GHOSTS
Moving at a brisk pace, Georg strode from the station. He had already buttoned his overcoat tight in anticipation of the raw March air, and having expected to find a lifeless city huddled under gray clouds, he was surprised to find himself squinting against the sun's sudden glare. Salzburg appeared bright and busy under an impossibly blue sky. For a moment, it was as though the war had never happened.
Waving away a porter – he had just the one bag, since his stay would be brief – he slumped into a taxi.
"Hotel Bristol," he told the driver, and then stared with amazement at the city that slid by the windows.
He saw now that the war had, indeed, left its mark; piles of rubble everywhere, empty brown patches where he remembered verdant parks and gardens, and more beggars and miscreants dotting the sidewalks than there had been even during the difficult 'thirties. But on every block, crews were filling in gaps with sturdy new construction, young saplings had survived their first winter, and the sidewalks teemed with people wearing that distinctive look of self-important Salzburgers.
The streets, too, were packed, and the taxi's progress was slow. Georg forced himself to relax. Despite having overcome far more terrifying and tragic challenges, he had truly dreaded this trip, his first to Salzburg since escaping Austria with his family eight years before. Leaning forward, his eyes warily surveyed his surroundings, searching for them: the ghosts.
No matter where he went, the ghosts might appear. Sometimes, he could make sense of the apparitions: during the previous month's stay in Vienna, he'd been certain he'd spotted Elsa a dozen times or more, but that was understandable, in their old haunts. Whether she was reigning over the Opera from a distant box, threading her way through a crowded gallery, or glimpsed through a shop window, her gleaming golden hair and ivory glow had seemed so real, even though by now, he knew she couldn't be real at all.
On his recent trip to Paris, his first since the war had ended, it had been Agathe, not Agathe as she would be today, but the way she'd been on their honeymoon a quarter-century earlier, all tumbling mahogany curls and delicious curves. He thought he'd seen her everywhere, stopping to peer in the shop windows along the Champs Elysees, sketching what seemed like every statue in the Louvre, picnicking in the Bois.
But the ghosts were sometimes people who were still very much alive, turning up in places they didn't belong. Once, while at St. Moritz, his imagination had conjured up Max, of all people, schussing capably down the slopes, something the man would never dream of doing, in a place he could not possibly have been.
It was also in Switzerland – this time in Zurich, he recalled – that he'd seen the ghost of the little governess, Fraulein Maria, towing two children by the hand across a traffic-choked street, while a third clung to her black, side-walk sweeping skirts. That vision had been especially unsettling, to see the rosary swinging at her waist, the voluminous habit topped off with a high, elegant wimple that didn't manage to capture the coppery fringe that swept her forehead.
As a general rule, Georg tried not to think too much about Fraulein Maria, or the completely inexplicable and unsuitable attraction that had sparked between them during that summer. But that was eight years ago; they hadn't heard a thing about the girl since she had run away from the villa, the night of Elsa's party. She'd probably long since taken her vows, and was tucked safely behind the cloistered walls of Nonnberg Abbey.
If, in fact, Nonnberg Abbey still existed. Was it still there? And what ghosts might Georg expect to see roaming about Salzburg? That and other questions flew from his mind as the taxi pulled up in front of the Bristol at last.
An hour later, having placed several telephone calls and sent out a half-dozen notes, Georg found himself prowling restlessly about the hotel's finest suite, which took up its entire top floor. Now there was nothing to do but wait for replies. At least the suite had a bar, although one stocked only with champagne, which did not match his mood. And what on earth was he going to do with a phonograph?
"I don't really need anything so extensive," he'd told the clerk. "It's only a couple of nights, and I'm here on my own."
"There is nothing less expensive," the clerk had sniffed, without looking up.
"I said extensive," Georg growled, "I've got plenty of money. But surely another guest could make better use of a salon, two bedrooms and two baths." He noted with satisfaction the way the man's face changed when he caught sight of the name scrawled in the register.
"Oh! Captain von Trapp! I didn't realize – forgive me!" the clerk's face had brightened and his tone turned to an oily simper. "It's an honor to have you with us, sir. But, you see, the suite is actually the only accommodation available. Salzburg is quite crowded, between the tight supply of housing, the people returning, and the Americans still here." He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. "The only reason the suite is even available, is that none of them can afford it!"
And so now Georg wandered about the high ceilinged, lavishly furnished space, surveying Salzburg sprawled in every direction beyond the suite's windows. It was just as Max had written to him: while nearly half of the city's buildings had been destroyed, and times were hard for its residents, many of the landmarks had survived, including the Dom and Mirabell Palace. The Hohensalzburg Fortress still looked out over the city, and yes, there was Nonnberg Abbey, with its distinctive red dome, clinging to the cliffs nearby. His eyes followed the ribbon of the Salzach River as it wound through the city, underneath the sole bridge that had survived the war.
