CHAPTER 4

VIENNA 1926

Over the next few years life moves along with its own momentum, seasons following one another with birthdays to punctuate the years flicking by. There is school to attend, music lessons, and in the winter, our favourite pastime of skiing. Not far from Vienna stand the softly rolling mountains which I love, Kobenzl, Kahlenberg, and Schneeberg. I think of them as stately giants, solid forms planted forever on the earth, faithful and enduring, their soaring peaks rising into the clouds. Whenever we go skiing I look up and think again of Papa floating somewhere between the sky and the snow. I feel the comfort and protection of his arms again whenever I gaze up where the blue and white meet, and I imagine that that is where Heaven begins.

A new normalcy has replaced the one that we knew before Papa died. Sundays are special because the stores are closed and Mama is home. This is also a day for family visits, and we are often invaded by a troupe of relatives. From the kitchen drifts the aromatic delicacy of apple strudel, cinnamon-laced and buttery, baking to golden crispness. Sweet and tart apricot dumplings bubble in the pot. The bitter delight of coffee brews on the stove amid the frenzied anticipation of visitors arriving for the afternoon feast. We children must prepare by dressing in our most uncomfortable clothes, polished shoes that pinch at the toes and high-necked dresses that are buttoned all the way up the back. We practise our greetings and must remember to address each one correctly by name so that no one will be offended.

These meetings are a daunting ordeal filled with rules and protocol that are not to be ignored. We are warned especially not to contradict any of our elders, for if we do there will be consequences too dire to contemplate. At even the slightest provocation, they react without hesitation with flurries of inflamed indignation. Like a barnyard full of chickens, feathers flying in all directions, flapping in outrage, they squawk and cluck their disapproval. Faces grow red and puffy as they scowl without mercy. Trying helplessly to repress our giggles, we poke and elbow one another, and soon are sputtering with exploding laughter despite ourselves. The elders will not endure this ridicule without rebuke.

One of the most unbearable transgressions is that of neglecting to offer immediate and appropriate greetings such as “A kiss on the hand, noble lady,” a formal expression of respect that always makes us cringe in discomfort from its archaic oddity. If we are distracted momentarily or are forgetful, one of us might walk into the room without the proper salutation. Then the outrage is certain to begin. “Look how she enters the room like a cow, without even a ‘moo’ to us. What impertinence!” blurts one of the aunties.

“Such a fresh brat. Are there no manners left in this household?” agrees the next.

On these occasions, Mama is disappointed with our behaviour and insists that an apology be offered, and before long we find ourselves outside the parlour so as not to further upset the precarious civility that has been disturbed. After many such encounters, our manners become somewhat tamed and we commit fewer transgressions. Willi and I, as the youngest, still find ourselves ousted for our mistakes, but Erna and Stella are considered to be young ladies and are expected to behave better. Erna is now eighteen and engaged to be married, so this Sunday is to be a special celebration. We have all promised Mama that we will be especially good because Grandmother will be visiting as well as the uncles and aunties. Our hair combed neatly into place, hands and faces scrubbed till they glow, our unwilling bodies restrained and fastened securely into our Sunday clothes, we prepare to meet the onslaught at the door. We remember to ask each of them how they feel and to answer all their questions with polite responses, listening intently to their suggestions and advice, keeping any opinions that we might have locked carefully away in our private, secret thoughts.

They arrive precisely on time. It is considered rude and insufferable to be late. The traditional Austrian obsession for order and punctuality is obeyed. They enter in a flourish of rustling skirts, kissing each of us on both cheeks and talking incessantly with barely time to take a breath. Wafting through the melange of cooking aromas, there lingers the soft, fragrant scent of ladies’ face powder, rouge, and cologne and men’s aftershave and hair pomade. My proud, severe uncles and aunties demand their kisses and curtsies and above all, honour and respect.

The ritual is a revered tradition of civility and good manners to be carefully observed without fail. I watch in fascination as my relatives carry out the Viennese observance of four o’clock jause, akin to a high tea. Manicured jewelled fingers raise fragile porcelain cups to red lips. Chains of hammered gold swing from wrinkled necks. The aunts’ greying hair is pulled back and up into neat twisted knots. Our uncles are attired in white starched shirts, suits with ties and vests buttoned over thickening waistlines. Pocket watches on chains are ready to be consulted when they have stayed long enough, and then there is a nod to their wives to indicate that visits are done. If we misbehave, they scowl disapprovingly at our mother. If we neglect to offer our polite greetings to each one formally, in turn, they will pout the whole time and forgiveness will not be forthcoming.

Sometimes they bring coveted Swiss milk chocolates, individually wrapped in coloured paper. We must be particularly obedient if we are to receive our share of these treats. We stand in military fashion, lined up for inspection, according to age. First is Erna, her long dark hair held back by a silken bow then falling in a thick mass on her back. Next is fifteen-year-old Stella, with freckles, light brown hair, and blue eyes like mine. Then me, the youngest of the girls, now aged ten, fidgeting from one foot to another, eager to receive my chocolate and escape. Tugging at my dress is Willi, a shy child, dressed in a white shirt and short pants, with wire-rimmed glasses, now five years old. Maids in white aprons, heeding Mama’s commands, bustle in and out of our dining room where starched linens and monogrammed family silver are set. Mama holds her head high with pride and will not condone the pity of the relatives for her situation. She makes certain to impress them with her disciplined management of the servants and the efficient running of the household. Our manners are also a reflection on her abilities to cope with the onerous responsibilities that have been thrust upon her. She surveys her domain with the calm demeanour of a general reviewing the troops while, with apparent nonchalance, chatting in animated pleasure. Her smile reveals that she is pleased with the surroundings and the approving nods of the visitors. She hugs each of us in turn and whispers, “Papa would have been proud today. You have done well.”

