The Last Days (14 page)

They had stayed up late the previous night. Feder and his wife had come to dinner. It had been a delightful evening. They had
talked about literature, Goethe, his
Wilhelm Meister
, which Stefan had just finished reading—and which in the end he’d found so woolly and stiff when compared to
Werther
. On that point, they had agreed. Before the Feders had taken their leave, Stefan had suggested he and Feder play a game of chess. Needless to say, Stefan had lost. He had detected surprise in Feder’s eyes when he’d returned the books he’d recently borrowed from him.

“You’ve already read them?”

His eyes would never settle on a page again, there would be no more reading. Never again would his eyes glimpse into another world. Never again would he experience the strange and brilliant sensation of being sucked into an author’s universe, never again would he voyage through his imagination while time stood still. Never again would he experience the euphoria of writing, or taste the morsels of valour and passionate love, or unveil the magical secrets of wordplay. Life had only been bearable when ensconced in his world of words. Turning pages or writing in them had been the only act in his life that had come effortlessly to him. He had never been able to interact with people in an equally carefree way. Luckily, the final curtain had fallen. He had finished performing in his human comedy, he was done playing the role of Stefan Zweig.

Plucki, his adorable fox terrier, came to lick his hand. Stefan stroked him, kissed his snout and let him out into the garden to play. The house had to be empty. The dog ran outside, barking. Would Margarida Banfield look after him properly? In his letter, Stefan had asked her to do so as a personal favour. Seeing as how he had leased the bungalow until the beginning of April, he had also slipped enough money to cover the rent for March in the same envelope. He didn’t want to leave any debts. He didn’t want to cause anyone the slightest inconvenience. Still, his act would
cast opprobrium on his name until the end of time. One didn’t have to be a genius to imagine what people would say about him. That he had abandoned others to their pain and deserted when the time had come to fight the enemy. When others had expected him to be an example, a hero even, he had run off like a coward. They would accuse him of innumerable sins. They would be indignant. At best, they would respond with incomprehension. He pictured Thomas Mann’s disdain, Bernanos’s rage and Jules Romains’s sadness. But the relief he felt welling up in his heart compensated for the shame he felt and swept away all of his scruples. His suffering had come to an end.

He decided to get dressed. He opened his wardrobe and lingered in front of it for a long while, then picked out a dark suit. As it was Sunday, he opted for a sports jacket, a brown short-sleeved shirt, a plain tie and a pair of knickerbockers. He went into the bathroom, carefully shaved himself and combed his hair. Looking at himself in the mirror, he told himself he’d done all he could.

She strolled slowly along Avenida Koeler. She admired the scenes around her, the streets, the landscapes, the faces of passers-by and the sky above her. She walked on, short of breath, exhausted by a sleepless night. Her cheeks were awash with tears, she wanted to drain her body of all its tears, right there and then on the pavement. She had promised him she wouldn’t cry in front of him. She had spent the entire morning wandering around the town. Her lips murmured words only she could hear. She prayed to God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. She prayed using the few words of Hebrew she still remembered from her childhood, when she had listened, wide-eyed, to her grandfather’s booming tenor during the Sabbath evening service. She praised the Lord, her God, the king of all the earth. She peppered her
Hebrew prayer with German in order to give her words some shape and sense. She asked God to forgive her. She begged her brother Manfred to forgive her. She wished Eva a long, happy life and hoped Eva’s dreams would remain unblemished by visions of her unhappy aunt. She crossed the bridge that spanned the canal, directed her gaze to the cathedral and begged God for forgiveness once again, the same God that had abandoned the Jews to the hands of the barbarians, the God who had allowed His children to die and left the survivors nothing but a life of sadness and exile. When a passer-by drew near, looking a little puzzled, she dried her tears and looked away to hide her face. From the opposite bank of the Piabanha River, she looked at the Crystal Palace, and pictured herself walking alongside it by her husband’s side when they had first arrived in town. She heard the echoes of his beloved voice tell her about the palace’s history, the story of the aristocrat who had built that glass monument out of love for his wife, and who had sent to Europe for the iron framework. Although it had only been six months ago, she remembered his voice as sounding happy when he had told her that story, but look at what sort of gift he was offering her now. She had promised she wouldn’t cry. She would follow him, just as peacefully and joyfully as she had strolled arm in arm with him through the city’s streets. Clutching his shoulder, she would go with him into the dark unknown from which there would be no return. She made a detour through the market. The greengrocers were arranging their produce on their stalls, touting their fruit and vegetables, are you not buying anything today, Mrs Zweig? Look at those guavas, here you go, they’re all yours. She said next time, she would come back tomorrow, or the following Sunday. But she would never come back, she would never again watch the wonderful spectacle as the sun set over the city, she would
never again feel her heart fill with love as he confided in her, or wait to hear a word from him, or experience one of his glances, the delight she felt when he looked at her, or when he whispered words into her ear. She was overwhelmed by all the sights around her. She wanted to take the slightest of the day’s wonders with her and carry them for ever in her heart, she wanted her heart to store all the perfumes, scents, the blue of the sky, the green of the forests on the other side of the river, the sing-song of hummingbirds, the cries of children. She wanted to wrap herself in the scalding warmth of the sun as it beat down on the city on that accursed day. She knew she would be cold, that the next world would be enshrouded in night, that she would feel even shorter of breath over there. She looked around with eyes full of sadness and confusion. She longed to cross paths with Feder or his wife, or Mrs Banfield—anyone who would be moved by the sight of a woman in tears and would take her hand and lead her to their home, offer her a drink, give her a bed to sleep in, for just an hour, or maybe even a whole night. Never again would she have to set foot in that houses of ghosts, down there, on 34 Rua Gonçalves Dias. But the streets were empty on that Sunday afternoon under the brutal sun, only a few shadows loomed over the streets, and so she headed back home. The farther she walked, the more she felt as if the sun were already starting to set, the day were growing darker, a cold wind were on the rise. Silence fell all around her. Even the birdsong wasn’t as loud as it once was, and her clouded eyes could no longer discern the true brightness of colours.

