The Silent Children

  THE SILENT

  CHILDREN

  AMNA K. BOHEIM

  Copyright © 2015 Amna K. Boheim

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  eISBN 978 1785893 995

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To those who have kept their silence.

  To those who have had the courage to speak out.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BIOGRAPHY

  CHAPTER ONE

  There it was, waiting for me. A letter. From her. My estranged mother.

  Cold, stark. Distant.

  As I walked into my apartment on Sunday, happy and relaxed after a sailing holiday in the Ionian Sea, a letter from my mother was the last thing I needed. Her stationery, her handwriting with its left to right sloping swirls, her preference for blue ink – none of it had lost its familiarity.

  For two days the envelope remained unopened on the table in my hallway. On the third day I forced myself to read it.

  Annabel Albrecht

  Himmelhofgasse 15, Ober St. Veit, Wien

  18th August 2004

  Dearest Max,

  I am writing to inform you that I am dying. The doctors, however, cannot tell me how long I have left – whether it’s a week or a month or a year.

  Reflection is something that comes naturally as one’s life comes to an end. I have thought a great deal about your long-gone father and brother – and, of course, I have been thinking of you. The reality is that I love you and always have done – you are, after all, my son.

  I recognise that in your eyes, I may not have been the best of mothers, and I know our last argument was particularly heated. But there are two things I want to ask of you – dying wishes, if you want to be sentimental about it. The first is for you to visit me so that I have the chance to explain everything. At the very least, please call me. The second is that I need your help. Enclosed is an old photograph taken just before the war. I remember the boy in the picture. I must find out if he is still alive. He has some information – a missing link – that I think will help reinforce my story.

  I’m not asking for sympathy or forgiveness. But I would like to hear your voice – better still, to see you one last time – so at least I can explain.

  Yours,

  Mama

  If I had felt any guilt or self-reproach when I began reading her letter, it was entirely consumed by anger by the time I got to the end.

  Almost a year before, we’d had a serious argument and we’d been estranged ever since. It was unlike our other quarrels, filled with general pettiness. On this occasion, her words, then mine, were laced with something more like hatred. Such was the nature of our row that if she were a man, I would have hit her. I couldn’t remember how it started, but I do remember her saying that she wished I had never been born. I had stormed out of her house and refused to speak to her until I got an apology. But none came, so our silence became the norm. Now, here she was with a letter, absent of apology, asking me to contact her – worse, to help her.

  A letter seemed too old-fashioned an approach to smooth over our rift, but then again, that was her style. Maternal instinct just wasn’t part of her make-up. From a young age, I had turned instead to her closest friend, Vivienne Fuchs; she was like family to both of us and more of a mother-figure to me. And my mother seemed to encourage it, never showing any jealousy or a wish to close the distance between us.

  The admission of love in her letter did surprise me. Even so, this supposed love that she was now pronouncing felt shallow, almost an afterthought. I had wondered if her own childhood had made her like this, if that was the reason for her destructive way when it came to our relationship. But my mother’s character was quite unique; it didn’t need excuses. Nor did I need her rambled explanations or lectures. Besides, if her desire to reach out to me was so important, then surely she should be the one to phone me.

  But I couldn’t help wondering: if this message of hers was so important to explain, why had she left it so late? So I put off the phone call. Usually work would have been a distraction, but with it being August, little was happening, and my mother’s words, and the strangeness of the photograph she had enclosed, teased away at my mind.

  Although faded in places, and dog-eared and creased, the black-and-white image was clear enough. At first glance, it was nothing more than an innocent picture of two children: a boy and a girl standing side by side in a garden. The girl was a little taller than her companion and had her head turned to one side, her eyes wide open as she laughed. There was a clarity about her, save for the whitish blur of her hands, suggesting she was engaged in an animated conversation with someone off camera. This girl was, of course, my mother, but a version I never knew, in the way she smiled with her eyes, her innocence, her ease with the world.

  The boy’s posture contrasted sharply with my mother’s. His arms, stiff and rigid, were clamped to his sides. He stared into the camera with no hint of a smile on his lips. Yet there was something else that troubled me. I studied the photograph more closely and found myself focusing on the boy’s expression: he looked whitewashed with fear.

  On the other side of the picture was a name and date – Oskar Edelstein ‘38 – written in pencil at the top. Underneath it, scrawled in black ink, were the words, You knew. The script was quite different from my mother’s neat hand. Even though the writing was childlike, there was something disturbing in the way those two words were written, with their forced indentation and jagged strokes, leaving an impression that I couldn’t shake off.

  By the end of the week I had resolved to call my mother.

  I picked up the phone, hesitating for a few seconds before dialling her number. I reread her letter while the low beeps of the Austrian ringtone sounded down the line. Just as I was about to hang up, my mother’s housekeeper, Ludmilla, answered:

  ‘Albrecht Residence.’

