The flames, p.37
The Flames, page 37
‘My God, I’ll be a father. It’s unthinkable. Perhaps I’ll finally understand my own.’
‘I only wish Papa was alive, so I could tell him the news.’
‘Both our fathers would be proud. Grandfathers! Imagine that. We must raise a toast.’ Egon takes down a glass and pours schnapps into it. ‘A sip for you.’ She smells it, then he knocks back the rest. He looks dazed and delighted. ‘I’m in awe of you, Edith. I love you. And what’s happening in there,’ he says, putting a hand on her belly. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘Lots of women have babies,’ she says. ‘All the time.’
‘Yes, but this one is ours. Some hope, in the darkness, at last.’
15
25 October 1918
‘My mother was here,’ Egon says. ‘She came asking for money again. I gave her what we could spare, which isn’t much, and I showed her the painting I’ve been working on. It’s the one I exhibited in March at the Secession, and I had the idea, after you told me you were pregnant, of adding a child, to make the squatting couple into a family. Well, she took one look at the baby and came right out with it, without any preamble – she asked that if we have a daughter, we might consider naming the child Elvira. I said I’d discuss it with you. You know how much it would mean to her.’
‘At least she didn’t ask us to call her Marie,’ Edith says, moving dishes around in the kitchen.
‘She became very emotional, talking about the past, about all the things that have been lost, her babies that died in the womb – hardly appropriate, given your condition.’
‘Well, I’m open to the idea of that name,’ Edith concedes. ‘Now, have you seen my ring?’ she adds, getting ready to leave. The buttons of her coat no longer fasten around her extended, firm stomach, so she leaves it open, despite the cold. She’s looking around the kitchen, in all kinds of unlikely places. She thinks she left the ring on the soap dish – only she can’t remember when.
‘As she left,’ Egon continues, ‘she was keen to tell me that the Spanish influenza is making itself known again in Vienna, this time with a vengeance.’
‘I washed dishes yesterday,’ Edith says, retracing her steps. ‘I’d have taken it off then.’ She rubs the place on her finger where the ring had been. The skin there is indented and shiny.
‘Listen to me, Edith. It has spread around the globe. We need to be aware of these things. There’s a growing sense of panic. She left the newspaper.’ Egon passes it over. ‘Read it.’
Edith glances at the article. More than eighteen thousand people dead in Austria as a result of Spanish influenza. ‘It’s worrying, certainly. But I’m already late for the check-up you arranged with Von Graff,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to leave without my ring.’ Edith rubs a hand over her belly. ‘I’ll go to the market after to get food and fuel.’
The baby, at six months, moves often. Edith can feel its energy, so intense it crackles.
‘The article advises staying indoors and some say you should wear a flu mask when outside.’
‘Caution doesn’t suit you,’ Edith says. ‘And neither would a mask.’
‘Death wouldn’t suit me, either. Or you, for that matter,’ Egon replies. He joins her by the sink. ‘You always leave it in that saucer,’ he adds. ‘I’ve not touched it.’
‘This will be the same as the three-day fever in spring,’ Edith says. ‘People get it, but they recover. It’s the old and frail who are dying.’
‘That’s not true. Some think that Gustav died of it – that it’s what caused the pneumonia that put him in hospital.’ Egon pauses. ‘But reports say that people can die within hours of their first symptoms. Doctors are powerless; they’re blaming it on all sorts of things, from jazz music to the bombs disturbing graves and the soil releasing noxious gases.’
‘You won’t die, Egon. You’re only twenty-eight. You’re young, you’re strong.’
‘It’s the young who are susceptible. And women in your state have almost no defences against it,’ he warns. When there’s no response, he continues, ‘Edith, you’re not listening. The tram system is shut, schools are closing. People are confining themselves to their homes. They say this influenza will claim more lives than all those lost during the war.’
‘My state? We’ll freeze to death without firewood. We need to stock up. This is already the coldest winter since the turn of the century.’
