Restitution (15 page)

Strange how she wanted to sit here with this eccentric German when she could be lapping up praise from her friends.

Peter von Matke stood. ‘I should let you go back to your admirers,
Fräulein
Maria.’

‘Marie,’ she gave him her hand. ‘Everyone calls me Marie.’

He held her hand for a moment. ‘Next time I’m in Vienna I hope to see you again, Marie.’

Anton nodded a goodnight to the Prussian. ‘Well, well,’ he said when Peter had gone. ‘That’s a conquest. Young von Matke’s had half the girls in Vienna chasing
him.’ His voice sounded tight, as though he had a sore throat.

‘Nonsense.’ Marie suddenly felt as though a headache was coming on. ‘He was just being polite. Where’s the champagne, Anton? And are there any more of those little cheese
pastries? I’m ravenous.’

He gave a slight start at her tone but hurried off to fetch her refreshments. While she waited she saw a familiar figure lope through the door. Viktor – with a bunch of sunflowers.
‘Sunflowers aren’t bourgeois, it’s official.’ He handed them over with one of his rare smiles. Strange how, for all his amusing ways, one so seldom saw Viktor smile or laugh
himself. Perhaps it was the Hungarian in him; they were supposed to be a melancholic race.

‘They’re magnificent. Where did you find them?’ She took the flowers and admired their vivid gold before placing them on the table beside the carved wooden bowl Anton had given
her.

‘This very morning they were growing in a friend’s garden near Szent Marton. Summer goes on a long time there.’

‘You’ve come from Hungary?’

He nodded. Viktor never said very much about his supposed home in the west of the country and showed polite reluctance to provide information about his family. She’d assumed some kind of
tragedy during or after the war. But now it struck her that he’d never actually said he was Hungarian at all. They’d simply assumed it, she and Eva. Perhaps he really came from
somewhere else on the fringes of what had once been Austria-Hungary. Perhaps he had Jewish blood. Sometimes she thought Viktor symbolized all the rootlessness of their generation, young men and
women who could barely remember the days of the old empire and swam in the turbulent, if exhilarating, waters of the new republic. Rootless he might be, but somehow he managed to acquire money.
Last month had been her birthday and he’d given her a silver cigarette case.

She stroked one of the sunflowers. ‘They’ll look wonderful in our blue sitting room. Look, Eva.’ For Eva had come in after Viktor.

‘Lovely.’ Eva’s tone was flat. ‘Where were you last night, Viktor?’

‘I had business.’ Nobody ever understood exactly what kind of business Viktor conducted. Perhaps it wasn’t business at all but more of his politics.

‘Oh.’ Eva said, and turned her back on them to talk to a Matthias someone-or-other who was a friend of Fredi’s. Marie knew she was angry. Why did Viktor have to make it all
such a secret – where he went, even what nationality he was? Marie had once asked him why he was so dismissive of people who claimed pride in being German or Austrian or Hungarian or
whatever. ‘I’ve seen what nationalism does,’ he’d said, a rare flash of emotion in his eyes.

She felt suddenly weary. Viktor was taking up too much of her attention. And she almost felt that she herself was taking up too much of everyone’s attention with this party. No wonder Eva
felt out of sorts. Her time would come, everyone said so. Marie had simply been lucky: she
looked
right as Rosalind. Soon it would be Eva’s turn for parties and flowers. Already there
was talk of her as a Joan of Arc. She had the presence for it, and the face – almost androgynous and stern in its beauty. And as for Maria Weissmüller, well, she would simply have to see
whether her good fortune continued. She shivered.

‘Cold?’ Anton asked.

‘How could I be on such a lovely night?’ She touched his arm. ‘It’s a wonderful party, thank you again for the lovely bowl, Anton.’ He beamed at her, reminding her
again of the little boy who’d charmed extra apple slices from kindergarten assistants.

‘Do you really like it?’

‘You’ve got a talent for wood-turning.’

Anton was so practical, so gifted with his hands. Any woman who married him would never lack for fitted cupboards and shelves. He was Tyrolean through and through in his love of wood.

It was easy to be mesmerized by the Viktor Vargás of the world with their nonchalant charm, but people like Viktor could provide no defence against life’s reversals. Take her own
situation. Maria Weissmüller was essentially stateless. Rumour had it all the German-speaking South Tyroleans, loyal former Austrians, would be encouraged to migrate to Germany. Or stay in
their homes – as Italians.

