worst, and I could do nothing to stop it; first Papa, and now even Lilly.

Then some things did improve, because now, without the bombs falling from the sky, at least we didn’t have to go into the cellar again. But the hunger grew worse, food was even harder to get and we were always hungry.

My memories about this time center mainly on food or rather the lack of it, and Mama’s efforts to get something edible, something different from the usual dried beans and peas which was all we ever got. But apart from the few nettles Lilly had brought some time ago, there was nothing. Then I overheard people talking on the landing outside, about finding a fungus growing on a tree in the park. Apparently the tree-fungus took some cooking, but was not poisonous, as no one died. So now everyone looked for these fungi. I too would have liked to go looking for fungi, or nettles, but my siblings and I hardly ever left the building. Mama kept us home when she went out. This changed when the Gasthaus Wimberger, a large pub on the corner which had survived the bombing, offered a hot savory liquid from Maggi. But first we had to stand for a long time in a line with all the other hungry people, holding our cups. But this delicious soup was worth waiting for.

All too soon there was no soup anymore, and the dried beans and peas were not often obtainable. In desperation Mama decided to go to the Russians, to try bartering her golden wrist watch for food. The watch was the last thing of value from our life before the war, but what did it matter, she said, we couldn’t eat it. She took me with her, which was very unusual.

We walked through the dirty streets where the rubble and debris from the bombed houses still lay around. Jagged walls reached up into the sky, carcasses of houses showing almost obscenely the intimacy of what had been a home. Other buildings remained strangely untouched, as if the destruction around everywhere had nothing to do with them. They carried on as we did, and the people going past, their heads bent low, without looking at anyone.

On a lone side wall was a huge picture of a shirt which seemed to blow in the wind. Underneath were letters. I wanted to know what was written there.

“Persil waescht weisser.” Mama told me, the purpose of this picture was to make people buy washing powder. A strange thought to make people buy things. We all would have been glad to buy things, had it been possible.

Apparently it was different before the war. Mama said everyone could buy washing powder, even different brands, and all sorts of other things.

I looked at the shirt with renewed interest. It was gray now, but once it must have been white, or no one would have bought Persil. But then I forgot the shirt, because I remembered to look for nettles or a fungus, but saw only bits of concrete and rubble, and people hurrying quietly past. It was as if everyone was as silent as possible and made themselves small, not to attract any attention. Only the Russian soldiers strutting around talked in loud voices, mustering us as we hurried past. They did not bow their heads like we did, but looked straight at us, as if daring us to look back.

We found the building they were stationed in quite easily, because the soldiers tried to stop us from going near. But Mama defied them, and, with her face grim, pulling me along by my hand, she just carried on and to my surprise the men let us pass. Eventually we were in a room with a tall bearded Russian who sat behind a large desk. He looked up and mustered us silently.

“Child is hungry,” Mama pointed at me. “Needs food.”

The Russian looked me over. “Looks OK,” he said eventually waving his hand to dismiss us.

As Mama did not move and we stood there, he added: “Does not need anything.”

My mother stood her ground, took her golden wrist watch from her pocket and gave it to the man. He took it, held it to his ear, listening to the ticking. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he put the watch in his pocket, called something in a loud voice, and another man came and gave Mama a small bag of flour.

Now, the peas and beans were thickened with a thin floury paste, and tasted even worse. When cajoling did not work to make us eat, Mama threatened us with all kinds of disasters, even the destruction of our building. “Der liebe Gott lasst das Haus einfallen,” she would threaten us. But Willi didn’t believe Mama, he even said to her face, he hated this house and God could destroy it as far as he was concerned.

I was more concerned that Mama would lie to us. And I worried about God. Would a dear God we prayed to for help, be cruel enough to let houses fall on top of people if we didn’t eat beans? That would be so unjust. But after all that had happened, one could never be sure. But perhaps Mama was just worried about us, especially about Willi, who frequently refused to eat even if there was something. He didn’t seem so hungry anymore, and was thinner than me, and more often ill.

Mama went out every day, often for hours, to see if she could buy something to eat, but usually she came back empty-handed.

One day Willi and I heard loud voices, and we sneaked out to look down to the yard. We saw several Russians, which was nothing unusual. They were often here, seeing if there was any­thing they could take, so people said. Or perhaps they were bored. Normally everyone avoided them, but now they were surrounded by women, who were arguing with them. This was unheard off. No one ever dared to talk back to the Russians; it meant risking your life.

My brother and I crept down to the yard to see what was happening. The row was in full swing, with three Russians and many women gathering around them, close to the rubbish bins.

“Throw away,” said a Russian. “Is bad.” He pulled a face, holding his nose. “Throw away.”

