The Sky Beneath Her(39)
The Germans had entered Austria in 1938, shortly after my husband and I had married. Many, like my husband, had rejoiced. They welcomed the Germans as saviors. Others, like me, feared what would come next.
As the spring of 1938 turned to summer, I’d questioned Alfred about Germany’s annexation of Austria. He was impatient when he said, “Don’t ask so many questions. Let me worry about such things.”
By fall, many of the Jewish shops had been smashed or burned during Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Others of the faith were forced to scrub the streets. Ration allotments were reduced. Children had to leave school. I had seen nothing good after the arrival of the Germans. But I was too consumed with surviving the dark waters of my marriage.
After I’d lost my first pregnancy, I was very ill with a fever for days. But even in my delirium, I’d been so grateful. Fearing Alfred would want more children, I realized I most likely couldn’t have more. When I finally recovered, I packed a bag and took a taxi to the train station. I was in my train compartment, counting the seconds to departure.
And then Alfred walked onto the car. He was calm, smiling. Without a word, he took my arm and hauled me out of my seat. He pressed his lips close to my ear.
“Don’t make a scene,” he said easily.
“I don’t want to go home.” My words were awash with fear.
“You’re upset over the loss of our child,” he said. “I’ll forgive you this lapse. But don’t test me.”
No one in the car stood or spoke out. Vienna had been gripped with fear and tension ever since the failed civil war in 1934. We’d all learned to avoid trouble, attention, and the police.
Alfred pulled me from the car, through the train station, and toward a gleaming black Mercedes. Inside the car, I met the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His gaze registered my panic and then shifted to the bustling road ahead.
“The next time I catch you running, I will break your feet.” Alfred lifted an imaginary thread from my shoulder. “Soon we’ll make another child. Soon you’ll give me a son.”
The thought of children in this marriage terrified me.
The driver didn’t drive us directly home, but we detoured through a small neighborhood filled with small, modest town houses. Next, we passed my uncle’s shop.
The windows had been smashed, and amid the shattered glass on the sidewalk lay burned books that still smoldered from the fire. My one refuge was gone.
“Such a shame,” Alfred whispered.
Oddly, after that day, Alfred was kind and attentive. He bought me a one-of-a-kind ruby bracelet, which he’d proudly looped around my wrist at a candlelit dinner. The stones and gold carried the weight of a manacle.
From then on, I walked on eggshells. Under the tentative peace with Alfred swirled a temper as violent as the undercurrents of the lower Danube’s Iron Gate gorge. It was only a matter of time before he destroyed me.
I’d begun to plan and think how I’d escape. I had no allies in Alfred’s circle, but there was the woman who’d come into the bookshop to sell her rare books. She had connections in every corner of the underworld.
The Oceanus’ upper deck horn screamed. I woke up, fists clenched, cringing as I lunged forward in my bunk. The sudden move crimped my swollen belly, forcing me back. I looked around my cabin, anchoring myself in the familiar.
My breathing calmed, and I rose and pushed back the curtain. The sun was high in the sky. I had slept the night away. A first since Vienna. The ocean had rocked me gently to sleep and held me there all night as the ship took me farther away from Vienna. Soon, I would not be confined, and the vast world would open to me.
The hallways were quiet, giving me a chance to hurry to the toilet down the hall and use the facilities. Back in my room, I washed my face in the basin and took time to comb my hair. My stomach grumbled, and as much as I wanted to avoid people, hunger got the better of me. I dressed in a simple navy blue dress and my brown shoes.
As I walked toward the stairs, I heard the fading sounds of a laughing couple. At the dining level, the chatter of conversations and the clink of dishes greeted me.
The steward looked up at me, frustration etched in the lines of his face. I was tardy again for another meal.
“I only have one seat available now,” he said. “And you’ll have to share the table.”
I considered who this person might be. I thought about the DuPonts and the woman who reminded me of Vienna. If I wanted to eat, I had no choice but to share. “Of course.”
He escorted me around the side of the room toward a small table near the kitchen doors. Thankfully, most everyone was so busy eating or looking out at the ocean that no one noticed me.
My breakfast companion had laid his or her napkin by the plate, a sign they would return. I took my seat and accepted a menu from the waiter. As he poured coffee from a silver pot, I ordered eggs, toast, and whatever fruit was available.
I stared out the porthole. The vast waves rolled, turning in on themselves. There was no end in sight.
In Vienna, I could stand at the shore of the Danube and stare at the other side. But the Atlantic was so vast, but not too large for the submarines to find the Oceanus.
Submarines ran more efficiently on the surface using diesel engines. But once they submerged to pursue a target, those engines became useless. Underwater, they relied on electric power, which cut their speed in half.