The Snow Waltz

Chapter One

Echoes of Vienna

Christmas Eve, Piccadilly, London, England, December 1941.

In this the third winter of the war, tonight, here on the bustling thoroughfare which was Piccadilly, one of the widest and straightest streets of London, the acrid stench of burning hung heavily in the cold, chill air of the December evening.

Stretching from Hyde Park Corner in the west, as far as Piccadilly Circus in the east, save for where it was bordered by Green Park, for most of its length, Piccadilly was lined by an unbroken array of magnificent buildings, built of brick and stone, some even five or six storeys high. Among which, were hotels such as the Ritz, the Park Lane, and the Athenaeum. Gentlemen's and servicemen's clubs could be found here too, including St. James's, the Royal Air Force, the Turf, the Cavalry, and the United Empire, among many others. Even the Bachelors, the membership of this last restricted, as might be expected from its name, to those who were unmarried; although it was whispered that behind its closed doors and shuttered windows, some of its members were rather more "confirmed" bachelors than were the rest.

There were offices and shops, along with department stores such as Fortnum and Mason, Simpsons, and Swan and Edgar. And then there were the restaurants: the Café Royal, and the Criterion, as well as other rather more affordable tea shops and cafés, such as the Trocadero, not forgetting of course, the Lyons Corner House standing on nearby Coventry Street. In all of which, despite the stringent rationing, the food on offer was still edible, if not perhaps as varied as it had once had been. However, for those who were fortunate enough to have both the money and the right contacts, no doubt even this could be overcome, especially in the rabbit warren of dark streets which constituted Soho, and where almost anything could be had ... for a price.

But even on Piccadilly, one of the most prestigious streets in this, the capital of the far flung British Empire, evidence of the appalling damage having been wrought on London during the last few tumultuous months by the relentless bombing of the city by the Luftwaffe, in the form of burnt out, blackened shells of buildings, enormous piles of rubble, charred timbers, shattered brickwork, and broken, fallen masonry, was only all too evident. Just hereabouts, the Queens and the Shaftesbury, both well known theatres, were now gone. So too, St. James's church, a seventeenth century masterpiece designed by Sir Christopher Wren in 1672. Like All Hallows by-the-Tower, where some fifteen months earlier in September 1940, Max and Claire had been married, now gutted by high explosives dropped in yet another incendiary raid. Nothing was left standing of St. James's either, save for the tower and the bare, ruined walls of both the church's nave and chancel.

And it was not only the burned out, wrecked buildings which bore witness to the savage ferocity of the on-going conflict with Germany. At the east end of the broad street, the figure of Eros perched atop the fountain in Piccadilly Circus had been removed and the fountain itself boarded up for the duration; the wooden hoardings covering it now liberally plastered with all manner of advertisements connected with the war: "Dig For Victory", "Use It Up-Wear It Out-Make Do", "Spend Less On Yourself", Forward To Victory", "Britain Shall Not Burn", and so forth.

There were other equally visible reminders of the war too: in the form of huge water tanks, hastily installed, to provide a means of fighting incendiary bombs, the equally hurriedly erected air raid shelters, allegedly bomb proof, as to whether they were seemed to be a matter of opinion, depending on to whom one spoke, all manner of windows liberally taped so as to prevent flying splinters and shards of broken glass, the boarded up, sand-bagged fronts of shops, along with the blast proofing of the entrances to the Underground.

Just as before the war the red London omnibuses and the equally familiar black taxis continued to ply for fares, and horse drawn drays and carts likewise clip clopped and rumbled their way along the busy thoroughfares of the city. These days, however, private cars were almost a thing of the past; as elsewhere in the country, had all but disappeared from off the streets of London, only to be replaced by all manner of military vehicles. So the roads here in the capital were no less busy.

And during the hours of darkness, with the blackout being rigorously enforced, with no street lighting, and with traffic lights reduced to minute crosses of red, amber, and green, drivers and pedestrians had to be equally alert and vigilant. The only concession to public safety were the kerbs of the pavements, now painted white, to help guide those who had to be out at night; while shadowy figures of policemen, their capes and tunics dipped in luminous paint in an attempt to make them more visible, did their very best to control the traffic with nothing more than whistles.

