The Vienna Melody (55 page)

The gentleman just arrived from Rome paused. “
Ecco!
What do you say to such magnanimity?” was his next question.

When he had begun to tell about things familiar to every Austrian schoolboy Hans's thoughts again had strayed to his impending evening appointment. “You mean about the militia?” he replied absentmindedly.

“That is what Il Duce means,” the Italian corrected him. “That was why he wanted me go to Rome. You will perhaps find it too easy-going of me that it is only now I ask you to be completely discreet about this. But I knew I was dealing with a gentleman.”

“I don't grasp what I have to do with any militia,” said Hans. “I'm a maker of pianos.”

“But a great Austrian, Signore Alt! A distinguished member of the cultural circle which is of inestimable value to Austrian patriotism. That patriotism, in Il Duce's eyes, must be thoroughly reawakened; people must put themselves at the head of it who politically have no record but who, nevertheless, are representatives of Austrian culture. These are the people who, with their military knowledge, their talent for organization, and their capital, will be the ones to set up the militia.”

“Pardon me,” said Hans, who was loath to hear about Austrian patriotism from these lips, “but why do you not address yourself to people who possess those gifts? I have none. I'm a hopeless soldier, a miserable organizer, and no capitalist.”

“Modesty, sheer modesty,” objected his visitor, flashing his white teeth in the smile which so fascinated Martha Monica. “Confidentially, I've already been in touch with such men. On my return trip I conferred in Innsbruck with Herr Steidle and yesterday in Linz with Prince Starhemberg. Both are enthusiastic and proposed that the already existing Heimatschutz organizations should be reformed into a single Heimwehr on the fascist pattern.”

“Fascist, you say?” Hans asked.

The Italian confirmed the obviousness of his remark with a gesture. “Then I am even less your man. I have—forgive my saying so—never had much sympathy for a system that could find nothing better for its symbol than a bundle of rods.”

“It's not every one who can have an angel with a trumpet for his emblem,” retorted the Italian. And for an instant his urbanity failed him. “Signor Alt, you will continue to make pianos, and you want your profit from them. To that end you will need protection. That protection in turn requires money, and that money must be found!”

“Have you an official authorization from your government to find it?” Hans asked, astonished.

At this his visitor readily produced still another document. It was a list of Austrian industrialists, headed by Apold, general director of the Alpine Montan-Aktiengesellschaft, and wound up with Zweig, proprietor of a textile mill. Hans Alt's name came before Apold, but there was a blank left for the amount he was to contribute. Apold's contribution, on the other hand, was entered as one million Austrian shillings.

“The Italian Government is collecting this?” Hans asked again, with the portrait of the man who would have put the same question before him.

The Italian smiled.

“The Austrian Government, in fullest accord with the Italian, has chosen this method in order to avoid all appearance of interfering with private property, and the Italian Government has loyally offered its services as trustee. You understand, Signore Alt?”

“Not quite,” Hans replied. “You'll allow me to make inquiries before I give you my decision?”

“
Naturalmente
,” his visitor agreed. “Of anyone on this list. And, by the way, would it not be an excellent idea to interest your brother in this matter? He has a brilliant military record.”

“Of course,” Hans said. “In comparison with me he's positively a Napoleon.”

“Even a Radetzky would suffice,” declared his visitor, pushing his own disinterestedness and that of the Italian Government to the chivalrous extreme of thus paying a tribute to the Austrian marshal who inflicted a crushing defeat on Italy. “I trust we shall become more closely associated,” he added in taking his leave. “From every point of view that would afford me satisfaction.”

On the dot of nine o'clock that evening Hans was standing in his uncle's study. In this large room, with its three windows, nothing had changed—neither the brown wallpaper, darkened by tobacco smoke, nor the comfortable furniture in the Maria Theresa style, nor yet the family portraits on the walls and tables. The shades were drawn, and the globe lamps were lighted on the writing-table and on either side of the bookshelves which were stacked to the ceiling with law books and court rulings.