“Don’t throw it away,” a chorus of Viennese voices objected. “We eat it.”

The commotion was about tins of contaminated sardines, and eventually the women succeeded in capturing their booty. The Russians shrugged their shoulders and walked off.

It was not only the first time that I saw a fish; I was able to taste it. Tins of sardines. Each time someone opened a tin, tiny white maggots crawled busily in and out and all over the headless small fish.

I, too, was given an open tin, and told to enjoy it.

“Eat it all up Gerti, it’s only Thursday, not Friday,” someone joked. “Today it’s no sin to eat meat.”

Everyone laughed, and I laughed too though I didn’t know why, until Christl tried to explain, that the maggots were the meat which we were not allowed to eat on a Friday because it was a sin. But I still did not understand the sin, and I did not know what meat was. Christl tried her best, it seemed to have something to do with animals, but was so complicated I lost interest and concentrated on the fishes instead, and on the maggots. It all tasted heavenly. We ate here in the yard next to the rubbish, and did not care how bad the smell was. All the tins were shared out. Willi and I took several home and when Mama came empty handed from the shops, she had tears in her eyes. But when I asked her what was wrong, she said she was just happy we had food. And so were we all, and for several days we ate sardines.

And all of my life I would associate sardines with maggots and vice versa.

Then after days of starving, someone came to our door with a food parcel from the Caritas, containing hard cheese, salted butter and lots of cod liver oil. The butter and cheese were soon eaten, but the cod liver oil lasted a long, long time. I quite liked eating it from the spoon, especially if I could have a bite of bread with it, which was sometimes available now. But with the butter long gone, Mama had no fat for cooking, so she used cod liver oil, which smelled terrible as it got hot. Even after the cod liver oil was finished, the smell lingered on in our flat for a long time, covering the other bad smells I had almost got used to.

Days came when there was nothing to eat – nothing at all – not even beans or flour, or cod-liver oil, and although Mama kept going out to see if she could get something, she always returned empty-handed. Nothing was to be had in any shop or anywhere, and we had been hungry for so long. Mama was desperate, she didn’t know what to do, and decided eventually to get away from Vienna, into the country where she said there was food, and if there was no transport, she would walk. Willi and I were too young to come along, and when Lilly came to visit, she had to stay with us. Mama left, taking Christl with her.

I didn’t trust Lilly since the day she had left us, because she might leave us again. And I was right. After two terrible days without any food she was gone too, leaving Willi and me on our own.

Many years later Lilly talked to me about this day.

“Somehow I had to get something to eat for you both, and I hoped Tante Paula would be able to help,” she told me. “I could not take you and Willi along; you would never have managed the long way.”

“Can you imagine, Gerti, how I felt? Mama had already gone two days, and you had been starving even before. You were not yet four and Willi was six. You were so hungry, and I had nothing to give you.”

My sister, my grown-up sister, looked at me with eyes, where the shadows of the past still lingered on.

“I was only fifteen,” she continued. After so many years, she wanted to be sure that I finally understood.

“You were so hungry,” she said again. “There was no help from anywhere – total chaos reigned. I didn’t even know if our mother would ever come back. You never knew what would happen to a woman.”

Even as a small child I knew that women got raped. And though I didn’t know what this meant, I was aware it was terrible, worse than being shot. I also had heard, that the women who tried to defend themselves were brutally beaten, and some were killed. But in the end they were raped, and no one could do anything about it.

But now, as an adult, I finally wanted to know what had happened to Lilly when we were in the cellar. But even now I was afraid to ask and then the opportunity had gone. Lilly’s thoughts had meandered on.

“Lillymama, don’t go away, you cried, over and over again, Gerti,” my sister continued. “You often called me Lillymama; I was like a second mother to you. Until I could no longer live in the Pelzgasse, because …”

I thought she would at last tell me what had happened. Instead, she put a hand over her eyes, as if to shut out painful memories.

“It is so long ago,” she finally said, and sighed deeply. “But do you understand now, why I had to leave you and Willi on your own? You did not understand then. And you never called me Lillymama again.”

She stopped speaking, and we both seemed to go back in time. The distance that had been between us, and the resentment I had vaguely felt towards her for so long, melted away, as I begun to understand what she must have gone through. And love, the pure strong love I had felt for her as a child, was back.

“I had to go,” my sister was still talking, unaware of what was going on inside of me. “Had I not gone, we might all have died. People died of starvation then.”

Lilly had gone across the war-torn city, facing once more the dangers to a young and pretty girl, with the occupying soldiers around claiming anything they wanted. She had made her way to Tante Paula, returning with something to eat. And we survived.

