The Royal Librarian, page 5
‘Leave this for the moment.’ Lacey rubbed her grandma’s back, feeling every knobbly vertebra. ‘Come downstairs and I’ll make you some coffee.’
‘I’m in a muddle,’ Gubby said, twisting the tissue in her fingers, ‘and I can’t seem to get out of it.’
‘Talk to me. I’m sure we can sort this all out.’
Gubby gave a great despairing sigh. ‘It’s too late for that. I can’t tell anyone, not now. You’d hate me if you knew.’
Lacey held her close again. ‘You’re the best grandma in the world. We all love you to pieces and nothing you could possibly say will ever change that. Something’s upsetting you, Grandma, and you need to get it off your chest. Secrets are toxic.’
Gubby’s fingers gripped her arm so tightly that she winced. ‘Do you swear not to tell Adele? She can’t know, not yet. Maybe after I’m gone.’
Lacey nodded. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Gubby took a deep breath. ‘All right, perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve lived with this for long enough.’
She talked haltingly at first, pausing to search for the right words and only gradually gaining confidence. Lacey daren’t interrupt, although she had a thousand questions. She listened spellbound as the extraordinary story of her grandmother’s childhood, thousands of miles away in another country, spilled out into the quiet room.
Chapter Six
Vienna, April 1938
‘Why shouldn’t we go to the amusement park?’ Hanna kicked her feet against a chair under the table, sending the cat Felix running for safety. ‘We always go to the Prater on my birthday.’
‘This year is different,’ her mother replied tartly. ‘You can invite Gretel round for tea later and maybe Sophie will take you both for ice cream.’
‘Gretel’s not allowed to play with me anymore,’ Hanna muttered. ‘Why is everything so horrible now?’ she burst out. ‘And why must we stay home all the time? I hate this stupid apartment!’
Herr Klein stood up, clearing his throat. ‘Hanna’s right, a trip to the Prater is an important birthday tradition and one we should maintain. Ingrid, fetch your hat and coat.’
Sophie and her mother exchanged glances, startled by a tone in Otto’s voice they hadn’t heard for weeks.
Hanna’s expression changed instantly. ‘Hooray! Thank you, Papa.’ She threw her arms around him and he lifted her high in the air.
‘My goodness, such a big girl of nine. I shan’t be able to do this next year.’
Next year, Sophie thought. Where will we be then?
‘Are you sure, Otto?’ Frau Klein asked, untying her apron. ‘Then I must change into my best clothes.’
‘Absolutely. Sophie, you must come, too. The whole family will go on an outing!’
So, in due course, off they went. This expedition felt very different from those of previous years: Sophie and her mother were tense, watchful, while Hanna chattered with an almost hysterical gaiety, swinging her father’s hand. Otto walked with his head down and his hat pulled low. He must have noticed how much the city had changed in the last few weeks. The Austrian police now wore swastika armbands over their dark greatcoats, German soldiers stood guard outside official buildings and swastikas hung from every flagpole. The word Jüde had been daubed in crude letters on walls and pavements outside Jewish businesses – shuttered, or with their windows smashed, and ‘soon to be reopened under new ownership’, according to notices pasted on doors. Hitler had gone back to Berlin where he’d been greeted as a hero, according to the newspapers, and the country he’d left behind had adopted his ideas with enthusiasm. Antisemitism had become a mania.
Otto Klein paused for a moment to gaze down the wide streets towards the National Library. Sophie could remember the first time he’d taken her there to see the Bronze Age papyri and clay tablets. The library didn’t merely contain books: it housed a collection of maps, globes, prints, medieval manuscripts and thousands of other extraordinary artefacts which showed mankind’s earliest desire to record and communicate.
‘Look, Sophie,’ he’d said, lifting her up to the case. ‘Can you imagine someone pressing a reed into wet clay to make those marks, over five thousand years ago?’
