The Redbreast(152)

after a long illness in 1953 and Herr Lang the same

autumn in a car accident. Helena sold the business

in 1955 and left the country without any

explanation to anyone. I can remember the day. It

was 15 May, Austria’s liberation day.’

Fritz saw Harry’s curious expression and

explained.

‘Austria is a little unusual. Here we don’t

celebrate the day Hitler capitulated, but the day the

Allies left the country.’

Beatrice spoke about how she had received news

of Helena’s death.

‘We hadn’t heard from her for more than twenty

years when one day I received a letter postmarked

Paris. She was there on holiday with her husband

and daughter, she wrote. It was a kind of final

journey, I realised. She didn’t say where she had

settled down, whom she had married or what

illness she had. Only that she hadn’t long to live

and she wanted me to light a candle for her in

Stephansdom. She was an unusual person, Helena

was. She was seven years old when she came to

me in the kitchen and turned these grave eyes on

me. “Humans were created by God to love,” she

said.’

A tear ran down the old lady’s lined cheek.

‘I’ll never forget it. Seven years old. I think she

decided then and there how she was going to live

her life. And even though it definitely wasn’t as

she had imagined and her trials were many and

sore, I’m convinced she believed it to the bottom

of her heart all her life – that humans were created

by God to love. That’s how she was.’

‘Do you still have the letter?’ Harry asked.

She wiped away her tears and nodded.

‘I have it in my room. Let me sit here and

reminisce a little. We can go there afterwards. By

the way, this will be the first hot night of the year.’

They sat in silence, listening to the rustle of the

branches and the small birds singing as the sun

went down behind Sophienalpe, as each of them

thought of those gone before. Insects jumped and

danced in the pillars of light under the trees. Harry

thought about Ellen. He spotted a bird he could

have sworn was the flycatcher he had seen pictures

of in the bird book.

‘Let’s go,’ said Beatrice.

Her room was small and plain, but light and snug.

A bed stood against the back wall, which was

covered with pictures of all sizes. Beatrice

rummaged through some papers in a large

dressing-table drawer.

‘I have a system, so I’ll find it,’ she said.

Naturally, Harry thought.

At that moment his eyes fell on a photograph in a

silver frame.

‘Here’s the letter,’ Beatrice said.

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the photograph

and didn’t react until he heard her voice right

behind him.

‘That photograph was taken while Helena was

working at the hospital. She was beautiful, wasn’t

she?’

‘Yes, she was,’ Harry said. ‘There’s something

oddly familiar about her.’

‘Nothing odd about her,’ Beatrice said. ‘They’ve

been painting her on icons for almost two thousand

years.’

It was a hot night. Hot and sultry. Harry tossed and turned in the four-poster, threw the blanket on the

floor and pulled the sheet off the bed as he tried to

shut out all his thoughts and sleep. For a moment he

had considered the minibar, but then he

remembered he had taken the minibar key off the

ring and handed it in to reception. He heard voices

in the corridor outside. Someone grabbed the

handle of his door and he shot up in bed, but no

one came in. Then the voices were inside, their

breath hot against his skin, the ripping sound of

clothes being shredded, but when he opened his

eyes he saw flashes of light and he knew it was

lightning.

A rumble of thunder, sounding like distant

explosions, came first from one part of town, then

another. He went to sleep again and kissed her,

took off her white nightdress. Her skin was white

and cold and uneven from sweating, from the

terror; he held her for a long, long time until she

was warm, until she came back to life in his arms,

like a flower filmed over a whole spring and then

played back at breakneck speed.

He continued to kiss her, on the neck, on the

inside of her arms, on the stomach, not with

insistence, not even teasingly, but half to comfort

her, half comatose, as if he could vanish at any

moment. And when she followed, waveringly,

because she thought it was safe where they were

going, he continued to lead her until they arrived in

a landscape not even he recognised, and when he

turned it was too late and she threw herself into his

embrace, cursing him, begging him and tearing at

him with her strong hands until his skin bled.