Hans recalled that he had last discussed with his uncle questions of guilt and innocence, before the war, after a night spent in the police station lock-up, during which the problems of justice had kept him from sleeping. At that time Otto Eberhard had seemed like an aged man to him, far removed from daily life. Today he seemed scarcely more of a human being. It was all but incredible that a heart should beat beneath that high buttoned-up waistcoat. In the first instant the nephew had the impulse to beg his pardon for having disturbed him and to go away again.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” the old man was already asking.

Accursed house! People can say what they like about Vienna's being the most warmhearted, easy-going, frivolous city, yet could there be in all the world more chilliness, more oppressive formality than here? What destiny had condemned one to belong to this house, the stony embodiment of which sat there in person? Did this man, despite his ninety years, still not know that coldness did not save? That all one needs or wants is warmth, nothing else!

“I have come on account of my mother,” Hans answered, burning his bridges behind him.

“Sit down,” his uncle suggested. “You smoke, don't you?”

Hans sat down. The round white lamp lighted up every wrinkle and every white hair on the parchment-like face of the aged man. “I don't know, Uncle, exactly how to explain it to you,” he began.

“Take your time,” the old man said. “You look exhausted. Are you having difficulties in the factory?”

“It's not the factory.”

His uncle nodded. “You have some worry in your personal life.”

It was only when he heard this icy voice once more that Hans realized how wrong Hermann had been. This was not the most competent man sitting before him, but the most unfit! Uncle Otto Eberhard had always condemned Mother. “It has to do with Selma's death,” Hans said. “It's only a suspicion, Uncle. But that in itself is horrible.”

“A suspicion against your mother?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you had this suspicion?”

“For a long time. But I—”

“Stop. Why didn't you come to me sooner? Did you want to wait until I was dead?''

As always, when he faced Otto Eberhard Hans felt himself to be at a disadvantage. “It doesn't concern you, Uncle,” he explained.

“If it has to do with people in this house it does concern me,” was his answer. “Now speak. But don't tell me what you feel or what you think; tell me only facts. Feelings and thoughts are not evidence.” He crossed his arms as though he were still wearing his red-trimmed court robe.

In the ensuing quarter of an hour he did not alter his attitude. The longer Hans spoke, the more solidly he had to build up the body of guilt against his mother, the more clearly he felt: I have come to the wrong person. This man with his crossed arms is prejudiced. And as the relative of a mortally sick person, who knows exactly how ill the patient is, still asks the hopeless question when the doctor has finished his examination, “What is your opinion, Doctor?” so the nephew, when he had finished his statement, asked the expert in murder cases: “What is your opinion, Uncle?”

Otto Eberhard changed his position only to the extent that he uncrossed his arms. Before his eyes, which still had good vision without glasses, there passed in review the time when this Henriette had come into the house. Her first belated visit, as a fiancée, in the next room. She wore an over-large hat. Her hurrying away to an operetta from the supper that had been prepared for her. Her attachment to an exalted personage. Her audience with the most exalted person in the land. The birth of this son which almost cost her her life. Her frivolous return to life and her affair with a nobleman. Her harshness to little Christine. Her interest in her children, especially in the oldest and the youngest, who was not Franz's daughter. Her attempts to make up to Franz for the things in which she had failed him. Her shortcomings inherited from her mother and, to an even greater degree, from her father. Her coquetry. Her pretence at being more worldly wise than she was. Her quickly aroused and quickly fading sympathy.

Before the eyes of this old prosecutor lay a gray-bound imaginary brief with the inscription: “Record of the Criminal Proceeding against Henriette Alt.” On page one was the phrase of the indictment he had seen written in his own handwriting so many hundreds of times: “The Imperial and Royal prosecuting authority of Vienna hereby accuses… of the intention of killing Selma Alt and of acting in such manner as to result in the death of the above-mentioned, thereby committing the crime of murder according to Paragraph 134 of the Penal Code.”

And to his nephew, awaiting his reply in a state of anguished expectation, he said, “Your mother is innocent.”