Although the Russians were the first to enter Vienna, subsequently the city was split into four, each quarter occupied by either French, British, American or Russian forces. But none were as feared as the Russians. Yet Lilly found compassion for them now.

“When they first marched into Vienna, they were the same starving poor devils we all were,” she told me. “The large horses pulling their wagons were no better off, they were also exhausted and starving. I saw one of the horses keel over, right there in the street, it could not get up and was dying. But the most terrible thing was that people didn’t see a dying horse, they saw food. They came out into the street, and everyone, Russians and Viennese alike, cut chunks of meat from the dead horse. Fires were lit, pieces of meat held over it on whatever could be found in the debris, and right there on the street we all ate together, friends and enemies alike – our hunger was stronger even than our fear.”

Chapter 3

Rogendorf – Vienna 1945

Mama and Christl did come back, and they brought food: thick slices of bread topped with creamy butter, boiled eggs, and an apple for each child, delicacies I didn’t know existed. When we could eat no more, we had to pack. Next morning we would get up very early, Mama said, and travel to a farm where we’d have enough to eat. The farm belonged to Tante Hilda.

Lilly did not want to come and went back to Tante Paula.

I had never heard of Tante Hilda, and during our journey Christl told us the reason. Actually there were two reasons, one was shame, the other sin. All of it was a secret that we must not tell, Christl insisted, but as it was a family secret, we had to know at some time. But just in case our mother thought we were not old enough, we only talked about all this when she wasn’t listening.

We had to walk a great deal on this journey. Mama would stride ahead and we children followed as best as we could. Twice a lorry stopped and gave us a lift, and once a horse-cart, but mostly we were walking. In between we’d rest in the grass by the side of the road, and Mama usually fell asleep. So we had plenty of opportunities to learn not only about Tante Hilda and the secret, but also about my grandparents, although I knew already a bit from Mama and from Lilly.

I loved my grandparents dearly, especially Oma. My grandfather was only a vague memory. He died when I was so young that I barely remembered him, but Oma I remembered well. I had always felt her love for me, and though I had not seen her for a long time, in my heart she was still with me.

But I remembered her as very old, and had to use all my imagination to picture her as a young country girl going into service, as my sister now described her.

Oma had lived in as small country village in Upper Austria, but she wanted better opportunities than she had there, and came to Vienna to go into service, finding a post with a rich family. One evening, going out with her friend Eva, she met the young man who would one day become our grandfather. He was a Kellermeister, a wine specialist, and socially far superior. Eva advised Oma not to become involved, it could only bring unhappiness, as there could be no marriage. But Oma was in love, and seemed to have been quite adventurous and determined, because she bet her friend that she would get him. She did, but it took some time until they married, and Tante Hilda was born too early. Which was a terrible sin, and very shameful on top of it, so it had to be kept secret.

I didn’t care about the shame or the sin, I was proud of Oma marrying the man of her dreams. But it amazed me that such things had happened to these very old people, although I knew that once they had been young. I could not imagine them as young and fit, and in love. And they must have been strong to cope with poverty, as Opa lost his inheritance because he defied his mother.

His father was dead, and as the only son, our grandfather should have inherited a big farm with vineyards. He and his mother produced and sold a lot of wine, and to prepare him for his future as a wine merchant, Opa had come to Vienna to work as a Kellermeister; a wine expert, employed by top establishments, in charge of the wine they bought.

When my grandparents got married, he lost his inheritance as his mother disapproved of the marriage. But Opa kept his job in Vienna, and so they managed. What happened to the farm and the vineyards, Christl did not know. She only knew they were in Hungary, a separate country now, which had belonged to Austria then.

Because of all the shame and secrecy surrounding Tante Hilda’s birth, she grew up with other people. Later she married a farmer. He had not returned from the war, so the farm belonged now to Tante Hilda.

After a long and tiring journey, we arrived at the farm. It was so beautiful in the country, with green grass everywhere, and flowers, and all sorts of trees. White and brown cows were dotted around here and there, and in a meadow sheep grazed peacefully.

I liked it here, although Tante Hilda was not friendly at all, not even to Willi or me. We were not allowed to call her Tante Hilda, but Bauerin, like all the people working here. It was a name for a woman-farmer. From the beginning it was clear that she wanted nothing to do with us. She said this was a large farm with many other workers, and we would have no special privileges. We were here to work for our food like everyone else. And our work was already waiting.

Mama was a tailoress. After the long years of war everyone on the farm needed clothes, and so all sorts of things were waiting to be mended. Tante Hilda had prepared huge piles of bedding. Some sheets or pillows could be patched, and what had gone too far, would be used as patches. An old sewing machine stood ready for Mama to use.

