CHAPTER 5

GROWING UP 1931

At school we are told that primitive foreign lands exist beyond our own, where strange languages are spoken and people, with skin the colour of raisins, cocoa, or saffron, walk barefoot. We learn about climates where snow never falls. My daydreams pull me away to those steamy jungles where I am an adventurer, hacking through the thickly tangled tropical foliage. What ferocious beasts prowl in those forests? My imagination takes over and I don’t hear anything more that the teacher is saying.

I wonder how such people could live and how odd and frightening they would look. In my meandering thoughts I encounter alien beings like the ones pictured in my school books and envision myself as an explorer prowling the surface of some uncharted planet. The exotic appearance of people wrapped in peculiar clothing and speaking an unknown tongue is a glorious fantasy, but in truth I don’t expect ever to meet one of those strangers. Africa and Asia are blobs on the atlas, mysterious and dangerous, where elephants and tigers roam. Those places are dark and ominous, in a universe unknown and foreboding. In my real world, in Vienna, we feel secure and safe in a very predictable place where all the people are the same.

Hours spent in school are tedious and dull. My brain refuses to be confined to the musty classroom where the teacher’s droning voice eases me into a stupor. My mind turns towards the mountains and freedom. The teachers have advised Mama that I am a poor student, unable to concentrate on my studies and lazy in my work habits.

“Karpel!” the teacher barks. “You are not listening again! Where is your mind this time?”

We are given lessons in English, a language whose strange sounds and words make no sense to me. The teacher’s monotone voice drills the same words again and again, “I am … you are … he, she, or it is” – peculiar and unnecessary, I think, and what a waste of time when there are so many more exciting things to do. The clock on the wall ticks the minutes with maddening lethargy and the stuffy air in the room is making my head spin. When the bell clangs at last, I am first to rush from the prison and the teacher’s icy stare.

Once I am freed again from the restrictions of school, the wind against my face restores me to life. In the school yard my friends are waiting to play and to tell of all their news. One day as we are walking home, chattering to one another, engrossed in our gossip and giggling till our sides are sore, we are startled by a loud, angry shout from behind, “Shut up, you filthy Jews!” One of our classmates calls out and begins a chant, “Sau Juden, Sau Juden [Jewish pigs].”

Without a moment’s hesitation, I drop my books and hurl myself at the other girl, who is taller than I, but I disregard the difference in our sizes and dive at her in a rage of indignant fury. I grasp handfuls of her copper hair and rip at her clothing, knocking her to the ground. We tussle and twist, arms and legs poking at odd angles until I can force her beneath me, a knee on either side of her chest to pin her down. Her nails dig into my arm and tear a stinging gash under my elbow. As she squirms and screeches for help, I feel my fist come down hard on her fleshy nose, which begins to squirt sticky blood onto my hand and sleeve. She is crying grimy tears that dribble down her cheeks, all the while screaming for me to leave her alone. I get myself up and retrieve my schoolbooks, admonishing her to keep her stupid insults to herself unless she’s looking for more trouble. Then I return to the others and continue on my way home.

My friends think I am a hero and slap me on the back in hearty congratulations for my courage. They agree that the anti-Semitic sentiment should be beaten out of her and any others who hold such thoughts. We will not permit the destructive sprouts of hatred to flourish in our cherished homeland. I expect Mama to be angry when she sees me coming in, my arm and knee scraped and bloodied, my school dress soiled, and my hair hanging in sweaty strings over my eyes. But her face is suddenly pale and grim when I start explaining what happened. She holds me tight and I feel her trembling. I tell her not to be frightened because I am strong and can take care of her.

The confidence of youth warms and protects me, brimming with promise for a future that holds infinite possibilities. My friends and I dream of adventures, plans for the lives we might have. Perhaps I will become a great and famous actress, my very secret ambition. I practise before my mirror, laughing and crying intermittently, sweeping my arms in grand gestures, then taking my deep and serious bows before the imagined cheering crowds. Even my sisters will have to applaud me then, and Mama will be proud.

On Saturdays we visit the Volksoper, where students purchase tickets at special prices for the matinees. I love the operettas and soon know every word of the songs by heart. The stories of love and coquetry are fascinating and beguiling, stirring my young imagination with thoughts of romance while the music fills me up, flowing through my veins, mixing and pounding through my blood.

