November 1937
Since 1926, Imre had worked side by side with Phillipe Julius. A man as Viennese as he was himself, but with origins as mixed as his own. The Voyteks had come west a generation ago from Hungary. The Julius family had travelled east from France at about the same time. Central Europe was less a fixed point in geography—more a flying carpet.
They were very different men and made a close and practical partnership. Imre could run a business, any business, on the back of an envelope sitting in a café or bar and delegating to all and sundry. Julius brooded, alternating between prolonged periods of isolated contemplation and the manipulation of crowds of actors into cast and play. As managing director and artistic director they were perfectly matched and were nicknamed Castor and Pollux in the small world of Viennese theatre.
They had made their mark with Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata, and brought Vienna to its feet with a modern-dress version of As You Like It. “What will the twins do next?” was a common question in the columns of Vienna’s newspapers and magazines.
It was the question Imre put to Julius as they sat in the Café Landtmann late in November of 1937.
Julius took a surprisingly long time to answer. For a minute or two Imre continued to scribble on his envelopes and to push them around the table until an order arose. Seeing Julius’s hand pick up and cradle his cup of thick Brauner coffee, Imre looked up.
“Phillipe? I asked—”
“I heard you, Imre.”
“And?”
“Imre. I have to go now.”
“After lunch, then.”
“I mean I have to leave Vienna. Leave Austria.”
“Leave Vienna?”
“Before the bastards get here. You’ve said often enough yourself the Nazis mean to have us.”
Imre sat back amazed. He could and should have anticipated this. But he hadn’t.
“Then perhaps we should all leave?”
“Why? You’re not Jewish. I’m not sure I’d go myself if I weren’t. Vienna is home. I’ve known no other home. But I am Jewish. I’ve not set foot in a synagogue in forty years—and if I wanted third-rate theatre I’d visit one of our rivals rather than a synagogue—but that won’t save me. You . . . no, you stay . . . someone has to keep an eye on Artemis after all. Besides, apart from hating Nazis, do you really have any politics? I’ve always thought ‘live and let live’ summed up your politics rather neatly.”
“Live and let live?!?”
“Forget I said it. Just keep your mouth shut about Nazis and you’ll survive. There’ll be a war. Possibly a short one. The English Royal Navy will sink their ships. The French will kick the shit out of their army at the Maginot Line. Then I’ll come back. We’ll pick up where we left off.”
“So what do we do next?”
“I’ve been working on a new translation of the Oresteia. I’ll leave you the text and a few notes . . . and I’ll see you . . .”
“Quite. When?”
“Oh . . . about 1940 I should think.”