‘Edith, I don’t want you to leave the house. I’m serious. I’ll send word and ask Dr von Graff to come here.’
‘In another few weeks, I’ll barely be able to walk. I need the exercise,’ she says.
‘Please, think of me, the baby,’ he begs. ‘Stay here, where it’s safe.’
Edith looks at the rain lashing against the window. Her shoes have started to pinch and she can’t replace them as leather is no longer available.
‘Fine. If you’re willing to send a request that he visit me here, then I’ll stay, wrapped in cotton wool. In the meantime, please, help me find my ring. I can’t bear to be without it.’
16
25 October 1918
Later that day, Edith is lying in bed, swathed in woollen blankets, reading a periodical and eating toasted war bread, which is dry and dusty because flour is so hard to come by. Crumbs tumble on to her rounded belly and, as she’s taking the final bite, she hears the bell. Egon goes to answer it. It will be the doctor. In truth, she’s quite pleased to have been saved the journey.
Edith waits to hear footsteps in the hallway, but there’s nothing. No voices or the sound of the door closing. Only an airborne energy, rippling. She sits up, brushing the crumbs to the floor. The mice will eat well tonight.
‘Egon?’ she shouts. ‘Who’s there?’ There’s no reply. Edith raises herself awkwardly. At six months, she’s becoming large and ungainly. She pulls her soft leather shoes on to save her bare feet the indignity of the cold floor, then lumbers out of the bedroom. She can hear Egon, speaking animatedly in a low voice. There’s anger in his tone. Urgency. He’s trying to calm someone down. A woman.
‘Adele?’ Edith says in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
Edith looks from her husband to her sister. Adele is on the threshold of their home, her expression wild. Egon has his hand on the door frame, as if trying to prevent her from coming any further.
‘Come in,’ Edith says cautiously. ‘I’ll catch a chill.’
‘Adele is leaving,’ Egon says.
‘Your husband won’t let me pass.’
‘What do you want?’ Edith asks.
‘I need to see you,’ Adele says.
‘She’s trying to cause trouble.’ Egon looks anguished.
‘Adele?’
‘I have news I want to share.’
‘Go back to bed, Edith,’ her husband says. ‘I’ll see to it that Adele leaves immediately.’
‘I’m not leaving!’
‘You are,’ Egon replies.
Egon tries to close the door but Adele worms her way around it. Edith feels something dark and porous gathering in the air.
‘I’m pregnant!’ Adele shouts to Edith as she turns away.
‘What did you say?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me who the father is?’ Adele demands.
Edith stops and takes a step back towards the door, closer to Egon and Adele.
‘It’s as you said, she’s not in her right mind,’ Egon says, reddening.
‘You’re not the only one who can be happy!’ Adele says defiantly.
‘Nothing ever happened between us!’
‘You couldn’t resist,’ Adele retorts, her eyes on Egon.
‘You’re lying,’ he swears.
The ground sways beneath Edith’s feet. This is unbearable.
‘Ah, but you made me promises,’ Adele says, her face up close to his.
‘Adele is insane. I’ve seen it before. She has all the signs.’
‘Bored, he was, of such a nice girl,’ Adele wheezes in Edith’s ear.
‘That’s not true!’ Egon musters, wedging himself in between the two of them.
Adele smiles at Edith, satisfied. ‘Some truths are too hard to handle.’
‘Edith, she’s a liar. She has lost her mind.’
‘One of us has to satisfy your husband,’ she hisses.
With all her strength, Edith slaps her sister across the face.
Adele straightens, a hand to her cheek, looking as if she doesn’t know what day it is.
‘Adele Harms,’ Edith spits, anger in each syllable. ‘You are the most poisonous person on the planet. I’d rather die than lay eyes on you again. I’m horrified to call you my sister. To think that I once looked up to you, that I loved you.’ Edith is trembling. ‘And you!’ She turns on Egon. ‘I don’t know what or who to believe any more. One of you is lying to me! My sister or my husband. It’s the greatest betrayal imaginable.’