‘Feeling safe and settled matters most,’ Lena always said. Marie glanced at Viktor and doubted either of those feelings mattered at all to him. But, really, dear Lena, how
old-fashioned she was. She’d refused to come tonight, saying the dressing room needed a good tidying before tomorrow’s performance. Marie hated this mistress-and-servant role-playing.
Lena was her equal, a fellow professional. Her tailoring skills were much in demand among women who liked the latest fashions but couldn’t afford expensive designers.

‘What amuses you?’ Viktor said now.

Marie gave a start. ‘I was thinking about someone.’

‘Not that fine Prussian specimen I hear you were talking to?’

She flushed, annoyed. ‘No, Lena.’

‘A woman who never ceases to amaze me.’

‘Really?’ Marie frowned. She wouldn’t have imagined Lena fascinating a man like Viktor.

He helped himself to a cheese pastry. ‘These are good. Yes, Lena’s one of those who’ll sit by patiently for years judging a situation or a person. Then she’ll jump.
It’ll seem sudden but it won’t be at all.’

‘You’ve only known her a few months.’

‘I’m good at assessing people.’ His eyes were shrewd.

‘How do you assess me?’ She could have kicked herself. Foolish, foolish question.

He glanced down at his plate.

‘Save some of those for me.’ Eva came up, cheeks pink from the champagne. Viktor handed her the salver of pastries and muttered something about finding the waiter so he could top up
their glasses, but not before Marie had seen him glance at Eva, his face, for once, devoid of its neutral expression.

‘Your dress really is lovely.’ Marie noted how the silk clung to Eva’s chest. Nonchalant as he liked to appear, Viktor couldn’t resist Eva. He appeared at the apartment
with boxes of cakes from Gerstner’s which Eva wouldn’t eat because they were so fattening. He bought her roses from the flower market and found her funny old books from the secondhand
dealers.

Anton came back again with a platter of smoked fish on rye bread, looking awkward in his evening dress. He was the kind of male who looked best in shorts and walking boots, striding along an
Alpine track. Indoors he appeared a captive animal. ‘Very becoming,’ he told Eva. How cold he sounded. Surely it couldn’t still be this silly Jewish business? Half Vienna was
Jewish. Even more, in their circle of actors, artists and writers. He’d never make friends with interesting people if he kept up this attitude. She’d stopped inviting him out with them
on Sunday afternoons to
Heuriger
in the Vienna woods. He found it so hard to relax and enjoy the conversation and wine. Anton had no interest in discussions about the subconscious or music
or the position of women in the arts.

And yet . . . Marie looked at his broad shoulders and remembered him rowing her out on the lake at home or picking her up off the snow when she’d fallen while skiing. Or that time
he’d skated with her and they’d gone so fast she’d screamed at him to slow down but he wouldn’t. A warm sensation ran through her abdomen and towards the top of her legs,
just remembering it. ‘Heard anything from the timber company?’ She was careful to keep her voice neutral. He’d applied for so many jobs without success.

Anton examined his fingers. ‘The job interview was last week. Forty applicants, they said.’

‘None with your knowledge.’ How fierce she sounded. He seemed to glow at her words.

Viktor came back with the bottle of champagne. ‘The waiter seems to have grown invisible. Let me top you up, Maria.’ Like Anton he called her by her full name, saying Marie was a
name for a French maid. He still used
Sie
when addressing her, as well. These socialists could be awfully proper.

Eva moved closer to Viktor, slipping a hand through his arm and resting her head on his shoulder for a moment. Daring, like caressing one of the lions at the zoo. Viktor placed his free hand
over Eva’s and stroked her fingers. Marie blushed. Too hot in here. Too much champagne. Too much of everything. She turned away from the others and pretended to admire her sunflowers.

‘Only me.’ Peter von Matke stood beside her again with an apologetic grin. ‘Forgot my clock. Here she is.’ He picked his parcel up from the chair. ‘Couldn’t
bear to lose her.’

‘Are clocks female?’ She felt refreshed at the sight of the young German.

‘Mine are.’

She supposed they were flirting but it didn’t feel like it. He was too straightforward.

‘Have dinner with me.’

Such an informal way for a Prussian to phrase it! She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Now?’