  ‘It’s Max. Is my mother there?’

  Ludmilla replied with a stifled cry.

  ‘Hello, Ludmilla?’

  ‘Oh Max. I …’ She cleared her throat.

  ‘What is it? Ludmilla? What’s happened?’

  ‘Your mother passe
d away last night. Frau Fuchs is here …’

  There was a scuffle with the telephone receiver and a muffled conversation. Then Vivienne came on the line.

  ‘Max? I was just about to call you. I’m so very sorry.’

  OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1937

  Annabel stands on her tiptoes by the window, her head barely rising above the windowsill. It’s chilly and although the little seven-year-old is wearing bed socks and a thick nightdress, she shivers. It’s no use: she’s far too short to see anything more than the spiky silhouettes of the treetops. Quietly, she grabs the stool in the corner, her cherubic hands gripping the edge as she struggles to carry it without making a sound. Heaven help her if Maria hears her. She sets it under the window and clambers up on her knees.

  That’s better.

  She presses her nose to the glass, the warm air from her nostrils and open mouth casting miniature clouds on the windowpane. She’s lucky it’s a clear night. The half-formed moon washes a glow across the sky, but she still has to strain her eyes to look into the garden below.

  Annabel’s certain she heard something. She’d struggled to go back to sleep, awoken by Mama’s return home from dinner with the Zuckerkandls at the Palais Leben-Auspitz. Mama’s kiss, her accompanying heady mix of spiced perfume, cigarettes and the sweet hint of wine, stirred Annabel from a dream of dancing elephants and Oskar and Eva dressed as pirates. And just as sleep drew her away, she thought she heard an animal scream out in the night. Well, she couldn’t ignore it, could she?

  But it’s no use; there’s nothing to see.

  Wait a minute! She sees a flash of light bobbing in the dark, then glimpses a white shirt limping along and the shiny crown of a bald spot.

  ‘I know you,’ says Annabel, moving a lock of her blonde hair out of her eyes. Maybe Fritz, their butler, is on some errand for Papa. It must be important, as it’s awfully late. Her gaze follows him as he strides across the lawn. He stops, then looks over his shoulder. Annabel ducks down for a moment; then slowly, she raises her head and takes a peek again.

  ‘Papa!’ She could squeal in delight, for she hasn’t seen him in days. Annabel would run out to him if she knew no one would wake up, but she daren’t because it’ll make Maria cross. She’ll just have to wait until morning, when he’ll come into her room to say hello.

  Now Papa’s rubbing his head with a towel, and she thinks he looks funny in his shirtsleeves and with his braces hanging down. He must have had a long journey home. He was in Germany – Munich or somewhere – Annabel couldn’t really remember, although she’d asked him, and had asked Mama a dozen times while he was away, which drove Mama quite mad.

  Papa turns to Fritz and puts an arm around his shoulder and Annabel sees the lava tip of their cigarettes hovering in the night.

  Last Christmas, Papa had given Fritz a sum of money so he could buy a house for his family, declaring, ‘Fritz, you’re like family to us and a brother to me.’ Annabel and Mama had stood there in the kitchen as Papa made his speech, going on for far too long as usual, his hands clutching the butler’s hand as if he were unwilling to let go. Annabel’s tummy had rumbled and she’d shifted from foot to foot, wondering how on earth Papa could have a brother when they’d all died in the Great War. Mama soon clarified things though.

  ‘What rubbish,’ she had said quietly in Annabel’s ear. ‘Your Papa always comes out with these things whenever he drinks too much port.’

  Well, that made far more sense and Annabel had just giggled.

  She likes Fritz, but amongst the ones downstairs it’s Eva she absolutely adores.

  Annabel’s drawn back to Papa and Fritz out in the garden, smoking. Papa still has his arm around Fritz’s shoulders. Heaviness lines Annabel’s eyelids. She yawns then slides off the stool to climb back into bed. Drawing the bed sheets up to her chin, she fights the Sandman to stay awake, for the excitement of Papa’s return is just too much.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.’

  The priest’s words felt like frigid water dousing me. I looked down at the walnut coffin. Too polished, I thought. The priest made the sign of the cross. Others followed suit. I didn’t.

  It was strange to think of my mother lying cold in what was really a glorified wooden box. Lifeless. Silent. Her words, her mannerisms reserved for memory alone. I glanced up and caught Vivienne’s eye. She mustered a half-smile which I reciprocated.

