In the Claws of the Eagle (14 page)

Erich and Herbert hardly dared to breathe.

‘It looks good!’

Relief flooded through them. Erich pounded Herbert on the back in delight. Joining Stephan was easy; they would slide
along the rope like a cable car, pulling themselves towards him. Once they pulled the rope after them, however, there would be no going back.

Light was just creeping into the valley below when the three climbers came together on a perilous ledge and looked up. A cleft, like an open book, soared above them. Clearly this was the way to the summit; the only trouble was that it was choked with fresh snow.

‘Before we cut off our retreat I’m going to test that snow,’ Stephan said. He probed ahead with his ice axe. Perhaps it was this, perhaps it was the sound of his voice, but at that moment they heard a snap and a rumble. While the others hauled Stephan bodily back onto the ledge and hunched over him, the whole mass of snow began to move. Compressed air from the avalanche snatched at them as the night’s snow thundered past them down the cleft, to burst out over the face below.

Down in the valley the watchers rushed out. Could anybody on the face have withstood such an event? Two rescue parties got ready, one to search the avalanche debris, and the other to climb up by the west ridge to see what help might be given from the top. Against all advice, the German camera crew went too.

Out of sight from below, hidden in the now snow-free cleft, the three climbers began to edge their way up, rope’s-length after rope’s-length. For six hours they battled against gravity. As the day warmed, stones, loosened from the melting ice,
rattled
and crashed down the cleft, leaving a smell of gunpowder in the air. Fortunately it was so steep that the stones usually bounced clear, buzzing past them like dangerous bees. They reached their last obstacle at about the same time as, unknown to them, their would-be rescuers arrived at the summit. A huge overhanging wave of frozen snow – the cornice – hid them from above and blocked their exit from the face.

Stephan, exhausted, asked Erich to take the lead. Somehow he would have to burrow through this roof of snow without bringing the whole lot of it down on himself and his
companions
. Working with his ice axe above his head, snow pouring over him and down his neck, he cut into the snow above. Black spots of exhaustion danced in front of his eyes. When at last he could see light shining through the snow he knew that with one more blow he would be through, but would that last blow bring the cornice crashing down? Working delicately, he shaved through the last inches. Blue sky filled the opening circle above him. He dug in his axe and lifted his shoulders clear, one careful heave and he would be out. At that moment he heard a shout. There were people up here on the summit. Someone had seen him emerging, and was running towards him.

‘Stop!’ he roared. ‘Get back! You’re on the cornice!’

There were other warning shouts too. The man halted a few yards away, a hand out as if to help. Erich blinked; surely he was hallucinating. It looked like Klaus Steinman! Erich shut the hallucination from his mind and wriggled out of his hole like a seal on to ice. And like a seal he humped himself away from the delicate cornice. When he was sure he was on solid snow he drove the shaft of his ice axe deep into it, looped the rope around it, and gave two sharp pulls to tell Stephan it was safe to come on up.

Even while he was drawing in Stephan’s rope, the Klaus figure was around him, trying to shake his hand, even to help pull on the rope. Then he was gone; the alpine guides had moved in to keep the area clear.

Stephan emerged, hardly able to heave himself over the edge, and then Herbert. Now the guides were all about them, shaking hands, offering hot drinks, and sincere words of congratulation.

Erich only gradually became aware that Klaus was real. He could see him now, talking animatedly to the lens of a camera, dressed head to toe in fashionable climbing gear. One of the camera crew came over to ask the climbers to pose for them. Love of the world and affection for his companions was
flooding
Erich: this was the moment of euphoria that made climbers climb. Let them do what they wanted. He had no idea what he was saying to the camera. Klaus posed the questions, and
provided
answers for him when he hesitated. He agreed that this was a triumph for the Greater Germany, after all Herbert was a German. He put his arms over the shoulders of his fellow climbers and they smiled as best they could with cracked lips and wind-stiffened faces.

None of them saw the newsreel film as it was shown in German cinemas, where the mountain appeared to be hung about with swastikas, and where it wasn’t all that clear whether Klaus Steinman was or wasn’t one of the party; he was
certainly
the best dressed.

‘Louise,’ Izaac said, ‘I think I should propose to Gretchen.’

‘And about time too!’ said Louise in return. ‘What have you been waiting for?’

‘Perhaps I felt I was too old for her.’

