Evening of the Good Samaritan (20 page)

It might very well have been a natural gesture with him, but Martha got the distinct feeling of being given the treatment saved for unescorted American ladies. The whole blessed staff of the hotel was standing at attention, benevolent to the last smiling face of them. Her mother had assumed her regal air: it made her seem a little above everything that was going on about her. Martha was tempted to laugh.

“I understand you play the piano,” Dr. Reiss said to Elizabeth. “It is too bad the season is not musical.”

Elizabeth said, smiling, “You are at a great advantage over us, Dr. Reiss, we know so little about you.”

“A tremendous advantage,” Reiss said. “My automobile is outside.” To Martha he said, “And you are the very dear friend of Doctor Hogan who is the son … of the friend of Doctor Mueller!”

“We’ve come a long way to avail ourselves of your kindness, doctor,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said.

“Who knows? The way things are today, I may have to do the same thing—only a little faster, perhaps. Who knows?”

Martha could not escape, as the evening wore on, making comparisons between Dr. Reiss and Marcus. It was foolish—they were continents apart in many ways. Reiss was successful, she supposed, wealthy surely; but he simply did not seem like a doctor to her at all. They drove circuitously to a height beyond the city to dine, Dr. Reiss pointing out monuments and palaces, parks and museums on the way, where someone died, where someone else was crowned king. Martha had always been weak in history. They seemed not to pass a hospital.

“Vienna,” he said, “is a city—like a beautiful woman—you want to stand back sometimes and admire. I love to show her off to people coming for the first time.”

“Then you are a native-born, doctor?” Elizabeth said.

“No, no. Perhaps that is why I am patriotic. I was a poor boy from a small village, and I had a patron who was very good to me—a patron and patroness—is that what you call them?”

“Your English is excellent, doctor.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said.

He shrugged. “I am very fortunate. It is a fairy tale—if you believe in them. I do.”

“I expect you’re being modest.”

“No, I am not. Oh, I am a very good surgeon. Make no mistake about that.”

“That’s what Doctor Mueller said,” Martha put in.

“How is my friend? All those children. He is a fat man—I have a theory about it. Are you interested in the Olympic events?”

They never did get to hear about his theory. Nor did he seem especially interested in his friend Mueller. He was very keen on sports, and much regretted not being able to go to Berlin himself.

“Because of the Nazis, doctor?” Martha ventured.

“No, no, no. I have another obligation. That is very much exaggerated in my opinion. But I am wrong, they say. I am not political, you see. But we are always being told about the Nazis, you see, because in this country—unlike France—the Socialists and the Communists are being kept where they will not make trouble. But they try. Always the agitation. The Nazis are coming. Hitler wants Austria. But, as I say, I am not political. There is a story I heard today. May I tell you?”

Both women nodded.

“I do not think Austria is going to send any great athletes to Berlin. But one classification where we may excel—the Austrians are great weight-lifters, and here is the story: Who is the greatest weight-lifter of them all? That is the question, and the answer: Doctor Von Schuschnigg, who has just lifted Germany off Austria’s back.”

He had leaned forward to tell the story and now sat back and accepted the wine list. They were sitting on the restaurant terrace and far below them, beyond a forest of tree tops, a ribbon of water, they could see jewels of light come up in the city as the twilight faded. Wisps of cloud trailed round the highest church steeples. Dr. Reiss pointed out St. Stephen’s. Within the restaurant a string orchestra played the waltzes Martha had expected.

“You like to dance, Miss Martha, I can see,” Dr. Reiss said. He had strong, even teeth, especially white in contrast to his sunburned face.

“So does mother.”

Reiss smiled and ordered the wine.

“May I recommend the
pate,
Mrs. Fitzgerald? It goes very nicely with the wine I have chosen. But perhaps you do not like
pate?
Some Americans do not.”

The
pâté
was ordered.

“I am told that when the present King of England visited Vienna, they sent for this same
pâté
for him. His namesake uncle was a connoisseur and someone remembered. That is very like Vienna. Always they remember. I don’t suppose you have ever met the American friend, Mrs. Simpson?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elizabeth said gravely, and without looking at Martha.