It was so unexpected that Hans jumped up with a shout.

“Keep your seat,” requested the old man, who had weighed everything and, with an eye which had been unerring in the course of a long career as a prosecuting barrister, had seen that the dotted line in the indictment was not to be filled in with the name of his sister-in-law Henriette but with that of someone else. “Your grounds for suspicion,” he said, “are conclusive. I shall change my opinion that it was a case of suicide. It was murder. But your mother is not the murderess. I can see that you believe I want to protect her in order to save the reputation of this house. Once before, a long time ago, you held a similar belief and found it legitimate to remind me of my duty. Young man, I've never consciously neglected my duty, and if I'm soon to follow your dear father to that place where I long to be, let that speak in my favor. You are no jurist; circumstantial evidence confuses you. But there is one thing you should have said to yourself: My mother is of Jewish descent. The Jews—I don't hold with the definition made by the ridiculous new party in Germany, but consider as Jews those who have inherited specific Jewish qualities from their ancestors—never perjure themselves by the life of people dear to them. Jews rarely, if ever, murder, and never relatives. That's something you overlooked.”

“Thank you!” Hans said from the bottom of his heart.

“Come here to me,” requested the old man. “I know what you've thought of me. The same as nearly all of you think. That a person like me makes life difficult for you. But life is based on respect, and whoever lacks it, as you all do, or does not demand it, as I do, is not free, as you believe, but the least free of all. He is dominated by judgments which are ungrounded or false. Lack of respect makes for lack of freedom. Give me your hand. I too have sometimes misjudged you. You are a decent man. See that you remain one. That's the only human achievement that counts.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Hans promised, and, deeply moved, bowed over the icy hand held out to him, touching it with his lips.

“Now go,” said Otto Eberhard, whose stony face quivered. “The rest is up to me. I can see that, before I finally retire, I have one more case to settle.”

“You have a suspicion!”

“A State lawyer always has a suspicion,” answered the old man, and his voice, which for a few seconds had sounded human, reverted again into the chilly regions of principles.

“And what should I do?” Hans asked,

“Go up to your mother and humbly ask her pardon,” advised the old man. Then he nodded and said, “She hasn't deserved this at your hands. She may have had shortcomings as a wife, but as your mother she has none. Good night.”

The deposition
 
of Police Sergeant Johann Greifeneder read as follows:

 

Police Headquarters, Vienna. Date: July 31, 1934. Present: Chief of Police Skubel as examiner. Police Sergeant Johann Greifeneder as witness. Councillor of Police Kunz as recorder.

Chief of Police:
I summon you to tell the whole truth and to conceal nothing that you know concerning the murder of the Chancellor. Your deposition is pursuant to your oath of office. A false deposition would be perjury. Is that quite clear?

Sergeant Greifeneder:
Yes, sir.

Chief of Police:
Bear it in mind. As you are one of the few eyewitnesses, your deposition is conclusive. On it the verdict to be handed down by the court may have primarily to be based. Weigh each word before you speak.

Sergeant Greifeneder:
Yes, sir.

Chief of Police:
Your name is Johann Greifeneder; you are thirty-four years old, born in Tulin in Lower Austria, Catholic, married, have two children, and live at Number 6 Sonnenuhrgasse, Sixth District. Is that correct?

Sergeant Greifeneder:
Yes, sir.

Chief of Police:
What did you witness in your own person on July twenty-fifth?

Sergeant Greifeneder:
I was on guard duty in the Chancellor's office in the fourth story of the Ballhausplatz, near the accountant's office. My hours were from ten to one. Just before one o'clock I heard a noise on the stairs, went out and opened the door to the staircase. Opposite me were five fully armed men in uniform.

Chief of Police:
What uniform?

Sergeant Greifeneder:
The uniform of the regular Austrian Army. The men surrounded me and shouted, “Hands up!'' I couldn't offer any opposition. They took me down to the third floor of the Chancellery, where I had to wait on the landing. There were eight or nine other men there in uniform and with drawn pistols.