‘Nonsense, what is she now, twenty-three, for your
t
wenty-seven
? What’s four years! When will you ask her?’

‘I thought I would go out to Mödling. Perhaps I should see her father first. He might object.’

‘Not from what I’ve heard her saying, but her half-brother Klaus would be another matter. Off you go then; you can do this one on your own.’

When Izaac had gone, Louise stretched her arms wide, then hugged hersel in pure joy at their future happiness together. She had grown very fond of Gretchen, just as she had loved Colette nearly a century and a half ago. Izaac and she would be perfect for each other. Gretchen might look as light as
thistledown
, but she had a steely quality that Izaac needed.

Every clang of the bell as the tram to Mödling swayed out of town had nice associations for Izaac. He hadn’t telegraphed or phoned; he wanted this to be a surprise. His pulse was racing. He rang the bell and braced himself for Gretchen’s father, as a man’s footsteps rang on the tiles in the hall. The door was
opened by a far younger man; after the bright light outside all Izaac could see was an outline, fair hair perhaps. Taken aback, he stammered:

‘Is Herr Wachter at home?’ He felt the man look him up and down.

‘No. Would you like to speak to my mother?’

‘Thank you.’ The man turned and disappeared down the hall. This must be Klaus, Gretchen’s half brother!

‘Mother, there’s a man at the door. One of Fred’s Jewish friends.’ Frau Wachter appeared, drying her hands on her apron.

‘Why! That’s Izaac!’ She hurried forward and joined him on the doorstep. Izaac wondered why she didn’t ask him to come in; she was usually most welcoming. ‘Izaac, how are you? You’re looking for Frederick. I’m afraid he has taken Gretchen away for the week, they … ’ She pulled the door discreetly behind her. ‘My son Klaus is here, so they know I’ll be looked after.’ Izaac understood; Gretchen and Klaus were at daggers drawn, and she absented herself as much as possible
whenever
he came to stay. It was a huge disappointment. He
realised
that Frau Wachter didn’t really want to ask him in. It was a pity; he’d have been interested to talk to the dreadful Klaus.

‘Thank you so much, Frau Wachter. Please give Herr Wachter my regards; I will call again later.’ As he turned he looked at his watch. It would be an hour before the next Bim.

Klaus stepped back as his mother closed the door.

‘Is that Izaac Abrahams, Gretchen’s violinist?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We’re all very fond of him.’ It was bravely said. Frau Wachter was frightened of Klaus, the son who had been
virtually
taken away from her at birth by her former husband and had ended up living in Hitler’s nest of loyal followers in Munich.

‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Klaus. ‘Come to think of it, Erich and I are planning a visit to Vienna. I’ll call in on Erich now and we can take the Bim in together. Perhaps I’ll introduce myself to Herr Abrahams.’

‘Remember, he’s been very good to Gretchen!’

‘Good
to
her perhaps, but not good
for
her, I think.’

Oh dear, thought Frau Wachter.

Erich was only too glad to interrupt his studies and join Klaus on a trip into town. They had to hurry to get the Bim and then Klaus seemed keen not to be seen by some other
passenger
in the front compartment. What was Klaus up to? He
chatted
away, but when they got off, Erich got the impression that they were following someone. There were times when you didn’t ask Klaus questions.

Izaac walked home through the Volksgarten, as he did
whenever
he wanted to think. How would he propose? On one knee with clasped hands, or catch Gretchen during his snake dance and propose in its coils. He loved to make her laugh, the stars laughed when she laughed like that. He smiled to
himself
; he must think out something special for her. All at once he realised that there was someone in his path; he stepped to one side with a murmured apology. The figure moved too,
blocking
his way. Izaac looked up … a friend perhaps? No, a stranger: tall, fair, good-looking in an Aryan sort of way. But there was something familiar about him.

‘Pardon,’ Izaac said.

‘No, Mr Abrahams, no pardon, not for you!’

‘Excuse me, I don’t understand.’

‘You will!’

‘Have we met?’ asked Izaac warily.

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

It was coming back to Izaac now: wood smoke, small boys, a tall mocking youth. ‘Yid … Yid …’ it was all coming back to him.

‘I think our dislike may be mutual,’ he said, and noticed a flash of anger cross the man’s face, but he had stood up to
hostile
audiences, he would stand up to this man.

‘From now, Herr Abrahams, from this minute, you are to break off all relations with my sister Gretchen. That is an order!’