Anger explodes in waves and she continues to shake. Edith pushes past both of them and runs out into the street. She’s not dressed for the weather and has no money, but she can’t bear to be around either of them for a second longer.
‘Edith, wait, it’s not what you think,’ Egon begs, coming after her, but Adele holds him back. ‘Please, give me a chance to explain,’ he calls out.
‘It’s not my fault your husband chose the wrong sister,’ Adele screams as Edith runs into the rain, her face burning, the baby kicking at her ribs.
17
25 October 1918
Edith walks the streets aimlessly, for an hour, two. Her feet are sodden, her hair wet, her hands ache with the cold. But she won’t go home. Adele’s words still ring in her ears. Over and over, she hears her nauseating voice. And with each exclamation, it’s as if the slap Edith so violently administered lands on her own cheek, rather than her sister’s.
Edith is beaten, exhausted, emptied of all permanence. It was all a pretence.
She is almost certain that Adele is lying, but the chill remains in Edith as if it were stitched into her bones.
Hand on heart, could Edith say that Egon wasn’t capable of doing such a thing, of hurting her in this unforgivable way? She thought he loved her. But can a man change? All the models he has been with over the years, the girl in Neulengbach, the way he’d discarded Vally. She had wanted to believe he could. But now, she can’t tell with any certainty, one way or another.
Edith passes theatres and concert halls, restaurants and drinking dens. Most of them are boarded up, a combination of the war and the fear around the influenza, but some smaller establishments offer bright lights, even on this murky day. There’s a bowling alley on the corner and a sign for a cabaret. Why did she always think these things were for other people? There’s so much life all around her. How is it that she has never lost control, always erred on the side of caution and care? And where has that got her?
The middle of a war, a pandemic, a challenging marriage, a poisonous sister, a pregnancy that could kill her if things don’t go well? What’s the point of living at all?
It’s raining harder by the time Edith arrives at Vienna’s Prater amusement park. The mud has splashed up to her knees, but pickpockets remain undeterred. She can be careless, though, as she has nothing left to steal. The space jostles with frenetic noise and energy. Edith roams past its eye-rolling contraptions – flying swing-chairs, wooden-horse carousels, a rickety roller-coaster and a ghost train. She has experienced frights enough for one day.
She is soaked through. She looks for refuge and finds it in the short queue for the giant Ferris wheel. The modern steel construction towers above, and she feels a flutter of trepidation, but it is the only sanctuary on offer. She’s at the front before she realizes she has no money. A grubby man with few teeth nods her past conspiratorially – he can see what state she’s in, and in that brief moment, she is grateful. She enters the red-painted wooden cabin as it swings to a stop.
Mercifully, she’s fully protected from the downpour there, entombed in a space where there are no choices left to be made. He slams the door shut behind her.
It’s only then that Edith casts her eyes over the frame and tightened bolts, and she wonders if the structure will hold. Could everything come crashing down, with her and this unborn baby in the middle of it? It cranks into motion and she feels the rattle through her body.
Edith holds her breath as the wheel moves along a fraction. Then the whole thing heaves into motion once more. Beneath her, the distance grows, until she’s high above Vienna, the autumnal trees and copper spires and familiar landmarks shrinking. She sees the purple-grey smudge of pigeons, red roofs streaked with rust, a bird’s-eye view of chimneys and grassland and cobbles. People moving through the rain become pinpoints on the ground. She sees tramlines, the city’s veins, and a weak horizon cut into the distance. This is her orbit. Up she goes, higher and higher. Near the top, the wind whistles through an open window, whipping her hair against her neck. The cabin rocks unsteadily, and she’s breathless, light-headed, scared of looking down. Her heart races, the baby twists, and she begins to pant.
Then she experiences the tipping point – a moment of balance before the descent – the sensation manifesting itself first in her belly. She puts her hand to her stomach, desperate, scared that somehow the baby is in danger, that it is all her fault. Why is she being so reckless?