While scarcely half an hour had passed since the air raid sirens had sounded the All Clear, and despite the deadly rain of both death and destruction which had been wrought upon London during the Blitz by the incessant bombing of the Luftwaffe, this being Christmas Eve, tonight the pavements of Piccadilly were crowded, with both civilians and all manner of service personnel, the latter dressed either in khaki or else blue: army, navy and air force. Not only British, but representatives of virtually all of the different allied nations too: from Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, as well as from Belgium, from France, from Poland, and from Soviet Russia.

Now that the war had had the insolent temerity to come knocking insistently on America's own back door, in the form of the recent and unprovoked attack by the Japanese on the United States' naval base at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, the ranks of all those in uniform here in Britain were likely in very short order to be swelled by the arrival of service personnel from across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way from the America: soldiers, sailors, and airmen.

And not only men; for there were enormous numbers of women in uniform too, not only in the armed services, but working on the railways, on the omnibuses, in the factories, out on the farms, doing all manner of work, previously only done by men. It was said, and with justifiable pride, that here in Britain, these days there was scarcely a job that women had not tackled, in or out of uniform, although as to whether this included the Piccadilly Commandos, was a question perhaps best left unanswered.

So far, as doubtless it had been for countless others who had also endured the terrible ordeal of losing family and friends in the war, 1941 had been an utterly dreadful year for the Crawleys. Back in May, one of Max's cousins, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil's boy, Bobby, aged just fourteen, had died needlessly, along with many others, men, women, and children, when quite inexplicably the Luftwaffe had dropped bombs on Dublin's Northside. It was said afterwards that the German air crews had believed they were over Belfast. But whatever the cause, the result was the same; innocent lives snuffed out in an instant, of those who had played no part in this dreadful conflict; this time made infinitely worse by the fact that Ireland was a neutral country. And then barely two months later, in July, up in Yorkshire, at Downton, Granny Cora had been killed, when one night a badly shot up Heinkel had first clipped the steeple of St. Mary's Church before going into a tail spin and hitting hit the Dower House, incinerating both the house and all those inside.

However, just a matter of days ago, here in London, information had been received by the SOE, that another of Max's cousins, Robert Crawley, a pilot with the RAF, who had been shot down over Boulogne way back in November 1940, was not only alive, but also now safe and sound in Gibraltar, awaiting repatriation home to blighty. Earlier today, just as the soon as all of this had been confirmed, Max himself had telephoned Downton Abbey in order to let Uncle Matthew, Aunt Mary, and Rob's wife, Saiorse, know the wonderful news, that Robert was alive and coming home.

Not that Max had yet had the opportunity to tell Claire the happy news about Rob. He intended doing so just as soon as they met up, but a short distance from here, at the Lyons Corner House on Coventry Street, off Piccadilly Circus, where they were to have a bite to eat; before catching the Underground out to Whitechapel, the nearest station to their shabby, rented flat on Old Montagu Street.

For, despite the horrendous bombing of the East End, the heartfelt pleas of his parents up in Yorkshire, and those of her father down in distant Devonshire, Max and Claire had refused resolutely to move somewhere safer until they themselves had saved up enough money to enable them to do so. Max continued to insist, and this with Claire's full agreement, that the cheque given him by Rob, enabling Max and Claire to marry, had been a loan.

And, even when Rob had been posted missing in action, believed killed, both Max and Claire took the view that the money should not be squandered and should be repaid, to Rob or, as had for some time seemed likely, to Saiorse. Not that privately either Saiorse, or for that matter Rob, had ever seen the money as anything other than an outright gift. Even so, at least for the time being, Max and Claire continued to put up with all of the bombing and the destruction and stayed put in Whitechapel.