And Sophie had stared, mesmerised, as he talked to her about ancient civilisations that were in many ways as sophisticated as their own. The building itself was miraculous, too. She stood in the centre of the State Hall and gazed upward, past marble and mahogany pillars dripping with gold, statues of princes and painters and shelves of leatherbound books, up and up into the painted and gilded dome that soared far above her head like a vision of heaven itself. Surely her father must be some sort of hero to work in a place like this. He was certainly her hero. Hanna had a special bond with her mother, whereas Sophie had always been a daddy’s girl. ‘Heads in the clouds, the pair of you,’ her mother used to grumble. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d forget to eat and put clothes on your back.’
Sophie loved her father’s patience, his deep chuckle, the joy he took in simple pleasures like a walk through fresh snow or the perfect apple strudel, his appreciation of art, music and books. Books, above all. He’d been ill with rheumatic fever as a child, which had meant long hours convalescing by himself, reading and making up stories, and the habit had held. Most walls of the family’s apartment were lined with bookshelves, and more volumes were stacked in boxes under every bed and table. Her mother often threatened to throw them out with the rubbish, and any new titles had to be added to the collection secretly when she was at work. ‘Those wretched things are the bane of my life,’ Ingrid would complain. ‘All they do is gather dust and take up space.’ Yet she was proud of her husband’s knowledge and intellect, anyone could tell. They were the perfect match: clever Otto free to spend hours working and dreaming because of his practical, resourceful wife.
‘I was a lonely little boy,’ her father had told Sophie once, ‘but look how lucky I am now. You see, it all came right in the end.’
Now Sophie slipped her arm through Otto’s. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. They’ll soon realise the library can’t run without you.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps I should learn to make pastry and ask for a job in your mother’s shop.’ He smiled and ruffled her hair and, just for a second, Sophie allowed herself to hope that things might somehow come right again.
They joined other families strolling towards the park entrance in the gusty spring sunshine. The giant Ferris wheel, the Riesenrad, turned so slowly it hardly appeared to move, its red carriages rocking a little in the breeze. From the top, you could see far over the city: across the canal to St Stephen’s Cathedral, the Hofburg Palace and Heroes’ Square, where Hitler had made his triumphant speech the month before. Sophie had been born in Vienna and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, but now its heartless beauty taunted her. She already felt like an outsider.
‘Quick, there’s not much of a queue!’ Hanna broke away and began to run.
It must have been the noise that first alerted Sophie: a low, ominous rumble interspersed with small chirrups of excitement. She might also have sensed a change in the atmosphere, as though invisible violin strings were being tightened before the bow came flashing down.
‘Hanna, get back here,’ she called, her voice thin with fear.
Officers in SS uniforms armed with batons and whips were moving through the crowd of Viennese in their weekend finery, searching for some unidentified quarry. They separated a few men from their families who stumbled together in a frightened herd towards the park lawns as the stormtroopers shouted and brandished their weapons. Mothers gathered their children and somebody gave a nervous laugh. ‘Heil!’ shouted a spotty youth in the crowd, raising his arm in salute, and a straggly chorus of ‘Heil! Heil!’ rose up, briefly gathering momentum before petering away into embarrassed silence. People were waiting to see what would happen next. There were maybe ten or twelve Nazis with one obvious ringleader: a strutting beast of a man, bull-necked and ginger-haired with a wet, roaring mouth and mean little eyes. He attracted everyone’s attention and revelled in it, thwacking the baton against his meaty palm.
Otto hesitated, glancing behind; Sophie and her mother moved to stand one on each side of him, and Hanna ran up to take his hand. Their neighbours drew away, sensing trouble, and the Klein family found themselves isolated on the path.
‘You!’ The ginger-haired man approached and stood very close to Otto, staring into his face. ‘Bist du Jüde? Are you a Jew?’
Flecks of spittle landed on Otto’s cheek but he didn’t flinch. He stood very still, dropping Hanna’s hand and clasping his own together. ‘My name is Otto Klein,’ he said calmly. ‘I am an employee of the National Library of Vienna and fought for my country in the war.’
‘That’s not what I asked!’ the German shouted. ‘Are you a Jew? Don’t bother lying – we’ll take down your pants to find out.’
Another guffaw came from the circle of onlookers. A woman holding a fat pug pushed to the front, craning to watch as she stroked the dog with varnished fingernails. Sophie was rooted to the spot, transfixed with fear and shame.