She remembers, then, that she has been pushed to the edge by the people she loves most.
It takes less than half an hour for the wheel to complete its circuit. In that time, she has thought of death and love, of blood and betrayal, and where her loyalties lie.
Who can we trust in this world? Edith still hasn’t a clue.
She begins walking again. Where else can she go? She feels as if she were a homeless rambler, one of these unfortunate types who have frittered everything away and must wander the streets, with no chance of redemption or return. She is sure she’s mistaken for such a figure too, grubby as she has become, shivering and shaking. She warms her belly, thinking only of the baby, of its emerging limbs and eyes closed against the darkness inside her.
Edith approaches the market. Stalls are closing up for the evening, men and boys packing away the produce, piling up crates. She runs her hands over wrinkled fruit and meagre vegetables, the prices sky-high.
‘One for a pretty girl, down on her luck,’ a man says, putting his hand beneath his stall and pulling out an orange. He holds it out and she is transfixed. Edith sits down. He produces a knife to peel it. She’s so empty, and the juice is so sweet. It’s rare.
As she is leaving, she touches a stack of tall, brittle firewood, the only type that can be sourced during this sad war, and imagines the flames that will consume it, given time. They promise so much: life-giving warmth, and destruction.
A line that is so terribly fine.
18
25 October 1918
Edith knocks on the door. It’s almost midnight. Egon is there in less than a heartbeat.
‘Oh, my God, where were you? I’ve been looking all over the city.’
She stands there, shivering. Water drips from her nose.
‘Come in, right now,’ he says, hurrying her inside. ‘Get out of those wet clothes.’
Edith coughs into her blue hands. She’s finding it difficult to swallow. He leads her to the bedroom and removes her thin coat, then undoes the buttons of her dress and helps her step out of it. He pulls the shoes off her feet. He fetches a dry towel and runs it over her back, rubbing her for warmth. He follows the line of her arms, then puts it on her head to soak up the rain in her hair, which the downpour has turned a darker shade of blonde. Egon disappears and comes back with her silver-handled brush, then runs it through the length of her hair, brushing out the knots ever so gently.
‘Adele is lying,’ he says quietly, after a time. ‘She tried to kiss me. It was weeks ago. I turned her away. I told her she was insane to even consider it. I thought she’d get over it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I wanted to give her a second chance. But my rejection only made her more demanding. I know she loves you, but I’m certain she’s jealous about your pregnancy. Perhaps that pushed her over the edge? All I can say is that, if she is pregnant, it isn’t by me.’
Edith coughs again, wrapping her arms around herself.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she whispers.
In her wanderings, she had eventually concluded that she knows her sister; knows her sensitivities, her weaknesses, her bad side and the good. Edith understands the part she herself has played in cultivating the person Adele has become. She’s sorry, too, for everything.
‘She did tell me she was pregnant,’ Egon admits. ‘I sent her to my doctor friend. I wanted to help. All that talk of suitors and her reckless behaviour. But I’d no idea she was going around saying the baby was mine. That’s preposterous, Edith, you have to believe me.’
There’s nothing Edith can say. She has already made her choice.
‘I thought I was helping,’ he repeats. ‘I never touched her. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He stops. ‘Edith, look at me.’ He takes her face roughly in his hands. ‘We’re happy. We have a future. I wouldn’t do anything to risk that.’ He pulls her to him and she yields.
‘All is forgiven,’ she whispers, her voice hoarse. ‘I love you.’
If one of them is lying, then perhaps it stands to reason that at least one is also telling the truth. Edith holds on to that. She doesn’t want to draw a line down the middle. She will find a way back to them both, given time, given tenderness, given the strength to forgive the most terrible transgressions.
‘And I you,’ he whispers. ‘Eternally.’
The two of them curl up together on the bed, their bodies entwined. Egon wraps his arms around her and she kisses his wrist. The baby kicks. Edith places Egon’s hand to the movement. There’s something transcendent about the proximity of their beating hearts, three simultaneous pulses.