Mama glances casually around the room. Everything is as it should be, each item in its undisturbed place. She sighs softly in contentment, taking comfort from the place itself, the feeling of familiarity, the home where each of her children was born and where she can look forward to a tranquil old age. The walls are clothed in proper muted floral patterns, dusty-rose and celadon green. Throughout are hung the gilt-framed petit-point needlework that my sisters and I have laboured to produce. They depict appropriate pastoral scenes of the Austrian countryside in the eighteenth century. These are fabled figures, gentlemen in satin knickers with silk hose and buckled shoes, and ladies in voluminous gowns of taffeta and lace. As I stare at the framed hangings, I rub my fingers in recollection of the many needle pricks endured before my work was completed.

Respectable young ladies are required to become accomplished in such pursuits, as well as parlour-level conversational French and some form of musical skill. Our piano stands in a corner, keys yellowed and bruised from pounding by many young hands. My violin rests on top but I am an unruly child, unwilling to spend tedious hours practising.

Steaming tea is poured from an old burnished copper samovar, and orange flames dance in the fireplace. My grandmother, who is frail and thin, is warming herself, rubbing her cold, blue-veined hands together. Her wooden cane rests against the wall. As I watch her, I try to imagine ever being that old but it is an impossibility. She is hunched over, dressed in a long, high-necked black silk gown that falls in gentle folds, just grazing her black lace-up shoes. Her hearing is impaired and she is usually absorbed in her own thoughts, responding peculiarly to questions that are asked of her or ignoring them completely. The conversation continues with laughter and familiar stories being shared, but she is isolated and soon forgotten.

Hardwood floors gleam from hours of hand-waxing and buffing. They are covered with rugs, multi-patterned Orientals, dark garnet swirling through a background of ink-blue, with pale fringes at the borders. Windows are draped with weighty hangings of damask. Cut-crystal vases break the sunlight and toss it against the walls in a shimmering prism. The polished, lemon-oiled mahogany furniture is so heavy and solid that it appears rooted to the floor. There is a permanence and stability and certainty that things will remain unchanged forever.

Beside the rigid protocol, we must also be wary of the superstitions that guide and threaten us with every word or action. When the discussion turns to talk of anything bad, but most especially anything to do with the pogroms or sickness or death, we must never, never sneeze. This is an alarm to all evil spirits hovering in the vicinity to swoop down and bring a curse upon us. Fortunately there is an antidote to this as to many other such fears. If we are forgetful or unable to subdue our sneeze at the inopportune moment, one of the nimble adults rushes over and gives our ear a few hearty tugs. It is essential then to pay close attention to the conversations and to restrain our inappropriate sneezes even if we feel ready to explode. We learn the trick of pressing our tongues up tightly against the roof of our mouths to stifle an oncoming outburst.

Even our seating at the table is observed for infractions. Anyone within seven years of marrying age is not supposed to sit at the corner of the dining table for fear of dire consequences – that he or she may never marry, a dreaded fate. When any of us of the younger generation expresses our doubts of the possible connection of sitting at the edge of the table with our marriage prospects, we are advised that it is wiser not to tempt fate or to take any chances. One never knows what action taken in the universe could affect anything else. So calculations are quickly made and discussed; twenty plus seven would likely be considered too old to wait, or in some cases there might be a dispute – after all, fifteen and seven is twenty-two, maybe not too bad. And so it goes. As Stella is now in the questionable age category, she is very careful of where she finds her seat, but if she forgets and moves towards the corner there is a mad scramble and shouting by everyone present to redirect her in time to avoid disaster.

“Stella!” one of the aunties shouts. “Are you mad? Do you plan to be an old maid? Move away from the corner of the table or your fate will be sealed.”

How, I wonder, will I ever learn all these rules? There seem to be new ones added to the list all the time. I’m not to leave keys on a table because it will start an argument. I have to walk out of the house with my right foot first or bad luck will befall me all that day. The superstitions are not questioned. We seem to walk a precarious line between safety and danger at every turn. That is just the way things are.

After a while, Mama signals to us to say our polite goodbyes and then we are allowed to go to our rooms or out to play. I am glad to be released from the formal restraints and rush to change my clothes and to hurry outside. The bristling tang of clean air renews my spirits as I inhale. Snow falls in feather flakes, huge, delicate and pure, and the air stings our faces until they are flushed pink. Our energy is boundless. Running breathlessly, arms outstretched, falling backwards into snow banks and letting the icy cold surround and enfold us, we laugh until we ache and hot tears of joy spill and freeze against our cheeks. Winter in Vienna is a child’s paradise, houses and trees coated in soft white finery, dazzling in the sunlight. We love to skate and ski and race through our streets, dressed in thick, hand-knit sweaters in rainbow hues. Freedom is delicious and hungrily devoured. We expect always to have it in abundant supply and need not hoard it.