Vienna glitters like jewels in a crown, and we take full advantage of its attractions. We meet at sidewalk cafés for Viennese coffee topped with billows of fresh sweet whipped cream and rich confections of pastries like Black Forest cake, the huge dark cherries suspended in layers of cream and chocolate. As we grow older, we attend fancy-dress balls and parties. Spinning endlessly, we waltz in elegant swirls to the melodies of Strauss throbbing around us. How proud we are to be Austrians, in the cultural centre of the world. We need nothing more and have no desire to travel beyond our borders. Where else, after all, would one find a palace to rival the opulent Baroque grandeur of Schönbrunn? Where would mountains, emerald-green in summer and icing-sugar white in winter, welcome as ours do? Where would food taste so good and everyone you meet be your friend?

In the springtime and throughout the fragrant summer, garden cafés are filled with explosions of newly blooming flowers and tender young leaves. People of all ages laugh boisterously, clinking tankards of beer or glasses of new-harvest wine. Music surrounds us. Young men in bright suspenders and lederhosen and Tyrolean hats with small thick brushes in the bands slap their thighs in merry time to the cowbells and fiddles. Women, their hair woven into shiny braids pinned in circles around their heads, are dressed in traditional dirndl skirts and white starched blouses with puffed sleeves tied with colourful ribbons. They spin round and round in a dizzying whirl. The dips and trills of mountain yodelling ripple in the air with their lilting melodies. The scents of cut lawns and fresh-baked pastries fill our nostrils and energize our spirits. The hillsides are dotted with bursts of wildflowers, so abundant that people pick bunches and tuck them into their hair or jacket lapels. There is camaraderie and goodwill towards all.

We stroll arm in arm along the shores of the Danube, its muddy water churning in lazy currents. From the bobbing boats that drift by, passengers are waving, smiling broadly and shouting greetings. Picnickers sprawl on the moist grassy banks, their delicacies laid out on crisp checkered cloths. A breeze blows gently, causing the leaves in the trees to flutter and boughs to creak. Children chase after rubber balls, and their laughter, like the chime of little silver bells, rings in the air.

Summer melts into autumn, a time of cool winds and falling leaves, sun-spangled colours floating in the air and rustling underfoot, earthy smells and change. But for me nothing compares to the Austrian winter months. I take my woollen sweaters out of their mothballs and lift my skis from their summer storage nook. All of us have skis and poles that are lined up in a neat row, each pair wrapped in an old bed sheet, then bound with twine. On the floor matching pairs of leather boots are set side by side, toes and heels aligned, neat and trim, not a thing out of place. We take very good care of our skis, and at the end of the always-too-short ski season we put them away grudgingly until the next year. My skis are my most cherished possession. I remember the day they were presented to me. The bright red painted wooden slats were for me alone, just my size and the best gift I ever received. Since Papa’s death there had been a turn to a new kind of austerity and Mama had had to save the money for them bit by bit. For both Willi and me, as the youngest, financial restrictions have been the way of life that we’ve known for all of our childhood. We have been taught that nothing we have should be taken for granted. So when, the winter after I turn fifteen, I am given my very own pair of new wooden skis with poles and boots, all wrapped in smooth brown paper, I know that this is a special gift.

As the winter months unfold each year and the first snow falls, we greet the new season with eager anticipation. We know that the weekends will be a time for the exhilaration of the slopes. I have to work in the store for at least one day each weekend but I can go out to ski on the other. The first few crystalline flakes that swirl outside stir our excitement as we imagine the pleasure ahead. Staring up at the evening sky, Willi and I sit by the window, and full of boisterous energy we bicker about the possibility of a good ski day to follow.

“I think there will be lots of snow tonight,” I tell him.

“No, you’re wrong, Nini,” he answers back. “There are just a few wet flurries and the ground is still dry and hard. Can’t you see that this is not ski snow, just the kind that will melt by morning?”

“What do you know about it?” I answer indignantly.

“I know more than you,” he says, shoving me. Of course I shove back and before long Mama is in the room trying to settle us down.