“She is an attractive woman, I will tell you. But most American women are. It is all very sad about them so much in love—and more important than some things. But I don’t suppose, being Americans, you think so?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elizabeth said again.

“Oh,” Reiss said, smiling so that there was a little self-mockery in his words: “You are
so
political! May I ask your daughter to dance with me?”

Elizabeth watched them and she would continue to watch them if they were to be very much together. She found herself wondering if Nathan Reiss was a good surgeon, or if he was simply a good lover, an oddly satisfying speculation for her. So many things seemed long ago. Distance was much better than time, and there was a great deal more of distance than of time at one’s disposal when she had reached the age of forty-four.

It was after midnight when they returned to the hotel. Dr. Reiss inquired if he might call them in the morning. “I want to send something that will not burden you to Doctor Mueller.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you could come to us for tea or a drink?”

“Alas, I cannot. But I have an idea—would you like to see the arrival of the Olympic torch in Vienna? About sunset, I think! I shall arrange it.”

And he left them with a very gay
“Auf wiedersehen.”

Upstairs, looking at her mother in the dressing table mirror, Martha said, “Do you like him, mother?”

Elizabeth looked up. “I should be ashamed of myself to admit it—but I do. Your father—and most American men—are so earnest. I know Marcus has a marvelous sense of humor—you’ve said it many times—but even he can’t have that audacious frivolity women insist on thinking gallant.”

Martha said, “He’s going to be in Paris at Christmas time. I wonder if I shall see him.”

“No doubt,” Elizabeth said dryly. This was something that had not been in her calculations quite, although she had known he spent time in Paris. She wondered if it were accidental that mention of it had come up when they were dancing, not when they were at the table.

“Do you really think so? And just tonight you were wishing I’d have the chance to go among Parisian society. Remember? I’m sure he’s very well received. Don’t you think?”

“Very.”

Martha braided her hair in silence for a moment. “You don’t trust Doctor Reiss, do you, mother?”

Elizabeth looked at her frankly. “I trust you, Martha. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

“I must write to Marcus. I wonder if he’ll be jealous—a little? I shall have to tell him about Doctor Reiss—so that he can tell Doctor Mueller. I suppose not, since you were there all the time.”

“I was just thinking about what I should write your father. I hate to send him another menu. And I doubt he’d find Doctor Reiss amusing. He would probably cable us to get right back on the tour.”

“He’s much more your type than mine, really,” Martha said.

“Doctor Reiss?”

Martha nodded.

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“Oh, he’s …” Martha hesitated and the color rose in her face. “He’s sophisticated,” she finished, not having meant to say that at all.

“But he’s not sophisticated, Martha, not in our sense of the word. Worldly, perhaps. I suspect he’s a very shallow man, and I don’t doubt, very spoiled all his life by older women.” Elizabeth looked around sharply. “Is that what you meant?”

Martha’s cheeks were a sudden and lovely pink.

“Oh, you vixen!” Elizabeth cried, and laughed aloud. After a moment she said, “Actually, that was perceptive of you, Martha. He will be an interesting man to observe—especially if it turns out that he is a good doctor.”

Their hotel was a short distance from the Heldenplatz and a crowd was already gathering when Dr. Reiss met them. He had reserved a place for them for dinner afterwards at the most famous restaurant in Austria—within walking distance. It was a clear blue evening, with ever so little mist hanging above the Danube and gradually sifting over the city. The excitement of the hurrying people set Martha tingling. Dr. Reiss was like a small boy himself, eager, excited, even now and then standing on tiptoe the better to see over and about men taller and broader than himself. He behaved as though all the good places would be gone if they did not make haste.

“I am a very fine swimmer, you know,” he said with engaging immodesty.

“Heldenplatz,” Martha said, “that means hero’s place, doesn’t it? I like the sound of it.”