The next day, some of the farm workers came with their clothes to be mended, or new garments could be made out of the material.

Mama showed Christl how to take the clothes apart, the pieces would be washed and ironed and turned inside out. Avoiding any holes and threadbare places, Mama recut from what there was, to make into new skirts or blouses, even trousers. Whilst she did most of the cutting and machine sewing, Christl helped with all the rest. But she had to work around the house as well, and in the kitchen, and though she complained bitterly to Mama about the amount of washing up and cleaning, she had to do what she was told.

At first Willi looked after the goats, but he always got into trouble because they ran away from him. He told me that he did it on purpose, because he did not want to work. But I was not so sure. He seemed to try hard to bring the goats home from the meadow, but when they ran in the wrong direction, Willi ran after them to bring them back. This made them run faster, and eventually an adult would come to the rescue, shouting at Willi. After several more mishaps with other jobs my brother was left alone to do as he pleased.

I was given his job with the goats, which made me very happy. I loved animals, and they seemed to know what I wanted them to do. One small goat adopted me, and followed me all day long, as I went about all my chores, looking after the geese and hens and collecting the newly laid eggs in my apron to bring to the kitchen.

All day, as long as I was outside, my goat followed me. People stopped to watch, because the small creature jumped as I did, but if I skipped, she tried, and could not do it. Of course I didn’t see this with the goat behind me, but everybody talked and laughed about it. I didn’t mind their laughter, I was so happy. I loved my animal-friend. If I sat down in the grass, she would rub her head on my shoulder, or lay it in my lap so I could stroke her, or scratch her under the chin.

It was beautiful here on the farm, I could run and jump and my new friend shared my joy. In the evening our family went to the wooden hut, where we slept on the floor. The goat had to stay outside. But every morning when I woke, I’d hear her calling me. If she got impatient, we heard the clop-clop of her hooves on the wooden plank outside as she came right up to the door, and stomped with her hoofs. Her plaintive calls grew louder, and became so insistent, Mama would send me out to greet her.

Our hut had a partition in the middle with a door leading to a second room. Here, a group of Russian soldiers who were stationed on the farm, had their bedroom. They needed to go through our room each evening, and in the morning too. Mama had strictly forbidden us to speak with the men, or to have anything to do with them, especially outside, where she could not supervise us.

During the first few days I ran away if one of the Russians was anywhere near. But as they seemed to pose no threat, I soon stopped running, and just ignored them. They tried to speak to me, and to give me small brown squares, which they enjoyed, pulling faces to show how delicious this food was. But I heeded Mama’s words and took nothing.

But I began to doubt these soldiers were evil. And each evening, as I listened to their beautiful songs drifting through the wooden partition, something touched my heart with longing. I missed my father so much. But he did not miss me, so I would not think about him anymore. But those men were here, and clearly liked me. Perhaps Mama was wrong, I thought, listening to their melancholy melodies lulling me to sleep.

They could not be all bad, if they sang like this. They never hurt me and had never been unkind as Tante Hilda was. They laughed when I ran away, but not nastily, like Willi when he teased me. Mama must be mistaken, I decided eventually. Perhaps there were good and bad Russians, and these were the good ones. Finally I was certain, and stopped running away.

I don’t know how I came to be in their room for the first time, I just remember their sad, beautiful songs pulling me like magnets. Mama was very cross when I came back. She shouted at me and slapped my face. She might have hit me again, but the biggest of the Russians, their leader, came into our room and shouted at Mama.

She was so angry that she shouted back at him. But she had gone too far. He was furious. His throat got red, and then his face, his hands balled into fists, ready to attack. Just as I was beginning to be afraid for Mama, he took a deep breath in, put one hand on my head and pointed with his other at his chest:

“Ich, Kind in Russland,” he said.

Then his hand moved from my head to my shoulder. “So gross. Drei Jahre.”

I knew he told us he too had a child, she was three. I think Mama understood now that he would not harm me, and that I would be safe. I was, and Mama never stopped me from joining the Russians in their room again.

After we had finished work and eaten with the other farm workers, Willi and I went back to our hut together with Mama and Christl. Now came the best part of my day: my evening with the Russians. When they entered our hut, my big friend held out his hand to me, and together we followed the other soldiers to their room where we would settle comfortably on the floor, on blankets and pillows. Then we would sing. Sometimes I let them persuade me to sing for them, and was rewarded with grapes and chocolate, treats I had never even seen before. But I would just eat a little, and only because they wanted me to. The bigger part I’d bring back to Mama, who shared it justly between all of us.