“There will be no ski outings for anyone if this keeps up.” She gives us her sternest look until we become silent.

When a good week of packing snow has fallen and is just perfect, we test its texture by tossing snowballs at one another and at passing strangers, who shout in annoyance. Then we know that a day of skiing is ahead. We arrange for rendezvous with friends and wait impatiently for the day when we can head out to the mountains. There is typically a debate among my friends before we decide on our destination to Kahlenberg, Kobenzl, Der Rax, Hohe Tauren, or Schneeberg. We are so familiar with each of them that we can argue about their merits or shortcomings without hesitation. If ever there was an escape, a time when worries and responsibility might be left behind, it is on the rolling mountainsides near Vienna. On those days, when I feel the crunch of new snow beneath my skis and the clear air in my lungs, I am fully alive.

The night before one of our much anticipated outings, we go through the all-important preparation routine. Bursting with pent-up energy, we soon find ourselves squabbling over the necessities for the next day.

“I need the wax, Stella,” I shout to my sister.

“Well, you can just wait your turn until I’ve finished,” she says, taking the chunk of hardened paraffin wax from the shelf.

“You’re always so selfish. I already have the iron heated and I’m going to take the first turn,” I reply adamantly.

She plunks the wad of wax on the table and storms out in a huff. At twenty-one, Stella considers herself a young lady while Willi at eleven and I at sixteen are just lowly children. She will pout and act indignant and there will be arguments and disagreements, wearing Mama down and causing her to threaten to curtail our plans and put an end to it all, but she always relents and lets us go. Erna is twenty-four now and married, no longer a part of our frenzied day-to-day activities, but to our great pleasure her husband is a ski instructor and we have profited by it. He has taken us out for lessons and now we believe ourselves to be experts.

“I’m next,” Willi calls from the other room and soon appears at the doorway. “I’m going, too, and my skis are just as dry as yours. My friends are serious racers, not silly girls. I have to treat my skis with more care to make them go faster.”

“What a big man,” I scoff. “But you can still wait till I’m done.”

We tease one another relentlessly and argue about the smallest of things. Everything about the ski day is so vital to each of us. We take our turns setting one ski at a time on a table, rubbing the wax in a circular motion up and down the length of the wood, covering it with a piece of cloth and then pressing it with a hot iron backwards and forwards, warming the wax until it is softened and the wood becomes smooth. When we are certain that the finish is at its best and that it will offer a slippery glide on the snow, we head for our beds and a restless night.

We rise before dawn, dress quickly in the frozen darkness, and rush about, gathering our belongings. We prepare our lunches, stuffed with whatever goodies we can scavenge in the pantry and head off, lugging our cumbersome gear. We meet with friends at a designated spot, then crowd into a trolley car that will take us from the bustling city to one of the small rural villages only an hour away. We know each mountain well, which ones have the best runs, which have the best snack bars.

At the foot of each mountain there is a chalet with refreshments. If we’ve saved enough money for the day, we also have the treat of steaming cups of hot chocolate and a delicious cheese and sour cream strudel still warm from the oven. Then we begin the long trek on foot up to the top. Our boots are heavy with snow as we clump our way up the thickly blanketed incline. The muscles in our legs strain with each step but we jostle and joke and tumble along. The weight of the skis and poles plus the rucksacks full of sandwiches for lunch makes us perspire despite the winter’s chill. My favourite sweater is a cherry red sleeveless one. My bare arms sting from the cold but I feel invincible and thrive in the frosty air. Halfway up on some of the bigger mountains, there’s a rest area with tables and benches where we can stop for lunch. Finally, at the top, the stunning vista spreads beneath us. No matter how many times we see it, the view is always a dazzling surprise. We marvel at the sight of miniature rooftops capped in white and hunchbacked evergreen trees that stand bowed by their snow-laden branches.

All day long we ski the trails. My skis have become an extension of my body, extra appendages that obey my commands with ease, swerving side to side with the motion of my hips and the bend of my knees. The wind bites my cheeks and blows my hair. My breath floats in puffs of vapour and the hard-packed snow under my feet allows me to slip and hop with ease, gliding downwards without restriction, free, totally free.