  I was an outsider observing an alien ritual. I surveyed the other mourners flocked around my mother’s resting place in Hietzinger Friedhof, their dress and solemnity complementing the bleak September day that threatened rain. There were one or two familiar faces, now etched with age. A couple betrayed their desire to leave with a shuffle of their feet. Others dabbed at their eyes. An old flame of my mother’s cast a white lily into the grave. I watched as it landed on top of the coffin. Then he threw a handful of earth inside and glanced at me to ask if I wished to do the same. I shook my head, catching the shadow of disapproval crossing his face. I disliked these burial rites, as well as my family’s neoclassical memorial with its golden relief of the Son of God. They removed any sense of meaning. It was as if they were telling me what I should feel for my dead mother.

  The formalities fulfilled, people turned to leave. Soon it was just Vivienne and me left to pay our final respects. At that moment I was aware of very little other than the morning breeze on my face and Vivienne’s rose-scented perfume.

  I regarded my mother’s name – Annabel Maria Konstantina Albrecht – engraved on the stone underneath those of my ancestors.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Vivienne.

  I looked up at her. She was quite different from my mother. Age had softened her features but her eyes remained the same: bright emeralds – that was how I had referred to them as a child. My gaze wandered back to the headstone.

  ‘She just wouldn’t …’ I took off my glasses, wiping them as I considered my mother’s reasons for leaving the way she did. ‘She didn’t even leave a note.’

  ‘I know, Max.’ Vivienne said. ‘She knew death was close by. Perhaps she wanted to meet it on her own terms.’

  I kicked at the gravel. ‘Is it wrong to feel so numb?’

  Vivienne touched me on the arm, as if to say, Enough.

  I glanced back towards the grave once more. There were no grandparents, aunts or uncles from either side to speak of. I was all that remained of Familie Albrecht-Gissing.

  We turned to wander down the narrow pathway towards the cemetery’s exit, glancing at the headstones, memorials and vaults weathered by time: Olbrich, Novotny, Moravec, Schmidt, Wagner. Names relegated to history. There was one in particular that caught my eye: a sombre memorial to Feist, the final resting place of three family members, including Chanoo Wolfgang. He too had passed away in the same car accident that had killed my brother and father. Chanoo: the first name stood out amongst the Germanic and Eastern European names.

  ‘He was your first friend. Do you remember?’ said Vivienne.

  ‘Vaguely,’ I said. ‘I must have been four or five. I was in the garden, playing, laughing, when Mama came running out to me with something like fear, or perhaps anger, on her face. I can’t remember. Anyway, she grabbed hold of me by the shoulders, almost shook me.’ I turned to Vivienne. ‘Who were you talking to? That’s what she’d said. And I remember her eyes. There was something wild about them. But I didn’t understand. So she asked me again, this time really shaking me. I was confused, so I said the first name that came into my head: Chanoo.’

  ‘And then you cried,’ said Vivienne.

  ‘Were you there?’

  She nodded. ‘It was three, maybe four months after they died. I ran out to you and Annabel. She was holding you tight, whispering to you.’

  ‘Meine Maus. Do you remember? That was Mama’s pet name for me. I’m sorry, meine Maus, so sorry, she had said.’ I squinted away the light reflecting in my glas
ses. ‘She’d stroked my hair, then let go of me. She’d tried to smile, but I could see she was crying.’ I offered my arm to Vivienne and she looped her hand through it, blotting her tears as we headed to the cemetery exit.

  ‘When your father and brother passed away, it was a terrible time. But your mother’s bravery, the way she recovered … Well, it was admirable.’

  ‘Was it?’

  She nodded. ‘She worked so hard to protect you from all of that darkness. You see, she wanted so much for you to do well. And you did.’ She looked up at me, wearing a momentary smile.

  I knew Vivienne was right. For all her distance, my mother had nurtured my ambition; she wanted me to go to the US. She even showed a glimmer of joy at the news of my place at Princeton – that much I recalled.

  Vivienne hugged me. ‘When I look at you I see you have the best of both your parents.’ She was referring to my eyes, which mirrored the arctic blue of my mother’s. With her near symmetrical features, her fair hair and skin, those eyes of my mother’s had lent her a glacial air. On me, perhaps it was the darker features inherited from my father that blunted their edge. But there were mannerisms of mine that reminded me of my mother, my frown amongst them. Over the years I had tried hard to change them, to diminish the connection with her, but I could never quite get rid of them.

  At the gates, friends of my mother’s offered their condolences. In hushed voices they shared reminiscences, piquing my curiosity with their mosaic of memories, commenting on her sense of humour, her mischief, her taste in art and her coveted collection. My curiosity soon gave way to quiet impatience and I itched to leave. In that regard, my mother had saved me. She hadn’t wanted an after-service gathering. She’d always thought them a waste of time. Quite depressing, really, she had said in the past. The whispered conversations, as if people have a fear of waking the dead.

  As we watched the last car leave, Vivienne turned to me. ‘Do you want to drive by the house? We can go together, if you like.’