‘I think there’s been some mistake, Officer.’ Ingrid Klein stepped forward. ‘We are not a Jewish family. I am Catholic and my daughters have—’
‘I don’t care about you.’ The SS officer prodded Herr Klein in the chest. ‘For the third and last time, are you a Jew?’
Sophie held her breath. Her father looked across at her – why, she didn’t know, and nor could she read his expression – then turned back to the German. She half-hoped he would lie, half-dreaded he might. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said calmly.
The man raised his baton and whacked Otto on the back: a casual blow. ‘About time. Get over there with the others, and quick about it.’
‘Why?’ Frau Klein stood in his way. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ll see,’ the German replied. Another SS officer approached, armed with a whip, and chivvied Otto Klein towards the small group of men standing on the grass.
‘Now run, you miserable creatures!’ yelled the red-headed man. ‘Run as if your life depended on it.’
The Jewish men looked at him and then each other. ‘But where are we to go?’ one asked, spreading his hands with a shrug.
‘Round the park!’ And the officer slashed him across the face, leaving a bright trail of blood. ‘Run till you drop, Jüdenbrut, and give us all a laugh.’ And he set about striking as many of the men as he could reach, as though he were possessed.
Sophie stared in horror as the motley group set off, their coats flapping. A few were Orthodox Jews with hats and side locks; most, like her father, were indistinguishable by their clothing from the people who watched so avidly. A couple of Nazis jogged alongside them, whipping the legs of those who fell behind.
‘Did you ever see such a thing?’ said a young woman, nudging her friend and giggling. ‘They look like scarecrows come to life.’
The ginger-haired man smiled with satisfaction, thumping his baton into his hand again.
Ingrid Klein approached him. ‘My husband has a weak heart. He shouldn’t be made to run like this, it’s dangerous.’
‘Nonsense. The exercise will do him good.’ The man smirked at his audience, drawing a smattering of applause. A couple of boys imitated the running men, their knees pressed together and feet splayed out, and people laughed and clapped for them, too. Spirits rose among the onlookers, who jeered and catcalled as they looked around for further victims. They soon found them. Other Jews were being rounded up, and emboldened by their success, the Nazis became more inventive in their schemes for humiliation. A group of Jewish men were stripped naked and forced to kneel on all fours and eat grass while the crowd bayed and howled. Sophie turned away from their thin, bare shanks and covered Hanna’s eyes.
‘Serve them right, the filthy animals,’ shouted an elderly man, waving his walking stick in the air. ‘Jews shouldn’t be allowed in the Prater anyway.’
The red-headed stormtrooper prowled to and fro, grinning. A woman with her hair bundled up in a headscarf dropped to her knees in front of him. ‘For pity’s sake! My father can barely walk, let alone run.’
‘He just needs a little encouragement.’ The man dragged her up by the hair and sent her stumbling towards a nearby tree. ‘Now climb up there and sing like a bird.’
‘I-I beg your pardon?’ she stammered.
‘You heard me!’ He slapped her across both cheeks. ‘Get up that tree and pretend to be a crow, or a pigeon, or whatever else you fancy. Here, I’ll get you started.’
And he thrust her into the lowermost branches, to the joy of his audience who began cawing and hooting themselves. More women were hoisted into trees and their thin, mortified voices brought shouts of delight from the onlookers. Forget the Riesenrad: here was better entertainment down on the ground. Meanwhile the men tottered and lurched over the grass, some clearly in distress, while children chased them, taunting.
Sophie gazed from one surreal scene to another, scarcely able to believe what she saw. Surely any minute now she’d wake up.
‘Make them stop!’ Hanna whispered, tugging her arm.
Sophie turned to the nearest officer and asked, ‘Why are you doing this? What is the point of it all?’ But he merely stared at her without bothering to reply, his eyes cold as frosted glass.
She had lost track of her father by now; the running men on their endless loop had been joined by others, with various groups intermingling and stragglers bringing up the rear. A tall figure who might have been Otto was staggering near the back, weaving as though he were drunk.
Her mother stepped forward. ‘Please stop this charade, I beg you,’ she said to the red-headed man, her voice clear and strong. ‘People will die.’