Izaac almost fell back in shock. This man, the man who had opened the door to him in Mödling, the murderous youth who had ambushed him and Louise up in the Wienerwald, were one and the same: Gretchen’s half-brother Klaus!

Regaining some of his composure, Izaac asked what he now knew to be an unnecessary question, ‘Why?’

‘Because you are a Jew!’

‘That’s no answer, and anyway Gretchen can answer for herself.’

‘It
is
an answer! It is
my
answer!’ The man was pushing his face closer and closer to Izaac’s. ‘Because I care for the purity of my
blood
!’

‘Only half, if I remember rightly.’

Klaus’s face drained white with anger. ‘I will not be talked to like that by a Jew. The very thought of your polluting paws on any girl of our pure race revolts and sickens me. You have
corrupted
her mind; you will not have her body. I would kill her before I let you near her, and I mean it! I don’t care about you; you are
untermenschen
– subhuman – as far as I am
concerned
. It is she who I will drag through the mire for betraying our race.’ With that, Klaus turned on his heel and srode off.

For a moment, righteous indignation rose like gall in Izaac’s throat; he would follow that man and tear him apart with his hands, but in his mind he heard a mental
click
. It was the click
that one domino makes when it falls against another. As a child he used to make long curving chains of them, and then when they were ready, give the first one a push: click … click … click. Down they would go until the last one fell. Ever since he had first met Gretchen he had been building this chain, domino after domino, while denying that anything could topple it. He had been an Austrian first, a Jew second. He had made himself part of the Austrian dream of music and civilisation. All it had taken to topple the domino chain was to reverse the names: a Jew first, an Austrian last. Klaus meant what he said; he would go for Gretchen, not him, and feel righteous in doing so. How could he propose to Gretchen now? How could he expose her to this? The last domino was down.

‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Erich asked when Klaus joined him at the circular fountain in the Volksgarten. He noticed that Klaus’s face had that unpleasant death’s head look that he remembered from their first meeting in the woods above his home.

‘Never mind, a family matter. Come, we are going for a little walk. I have something to show you. It’s time you had your eyes opened to what’s going on in this country.’

They set off at a great pace towards the Hofburg palace, passing the statue of Archduke Karl on his prancing horse, and then plunged through the high arched passage into the inner city.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Erich.

‘It doesn’t really matter, Erich,
they
are everywhere.’

‘Who? The Jews?’

‘You’re learning! Come, let’s try a bank.’

Inside the marble interior he lowered his voice. ‘Now, look at the tellers: Jews to a man, what did I tell you? Shh!’

A young official came up to them. ‘Can I help you,
gentlemen
?’

‘Yes,’ said Klaus, ‘I was wondering if you have any
vacancies
?’

‘I can’t say, sir; if you will follow me, I will consult with my superior.’ He led them into an anteroom. ‘He won’t be a moment. To pass the time while you wait you might like to tot up the columns on this sheet; it won’t take you a minute.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ whispered Klaus. Erich dug him in the ribs; there was a second candidate sitting in the room. Klaus ran a pencil professionally down the columns, entering the answers with a flourish. Erich was impressed. At that moment a more senior manager, every inch the Jew to Erich’s eye, entered. With elaborate courtesy he collected the sheets of tots from the two candidates and examined them briefly. Then he turned to Klaus and explained that unfortunately they didn’t have a vacancy at present, perhaps some other time. Then he turned to the other candidate.

‘Herr Korngold, this way, if you please.’

‘What did I tell you? A Jew, jobs for the boys!’ hissed Klaus as they emerged. ‘No Aryans need apply.’ As they walked down the street, Klaus managed to find a Jew in every shop they looked into. ‘Now we will have a cup of coffee.’

Erich held back; they were outside one of the most
expensive
cafés in Vienna. He hoped Klaus was going to pay. As they sat with their tiny
mocha
coffees they gazed at the
well-heeled
women at the surrounding tables.

‘They look like overfed Vienna to me.’

‘Yes, but, this is a Jewish café! Do you know why they are here?’ Erich shook his head. ‘This is where Freud, the Jewish psychoanalyst, comes. These women are his patients; he tells them that they are sexually repressed, and they love it. Don’t you see, even the doctors are at it; systematically corrupting
our nationhood. These women should be at home, breeding, and feeding the nation, not listening to filth in a Jew’s surgery.’