Opposite Simpsons, still stocked with all manner of clothing, albeit these days most of it was of a military nature, Max paused briefly at a news stand to purchase a late edition of the Daily Telegraph. Having handed the news vendor a scattering of coppers, both for the paper and by way of a Christmas tip. In the pervading gloom of the December evening, Max glanced briefly at the front page of the newspaper which made for grim reading, with the attack on the American Naval Base at Pearl Harbor in the Pacific and its resonating aftermath, still being the main story.

It was now, that quite unexpectedly, the strap of the box containing his gas mask broke. Quite why on earth he continued to carry it around with him, Max couldn't fathom; habit probably. For, despite all the warnings, the Germans hadn't dropped poison gas; at least not yet. And increasingly, there seemed little likelihood of the mask ever being required to be used. But Max and everyone else still continued to carry them; which, on balance, was probably for the best.

But had the strap not broken, Max would never even have heard it. Now as he fumbled with the strap, attempting to make it secure and be on his way, suddenly the hairs on the nape of his neck began to rise. Glancing up he saw the snowflakes powdering down and along with them, seemingly from out of nowhere, but obviously from somewhere, came the music; the tune itself, instantly recognisable. And, standing there in the fading light of the December evening, on the busy, crowded street, Max found himself thinking back to a time before the world went mad, when all seemed so safe, so secure, and he himself had been scarce eight years old ...

Christmas Eve, Vienna, Republic of Austria, December 1931.

Max looked down at his dachshund, Fritz, seated beside him in the snow, and smiled. Seeing the eyes of his young master upon him, the little dog gave a short, playful bark, then sniffed cautiously at the snowflake which had landed on his nose only, a moment later, to see it vanish before his startled eyes.

Despite being warmly wrapped against the winter chill, Max shivered. Wished earnestly, and with all his heart, that darling Mama would cease her chatting with Fräulein Henderson and do as she had promised him earlier this afternoon, when they had been walking down the Graben. That once Mama had finished her Christmas shopping, she would take Max to the Central Café, where she would buy him a delicious cup of hot chocolate and a mouth watering pastry before they caught the early evening train from the Westbahnhof as far as St. Johann, where Weisman would be waiting with the motor to drive them both back to Rosenberg.

But then, within sight of the Central Café, they had the misfortune, at least as far as Max was concerned, to run into one of Mama's English friends who lived here in Wien: Fraulein Henderson, who rented a flat overlooking the Michaelerplatz, who earned her living by giving lessons in English and also teaching the piano.

However, if he had been asked what it was that he himself remembered most about Fräulein Henderson, Max would have told you that invariably she smelt overwhelmingly of jasmine. Something which Mama never seemed to notice but, about which, one day, a few months ago, when having chanced to meet up with Fräulein Henderson, her perfume had been even stronger than usual, Max had then plucked up the courage to ask his mother.

Of course, Mama wore perfume too. But her own, Shalimar - Max had often seen the delicately shaped bottle of amber liquid standing on her dressing table - was so very much nicer. And, had he known the words, Max would have told you that Mama's scent had a beguiling, elusive quality about it, whereas with Fräulein Henderson it was as if she had fallen head first into a huge tub of jasmine scented water, comparable in size, Max thought, to one of the enormous barrels which Max had seen in the Ottakringer brewery which he had visited just last year along with his parents, the owner of which, Herr Kuffner, was a friend to both Papa and Mama.

Having heard what it was that was perplexing him, Edith had smiled at her young son and then drawn Max forward into the comforting circle of her arms before seating the little boy on her lap.

"My darling, what you have to understand," had explained Mama softly, having first sworn Max to absolute silence on the matter, "is that Fräulein Henderson is lonely and also rather fond of cognac".

Now, while in all other respects he was a happy little boy, because of his haemophilia, in his short life, Max had spent a very great deal of time in bed or else in hospital. So, even at eight years old, loneliness was something which he understood. And while he loved darling Papa and Mama very much indeed, knew that they loved him too, as an only child, what Max wanted more than anything were friends of his own age with whom to play. But because of his illness, Mama was very wary of allowing such encounters, knowing only too well that for Max, an otherwise innocent game of rough and tumble, with boys of his own age, could in all likelihood spell disaster.