‘But we’re having so much fun. You’d better pipe down before I send you up a tree as well.’ And he grinned, prodding her in the stomach with his baton.
‘Mutti!’ Sophie clutched her mother’s arm and pointed. The tall man she now felt sure was her father had fallen and was lying still, while an SS officer struck him with a baton. Handing Hanna into her mother’s care, Sophie took off, flying across the grass with her hair streaming out behind her. A man was kneeling to vomit and others she passed were wheezing and clutching their sides as they lurched along, but she couldn’t stop to help. Drawing nearer, she saw the prone man was indeed Otto: lying on his back with his head to one side and his legs bent at a strange angle. The stormtrooper stood beside him, hands on his hips, breathing hard.
‘Papa!’ Dropping to the grass, Sophie put her arm under his neck to raise his head. ‘Can you hear me? It’s all right, I’m here.’
His face in the crook of her elbow was bruised and bloody, and his lips had a bluish tinge. His chest didn’t seem to be moving. Should she feel for a pulse? Try to resuscitate him?
Suddenly her mother was beside her, scooping up Otto and pressing his cheek against hers as she rocked back and forth. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she cried. ‘What have they done to you?’ Hanna followed a few paces behind, wide-eyed with fear.
Sophie sprang to her feet and launched herself at the SS officer, who gave her such a clout with his truncheon that she fell back on the grass.
‘Clear off, the lot of you,’ he growled. ‘Troublemakers!’
Frau Klein stood, her eyes glittering. ‘My husband needs an ambulance immediately.’
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ the man grunted. ‘Wasn’t in great shape, was he? I reckon we’ve done you a favour.’
Ingrid confronted him without the slightest trace of fear. ‘You aren’t fit to wipe the dirt off his shoes,’ she said, then sucked in her cheeks and spat full in the German’s face.
He stared at her, incredulous, wiping the spittle off his chin before twisting her arm behind her back and thrusting her ahead of him. ‘Now you’ve done it, Jew lover. Say goodbye to your daughters – you won’t be seeing them for a while.’
Frau Klein turned to the girls. Sophie had never seen her mother look so brave and beautiful in the white blouse and dirndl she wore for special occasions: as though she were a symbol of the old Austria, whose time had gone and would never come again. ‘Look after Hanna for me,’ she told Sophie calmly. ‘And take care of yourself, my darling.’
Sophie couldn’t reply for the lump in her throat and the crushing weight in her chest, so she merely nodded. Ingrid nodded in return and the Nazi led her off, shoving her along so that she stumbled and whacking the backs of her legs with his baton.
Sophie knelt beside her father, dashing away her tears. She kissed his clammy cheek and closed his beloved eyes, straightened his legs and crossed his hands over his chest. He looked noble now, like an effigy on a tomb. One of the running men slowed down as he tottered towards them, sweating under a fur-trimmed hat, then dropped to his knees and began to pray in a language she didn’t understand.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t need you to do this. Please don’t trouble yourself.’
The man ignored her and carried on chanting, so she struggled to her feet and grabbed Hanna by the hand, leaving him to it. What did it matter? Her father was dead so he wouldn’t care. ‘Come,’ she told her sister. ‘We’d better go home.’
Hanna pulled away. ‘We can’t leave Papa here!’ She took a few steps towards his body.
‘You should go,’ said a nearby policeman; an Austrian, they could tell from his accent. ‘No point hanging around. I’ll see your father gets taken to the mortuary.’ As though he were doing them a favour.
Why didn’t you do something? Sophie felt like asking, but she hadn’t the energy and anyway, there wasn’t much point.
The afternoon’s hysteria had now given way to a curious apathy. People had begun drifting away from the scene in twos and threes, apparently bored with this momentary diversion. Most of the Jewish men had collapsed but a few were still shuffling over the grass while the SS officers watched and chatted amongst themselves, occasionally shouting some half-hearted insult. Those who’d been stripped naked huddled together, their faces smeared with soil, and the bird women in the trees had fallen silent – apart from one, whose voice rose in a thin wail, her legs in button boots dangling down from the branches like wizened fruit.