His thoughts were interrupted when a chime sounded, announcing the lift's arrival. Anticipating either a reply to his missives or the bottle of whiskey he'd ordered, he watched the doors slide open, revealing a beaming Max Detweiler.
"Surprise, surprise," the little man chirped, stopping for a brief embrace before elbowing his way past Georg and eyeing his luxurious surroundings appreciatively. "I like the way you live, Georg. As though the whole ugly war was just a bad dream." His casual, lighthearted manner belied the fact that, although they had recently exchanged letters, they hadn't seen each other in eight long and harrowing years. It was impossible to miss the lines in Max's face, the silver hair and stooped shoulders, the frame a good twenty pounds lighter than it ought to be. Georg, weighted down by guilt, let the teasing remark go with a smile.
"It's good to see you," Georg told him instead. "The bar's pretty thin, but if you wait a minute, they ought to be sending – ah, there we are," he said, grateful for the interruption when chime once again announced the lift's arrival. He took the whisky and ice from the waiter, and poured two stiff drinks.
"To peace," he tilted his glass toward Max, who echoed, "To peace," adding, with a wink, "and to prosperity," before tossing down the drink and sighing with enjoyment.
"Prosperity?"
"Yes, my dear Georg, prosperity. It's lurking around every corner here in Salzburg, and now that you're here, I intend to help you take advantage of the opportunities. It's the least I can do for you, after you managed to spirit me out of Salzburg and on to Shanghai, and just in the nick of time. It was quite heroic of you, what with having to get your own crew out of here, and dealing with Elsa."
"Shanghai was no picnic, or so I heard," Georg commented, anxious to change the subject.
"No, but it was much worse than the hell they'd have sent me to otherwise." Max was eager to change the subject too. "Georg, my friend, I've got a million angles for you. The construction-" Max began, but Georg cut him off.
"Save your angles, my friend. I'm here for just a few days, and then I'm off to New York. I haven't decided whether to base myself there, or London, or possibly both, but one thing is certain: for me, there is no more Austria."
"No more Austria? But this is your home!"
"If you want to call it that," Georg snorted. "That's why I'm here. The villa. They used it as headquarters, you know. I'd burn it to the ground if I could, but my solicitor won't let me. I'm here just long enough to arrange for it to be emptied, cleaned up and sold."
"Sold? But Georg, that place – you and Agathe – how can you?"
"Agathe is gone, Max. It's been a dozen years now. She's been gone nearly as long as we were married."
"You do realize there's a fortune to be made here, don't you?"
"I've got a fortune already, Max. Tucked safely away, more money than I can spend in a lifetime, or my children in theirs."
"All right, Georg. If you won't stay in Salzburg for love or money, consider your obligation to your country. The place could use a man of your leadership qualities. All my joking about the business possibilities aside, Salzburg is fighting a different kind of war now. Those who fled have now returned, demanding the return of their property from those who stayed, each side taking the high ground and accusing the other of having been spineless cowards. Sorting out the assets, dealing with the collaborators – it's serious business. The Mayor's in over his head, and the Americans are no help at all. They won't leave and let us run our own city, but at the same time, they are too caught up drinking our wine and eating our strudel, to sort things out. And meanwhile, there's nowhere near enough housing, or fuel, or food. Or rather, there's enough, but between the Americans and the speculators, the prices have been driven so high that ordinary folk are suffering the most. It's exactly the kind of mess that a man with your experience could sort out in a minute."
"I see," Georg said, "and tell me, Max, where exactly do you fit into this? Your angle, as you put it."
"Me? Well, I'm still keeping my eye on the music business, but I also seem to have developed a good instinct for knowing before anyone else when there's a decent room to let, or when the stray shipment of sausages or load of firewood has fallen off the back of a truck, that kind of thing – and I simply try redirect it to those who might need it the most. Not the big hotels, not the Americans, but people like me, people who are getting their feet under them again. They get what they need for their families, the big shots never notice what's gone missing, and I -"
"Let me guess. You get something for your trouble."
"Exactly! My grateful customers are always willing to slip me a few extra shillings. It's not the kind of living I made before, but it's a start, while my real plan falls into place. You see, I've made it a particular point to get to know the Americans who are overseeing all this construction, and when it's ready to be let out, and the Americans clear out and leave it in my hands, I'll be in on the ground floor, so to speak. Look! I've even got cards printed up!"
Georg took the card and glanced at it before tucking it into his pocket.
"Come on, Georg. Just come on out and reacquaint yourself with the Mayor. Meet a few of the Americans. Give them a bit of your sage advice. It couldn't hurt you."