This apart, Max knew what that cognac was too; after all, his beloved Papa drank cognac, even in preference to Schnapps. But that only made the matter of Fräulein Henderson even more mysterious. For despite Papa liking brandy, he never smelt of jasmine. Nor, for that matter, of cognac.

"But if Fräulein Henderson likes cognac, then why does she always smell of jasmine?" had asked Max wide-eyed and in all innocence.

"Well, darling," continued Mama, "the thing is you see, it isn't considered at all proper for a young lady to ...

So, having now at length had it explained to him just why it was that Fräulein Henderson was so liberal in the application of her perfume, Acaciosa, young Max had gravely nodded his head, faithfully promising Mama that he would never breathe a word of what she had just told him.

Somewhere close by to where young Max was now standing on the snowbound pavement of the Herrengasse, holding tightly onto Mama's hand, someone was playing a zither. Although he did not recognise the tune, instinctively, Max knew it had to be a waltz. After all, here on the streets of Vienna, the birthplace of the Waltz King, Johann Strauss, what else would someone be playing, if not a waltz? And Max was right. For, not that he knew it, at least not then, had not the great Hector Berlioz said that Vienna without Strauss would be like Austria without the Danube?

Now, as the delicately plucked, tinkling notes continued to drift mellifluously through the frost hung air, Max looked about him, seeking to ascertain the whereabouts of the invisible musician. But he did so in vain; saw only instead a flurry of snowflakes, feather light, beginning to drift down out of the rapidly darkening sky. Heard too the doleful bells of the Stephansdom, muffled by the softly falling veil of snow, ringing out across the white shrouded streets of the bustling city.

Here on the Herrengasse, at last Max dared to hope that Mama had finished chatting with Fräulein Henderson, which indeed proved to be the case. For, having wished each other the compliments of the season, at long last, the two women now said their goodbyes. As Fräulein Henderson set off cautiously along the icy pavement, Edith looked down at Max and smiled. He really was a handsome, winning little boy.

"I know what you need," she said laughingly.

"A glass of cognac?" suggested Max with a delightfully impish grin.

"Max! Now, what did I tell you?" exclaimed Mama, glancing up to see that Fräulein Henderson was safely out of ear shot and breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that was the case. A moment later, Max saw the corners of his mother's mouth twitch, broaden first into a smile, then into a grin wide enough to match his own, as shaking her head, now laughing openly, with her gloved hand, Edith indicated the front door of the Central Café.

Author's Note:

The Snow Waltz was composed by Thomas Koschat (1845-1914).

Photographing Fairies is a film which should be far better known than it is. Based on the true story of the Cottingley Fairies, its male lead is played by Toby Stephens, the elder son of Maggie Smith.

Piccadilly Commandos, the nickname given to the many prostitutes who, during WWII, on account of all the servicemen's clubs in the area, roamed the district around Piccadilly Circus looking for custom.

SOE: Special Operations Executive. The secret, shadowy organisation based in Britain which, during WWII, undertook espionage, sabotage, reconnaissance, and helped resistance movements in Occupied Europe and for which, in the story, Max works.

Following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7th December 1941, the United States declared war on the Empire of Japan on that same day. This was followed, four days later, by a declaration of war on Nazi Germany.

Wien - Vienna.

Louis-Hector Berlioz (1803-1869) a French Romantic composer.

Stephansdom - St. Stephen's Cathedral, and the most important religious building in all of Vienna.

The Graben - one of the most famous streets in Vienna.

Opened in 1876, and still in existence today, the Central Café in Vienna would become a meeting place for intellectuals. Among those who came here in January 1913 were Josip Broz Tito, Sigmund Freud, Adolf Hitler, Vladimir Lenin, and Leon Trotsky.

Shalimar created by Guerlain in 1925, and Edith's favourite perfume.

Founded in 1837, the Ottakringer Brauerei is the last large brewery remaining in Vienna. The Kuffners were Jewish, and because of this, even before the Anschluss, Moriz von Kuffner would be forced to sell his business.

Acasiosa, released in 1924 by Caron.