“It gives one a thrill—eh?” Reiss said. He took her arm because someone brushed against her—not rudely, inevitably, because the park was filling up as though people were tumbling into it from all directions. “I did not think there would be so many people. Not in all Vienna.” Again he stood on tiptoe, scanning the far reaches of the park. Martha and Elizabeth looked also. People everywhere, laughing, hurrying in toward them, past them, surrounding them. “Perhaps we should have stayed on the boulevard. We could not have seen very much, but there will be loudspeakers. Ach, but you do not know the language.”

“It doesn’t matter really,” Elizabeth said.

“You are not frightened?”

This he said to Martha, and she had not been until the moment he said it. She said that she was not.

“Let us try and get back a distance, doctor,” Elizabeth said, for now they were being gradually carried forward and not of their own wills. “At this rate, we shall be among the speakers soon.”

“That would not be so bad,” Reiss said, and tried to hold back and open a way for them to move out. He kept excusing himself to the people, who only laughed at him—or with him. They were very gay. He could make no more vent in the wall than if the forward line of humanity had linked arms to bar him. He prodded toward the side, but to no avail, Martha and her mother at his back with each probe. Elizabeth herself tried to open a way in the other direction. It was impossible. But everyone was smiling. No one seemed distressed or fearful. At any little opening the crowd surged in, slowly heaving forward like a great mound of dough. People no longer brushed, but rubbed against them, laughing still, and with every sway of the crowd, the women gurgled in rich mirth; some squealed with pleasure. There was the smell of wine and beer on their breaths, of bread, onions; there were perfumes made pungent by the warmth of the body, and there was the smell of sweat. Dr. Reiss smiled at Martha and, twisting his head to see around her, he said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Fitzgerald. Who could know this would happen?”

“A very athletic people,” Elizabeth said tartly.

A murmur ran through the crowd, part whisper as though with questioning in it. Everyone stretched and strained for sight of something outside the core he was part of. The torch-bearer might be arriving, for he was due at dusk, Reiss suggested. Officials were on the platform, the loudspeakers being tested. Then came the sound of a beat, a one-two rhythm, as from the furthest edge of the throng, a sparse, thin sound of distant chanting slowly becoming louder and finally articulate, as the crowd was momentarily hushed. Then voices within the crowd picked it up, men and women at their backs, and soon the very night was rocking with it:

“Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!
…”

Martha, looking at Dr. Reiss, saw him at the instant of comprehension: he was stunned, hurt, disappointed beyond speech.

Elizabeth felt the sickening grow within her from the first hushed rhythm which she understood until she was nearly retching at the high cries thick in the lusty throats of the men and boys nearby her. Her first association held: the rhythm was that of sexual overture, becoming more and more imperative, the pound, the drive, the thrust, the strike, all whirling into an orgiastic spiral … She could feel the splash of spittle on her cheek with every
“Sieg”
of the man behind her. “Let us go, for God’s sake,” she said.

“Please be patient for my sake,” Reiss said, understanding, although neither of them could hear the other’s words, and he reached a hand across to her that was cold with fear.

The chant broke suddenly, another cry bursting boldly through and almost instantly predominant:

“Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler …”

An official on the platform was waving his arms; he gestured vainly for silence and then, at last, in sheer frustration, shook his fists at the sky. The words came over the loudspeakers:
“Polizei! Polizei! Weiter gehen!”

Wherever the police were, they were apparently at ease. Here and there within the crowd, a woman shrieked out as if in ecstasy, and the high, shrill voices of the females began chorusing even louder than the men:

“Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!…”

But this is Austria, not Germany, and these are Austrians, not Germans.

Martha felt her mother’s arm around her, hard and firm, protective. “I’m not afraid, mother,” she shouted.

Elizabeth said into her ear, “I am, and so is Doctor Reiss.”

In the fast-fading twilight, Martha glimpsed his face. He made no sound, but his lips were parted, and the play of his tongue told that silently he was repeating the words as the crowd prescribed them.

The torch-bearer came from the south then at last, bearing the torch high. Though the flame was fitful and small, it was nonetheless sufficient to start a roar from the crowd that mercifully drowned out the
Heil Hitler’s.
Music then blasted over the loudspeakers; Dr. Reiss put his hand to his breast instinctively. It was the Austrian National Anthem.