"It wouldn't do you any harm, either," Georg said dryly. "No, Max, I'm sorry. I wish you all the best, but no."
"Well, you can't blame me for trying." Max sighed. "Look. I've got to get going. Plenty to do before I leave town in the morning for a spot of business in Vienna. You wouldn't care to get something to eat, would you? There's a lively little café, just off the lobby."
"No. I've got to arrange to get a work crew started out in Aigen. I want them out there first thing tomorrow. But I'll take the lift down with you," Georg said, "and buy a paper at the newsstand."
Out in front of the hotel, the two men shook hands. "I'll be back in a few days," Max said, "and if there is anything I can do for you, or anything I can talk you into doing for Austria, just say the word. You've got my card." With a jaunty salute, the little man disappeared into a taxi.
The sidewalk was still crowded, and as Georg elbowed his way to the newsstand and back again, his thoughts had already returned to the task at hand: hiring a crew to work on the villa. He only wished there were a way that he could avoid going out to Aigen at all, but certain tasks, unfortunately, could not be easily delegated. He'd made a promise to his children, and he intended to keep it.
Before returning to that mausoleum of a suite, he turned back for a moment, letting his lungs fill one more time with the crisp March air, marveling again at how life in Salzburg had resumed, taking in the busy scene. On one corner, a newsboy shouted out the headlines. On another corner, two sharply-attired men greeted each other with handshakes and half-embraces. Directly across the street, a young woman, dressed in a stylish suit the color of autumn leaves, leaned down to tie her daughter's hair ribbon.
One more moment, and he would have turned away and returned to the hotel.
One more moment, and things might have turned out quite differently.
But in the space of that single moment, the young woman in the gold suit straightened up and looked in his direction.
Those eyes.
Deep blue, a clear, bright, burning blue, fringed with dark lashes. He knew those eyes, and that wide, generous mouth. But it couldn't be! As far as he knew, the little governess had disappeared behind the walls of Nonnberg Abbey. Not to mention that the real Fraulein Maria wouldn't be wearing a stylish suit; she'd be wearing a habit, the way his imagination had conjured her up on the streets of Zurich. Surely, this was just another one of his ghosts, and the red-headed little girl clinging to her hand a stand-in for one of his daughters. Fortunately, he knew just how to vanquish this apparition, although he was oddly reluctant to do so. He looked down at his shoes, sturdy, expensive boots of black leather, knowing that when he looked up, she'd be gone.
Except she wasn't gone. Even Fraulein Maria's ghost was too stubborn to do as she was told! She was still there, staring at him, frozen with something like fear, which only made Georg more certain that she must be a ghost, because the real Fraulein Maria had never been afraid of him. But even though it had been eight years, and despite the elegant costume, and the way the golden cap of hair had grown out into a knot that lay low in her neck, and how her slim build had spouted some curves, there was no question. It was her.
Georg let the passers-by jostle around him, ignoring their impatient glances and murmurs of annoyance. Just then, a streetcar lumbered through the street, blocking his view of what lay on the other side. Four impossibly long cars, one after the other, screeched and rattled their way across his field of vision. When they had passed, the two figures, woman and child, had vanished.
He still wasn't entirely sure if she'd been real, but in the time it had taken the streetcar to clear, he'd been overtaken by a rush of emotion – sweet, wistful memories of that last, unexpectedly happy summer before the world had gone dark. But there was anger and bitterness, too: she hadn't even said goodbye! The girl had simply left a meaningless note and disappeared, run back to her Abbey, breaking his children's hearts and stoking their resentment against Elsa, though he couldn't blame Fraulein Maria for what had happened next on that account.
Whatever or whoever he'd glimpsed across the street, there was no denying the role the little governess had played in rebuilding his family. Although none of them could have known it at the time, she had laid the groundwork for his family's survival during the turbulent years that followed. If only he could ignore the memory of that dark-blue gaze!
It couldn't have been her. And yet Georg knew he wouldn't be able to settle to his task in Salzburg until he'd banished this particular apparition.
He plunged into the traffic and across the street.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Welcome to my new story. My last story got such a good reception that it made me nervous to try another one, and I've been tinkering with this for months (when you see the convoluted plot you will understand why). The good news is that large chunks of the story are already written, so if it gets a good reception, I'll be able to update pretty frequently.
I'm trying something a little different this time, starting with a rating that I hope will bring back some of my readers who don't like mature content. Let me know if you're a returning reader! Don't worry, still plenty of feels coming.
As you've already seen, the story takes place in postwar Salzburg and elsewhere, and I understand that it almost completely overlooks the deep suffering that took place after the war across Europe as well as the political circumstances; I've completely invented my own version of history and ask your forgiveness and history's as well.
I still don't own anything about TSOM, and I still do this for love.