‘You’ve probably got better things to do,’ he said. He’d take her out of this stuffy room with its empty champagne bottles, away from Viktor and Eva’s enigmatic
silences and from Anton with his stubborn pride.

‘Let me find my wrap and say a few goodbyes.’ It was probably rude to leave her own party while guests still remained. She glanced round the restaurant. Eva had moved away and was
now chatting to the young Berliner called Matthias. She was smoking a cigarette in one of those long holders she favoured, looking cool and self-possessed. Anton was talking seriously with a group
of men in faded smoking jackets. She knew it was politics because of the way the side of his hand intermittently struck the table to punctuate his words. Viktor was nowhere to be seen.

Alix

Pomerania, February 1945

We can’t always stay at home,
Mami had told Alix on the morning after the terrible dinner party. How heavy Alix’s heart had felt at the words. Yet now she
would have done anything to escape from this house, even if it meant a night in the snowy forest. Nowhere else on earth could fill her with the same sense of imminent violence as this kitchen.

Preizler was watching her over the kitchen table. ‘You may as well rest, Alix, while it’s quiet.’

She picked up her rucksack and coat and left the kitchen without a backwards look, ignoring her mother’s imploring
Gute Nacht.
In her bedroom she locked the door and sat on the
bed.

A light step on the landing told her Mami was coming to bed, too. She paused outside Alix’s door and knocked. Alix said nothing. Perhaps Mami would think she was already asleep.
‘Gute Nacht, Liebling,’
Mami said, her voice shaking. ‘We’ll talk in the morning when we’ve had some rest.’

Alix clutched the edge of the quilt and forced herself not to answer.

Twenty minutes passed. Preizler stumbled upstairs and across the landing. His footsteps sounded uneven, drunken, as though he were attempting some complicated dance routine. Maybe he’d
found Papi’s cognac. If so there was still a chance of escape.

He knocked on Mami’s door. Alix took a deep breath.
Don’t let him in.
She ran to her own door and put her ear to it.

‘Marie?’ he hissed.

A click as the door opened.

‘I feel strange,’ Preizler said, the words loud and slurred. ‘Dizzy. Can I lie down?’

The sound of the door closing. Silence. Alix tried to block her imagination from picturing the scene in Mami’s room with its Toile de Jouy wallpaper and thick wool carpet.

She took her torch out of her rucksack and went to the door of her bedroom, listening for Preizler. Nothing. Alix turned the door handle, willing the door to open without a creak. As she crept
across the landing she felt herself spinning back through time to the night six years ago when she’d slipped downstairs to release Gregor from the cellar. Preizler had caught them that time:
caught them and let them go. Not this time.

Pausing frequently to listen for signs of movement she edged her way through the dark house to the cellar, unbolting it slowly and carefully and waiting until she was inside before switching on
her torch. Its beam flashed on Gregor’s eyes.

‘Hello.’ He seemed to be attempting a grin.

‘Are you all right? You must be frozen.’ She wanted to throw her arms around him and warm him but caution told her to hurry as she released him. ‘We should both leave this
house now.’ She sounded curt. ‘I’ll take this.’ She’d spotted an old hunting knife of Papi’s sitting on the table beside the old clocks. ‘It’s better
than nothing.’

‘The storm’s even fiercer now,’ Gregor said. ‘Listen.’ They heard the wind pounding the shuttered windows. ‘We wouldn’t get far out there.’

‘But Preizler . . .’

‘I saw your mother give him sleeping tablets when he wasn’t looking. She dropped them into his coffee.’

More of those sleeping tablets. Mami must have been hoarding them for years.

‘Suppose he wakes up?’

‘He won’t – not with that many pills in him.’ He looked at the cut lengths of rope on the cellar floor. ‘These may be useful, too.’ Just as they had as
children, they crept upstairs, stopping frequently to listen out for the sound of a creaking boot, but there was nothing. They sat on her bed, hands almost touching on the white quilt. Alix’s
skin tingled. ‘Preizler must still be out cold,’ Gregor whispered. ‘We need to immobilize him.’

The thought of being in the same room as Preizler again made Alix shake. Gregor put an arm around her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t harm you. Stay
here.’

He got up. ‘Give me the rope and knife.’

‘No.’ She clutched his arm. Better to face that man – and Mami – than to sit here alone waiting, wondering what was happening.