rising again.
‘Because you looked it in the eye, Herr
Brockhard. A horse perceives eye contact as
provocative, as if it and its status in the herd are
not being respected. If it cannot avoid eye contact,
it will react in a different way, by rebelling for
example. In dressage you don’t get anywhere by
not showing respect, however superior your
species might be. Any animal trainer can tell you
that. In the mountains in Argentina there’s a wild
horse which will jump off the nearest precipice if
any human tries to ride it. Goodbye, Herr
Brockhard.’
She took a seat at the back of the Mercedes and,
trembling, breathed in deeply as the car door was
gently closed behind her. As she was driven down
the avenue in Lainz Zoo, she closed her eyes and
saw André Brockhard’s stiff figure obscured by
the cloud of dust behind them.
34
Vienna. 28 June 1944.
‘GUTEN ABEND, MEINE HERRSCHAFTEN.’
The small, slim head waiter made a deep bow
and Helena tweaked Uriah’s arm as he couldn’t
stop laughing. They had been laughing all the way
from the hospital because of the commotion they
had been causing. It turned out Uriah was a terrible
driver and so Helena had told him to stop
whenever they met a car on the narrow road down
to the Hauptstraße. Instead Uriah had leaned on the
horn, with the result that the oncoming cars had
driven into the verge or had pulled over.
Fortunately there were not that many cars still on
the road in Vienna, so they arrived safe and sound
at Weihburggasse in the centre before 7.30.
The head waiter glanced at Uriah’s uniform
before checking, with a deeply furrowed brow, the
reservations book. Helena looked over his
shoulder. The buzz of conversation and laughter
under the crystal chandeliers hanging from the
arched yellow ceilings supported on white
Corinthian pillars was only just drowned out by
the orchestra.
So this is Zu den drei Husaren, she mused with
pleasure. It was as if the three steps outside had
magically led them from a war-ravaged city into a
world where bombs and other tribulations were of
minor importance. Richard Strauss and Arnold
Schönberg must have been regular patrons here, for
this was the place where the rich, the cultivated
and the free-thinkers of Vienna met. So free-
thinking that it had never crossed her father’s mind
to take the family there.
The head waiter cleared his throat. Helena
realised that he had been unimpressed by Uriah’s
rank of Vizekorporal and was perhaps puzzled by
the strange foreign name in the book.
‘Your table is ready. Please follow me,’ he said
with a strained smile, picking up two menus on his
way. The restaurant was packed.
‘Here you are.’
Uriah smiled at Helena with resignation. They
had been given an unlaid table beside the swing
door into the kitchen.
‘Your waiter will be with you in a moment,’ the
head waiter said and evaporated into thin air.
Helena looked around and began to chuckle.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘That was our original table.’
Uriah turned. Absolutely right: in front of the
orchestra a waiter was already clearing a table set
for two.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I might have put Major
before my name when I phoned to book. I was
relying on your radiance to outshine my lack of
rank.’
She took his hand and at that moment the
orchestra struck up a merry Hungarian Csardas.
‘They must be playing for us,’ he said. ‘Maybe
they are.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘If not, it doesn’t
matter. They’re playing gypsy music. It’s
wonderful when it’s played by gypsies. Can you
see any?’
He shook his head, his eyes intent on studying her
face as if it were important he registered every
feature, every crease of skin, every strand of hair.
‘They’ve all gone,’ she said. ‘Jews, too. Do you
think the rumours are true?’
‘Which rumours?’
‘About the concentration camps.’
He shrugged.
‘There are all sorts of rumours during war. As for
myself, I would feel quite safe in Hitler’s
captivity.’
The orchestra began to play a song for three
voices in a strange language. A couple of people in
the audience sang along.
‘What’s that?’ Uriah asked.
‘A Verbunkos,’ Helena said. ‘A kind of soldiers’
song, just like the Norwegian one you sang on the
train. Songs to recruit young Hungarian men to the
Rákóczi war of independence. What are you
laughing at?’
‘At all the unusual things you know. Can you
understand what they are singing too?’