Meanwhile the house was coming into sight, up there, at the end of a small slope. She climbed the hill, each gulp of air stinging her lungs. She would stop every four or five metres to catch her breath. She would cast her eyes around, but there was
nobody coming towards her. One would have thought that the city’s inhabitants had simply vanished, or that they’d gone to hide, nobody would come to her aid, nobody would come to rescue her. She could have cried for help, but no words rose out of her mouth. She brought her hand to her eyelids, which were dry. She had cried all the tears out of her body. There she was, standing in front of the door. She lifted her gaze high to the sky, where the sun was shining. She breathed in a deep lungful of clean air, shut her eyelids, murmured one last prayer to the Lord to thank Him for having brought that man into her life, for having allowed her to experience a boundless love for him. For one last time, she begged for forgiveness and murmured: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Two vials had been prepared and filled to the brim with little white crystals. An empty glass had been placed next to each of the vials and there was a bottle of Salutaris mineral water in the middle, the same natural spring water they’d taken with all their meals—and which would be the last drink they would ever consume together. Drenched in sweat, she had decided to take a bath. Then she had slipped into a flowery dressing gown, which she had worn on evenings when she had wanted to look particularly fetching, just like she did today.

He gazed at her as she came out of the bathroom with a questioning look. She nodded and forced a weak smile. She walked slowly, uncertainly, and went to sit down on the bed beside him. She regretted not having had a drink, that she wasn’t drunk, but he’d refused to allow her to do so. He had wanted to be fully conscious in order to experience the moment in serenity. She shuddered. Fear could be read on her features. He drew her closer to him and
kissed her tenderly on the lips. He looked long and deep into her eyes. “I’ll go first,” he said. “You’ll follow me… if that’s what you want.” She couldn’t hold back her tears. He reminded her of the promise she’d made him. She apologized. Her sobs swelled in her chest. He dried her cheeks. He kissed her eyelids. He whispered words into her ear that were meant to dispel her fear. He stood up and walked over to the dresser where the vials had been placed. He turned back to look at her, as if wanting to read approval in her eyes. She held back a scream. She would have loved to rush towards him, spill the vials and run out of the house, but it was as if she were hypnotized by his stare, as if the poison had already had its effect. He had kept his composure and seemed at peace. He picked up the first vial and with untrembling fingers tipped its contents into the glass. Then he filled the glass with mineral water. He turned around to face her once more. She was silent and still. From the depths of her despair, she stared at him, terrified. She managed to form a sentence. Did he love her? He said that he did. She found the strength to come and stand by his side. She tried to mimic his gestures, but when she’d taken hold of the vial, she almost spilt its contents. He calmly took hold of her hand. He filled her glass.

There they stood, facing one another, looking into one another’s eyes. He raised the glass to his lips without removing his gaze from her. He drained the glass in three gulps without stopping for breath. He said he was going to lie down. That she should join him when she was ready. He stretched out on the bed. She drank, quickly, and then ran after him to be by his side, clinging to his shoulder.

He breathed in her body’s heady scent. He asked her if she needed anything. She wasn’t able to answer him. Her tears were preventing her from seeing anything, but was there anything to
see? He said that a thousand things were crowding his mind. Off in the distance, they perceived the fantastic landscape of a familiar world, a European city with brightly lit pavements, where he recognized many faces and people embraced him. He said that everything was slowly growing darker. What about her, what was she seeing? She didn’t reply. He said that everything was blending together, the past, the present, lights were becoming confused and that he was in a hall plunged in semi-darkness. He recognized a familiar silhouette that brushed past him, the silhouette of a woman, with a fan in her hand and a haughty expression, walking along a corridor. He carried on talking, but the words no longer formed properly in his mouth. She kissed his forehead and his eyelids. His eyelids were shut. He could no longer see or hear anything. She kissed his temples. Although her lips had met his skin, she could no longer feel its warmth. Her own lips had grown cold. She stretched out her arms towards him, but they were as frozen as though they’d been plunged into ice. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, but her arms grew heavy. Her strength was abandoning her. He was out of reach and out of sight. Her eyes could distinguish the outlines of a shadow beside her. The shadow drifted away into the darkness and faded into the netherworld. Day turned to night. The earth was shapeless and empty. She joined him in the abyss, and a gust of wind that came through the open windows shook the curtains and hovered over that abyss.

This novel is based on facts and historical events culled from various archives, witness accounts and documents. The remarks and reflections made by some characters are faithfully based on the books, articles and correspondence these characters left behind.

Here is a partial bibliography of the sources used during the writing of this novel: