The Vienna Incident

Chapter 1

"Strike me a light, darling."

Elsa slipped the silver square into his hand, lifted a cigarette to her lips and pouted slightly, watching his profile stare out of the car window. Then as he turned towards her, he flicked up a flame from the lighter, leaving her longing to ignite his interest as easily. Elsa leant forward, inhaling gently as she did so, hoping this might be the moment when the glacier melted. It was not to be: Georg returned the silver lighter without a word and leaned back in his seat.

Breathing out her smoke in a half-sigh, it occurred to Elsa that perhaps he had not enjoyed the evening as much as she had hoped; it had been quite an avant-garde production. Maybe she had overestimated her man from the country, who had perhaps been unprepared for such Viennese sophistication. After all, though Salzburg's opera productions were well-known, it was rather…well, rustic there. At least her two new guests seemed to enjoy it, something which gave her a sense of pleasure; in times to come, they would no doubt be a rich source of the very best entrees into Viennese social life.

Elsa leaned forward and tapped on the glass in front of her. "Take the road through the park, Walter."

Even though that route took longer, Georg usually took advantage of the darkness there to steal a kiss from her. So as the car turned and the great gates of the park slid past, their glitter fading as they left behind the streetlights, the two of them were soon enclosed in the back of the car by an intense blackness. Elsa drew on her cigarette and waited to feel the warmth of his hand on her thigh. But as each shadowy tree in the avenue passed by, it was as though they counted the seconds that he remained motionless, and the gap between the two of them began to feel like an icy chasm.

Georg had left the lunch party early that afternoon. Elsa had planned the gathering in a restaurant so her friends could meet him, but by the time pudding had arrived, he had already begun to feel uncomfortably like an exhibit of The Prospective Fiance. So instead of accepting coffee, he had made his excuses, placing his arm around Elsa's waist and giving her a peck on the cheek - knowing full well it would be the subject of gossip for Viennese haut monde for some days to come - and said he had an imminent appointment at his tailor's, which was partly true: he had half an hour to kill before he was due at the Rubin's atelier. So he bid his goodbyes and meandered down the Bergstrasse Avenue, checking the windows of the tailor's shops for the latest cut in men's suits. By the time he had reached the end of the street, he had decided to go for raked pockets when he was measured up, to head the changes in Salzburg: he liked to cut a dash, being the man he was.

Georg knew the route well, having been to Rubin's frequently since his father had brought him as a teenager for his first suit, then latterly for naval attire. Nothing was too much for David, his skilful understanding of every type of town and country suit, jacket and trouser being legendary; indeed, his own fine houndstooth suits and his wife Miriam's pintucked shirts were a worthy advertisement for their trade. Their forte was to be both discrete and at the same time, flattering: busying himself with his tailor's tape, David would whisper measurements to the gamine Miriam standing by his shoulder, who, armed with the old von Trapp book, would be writing it all down with a pencil. When Georg was a teenager, she would coo at how much he had grown each time she saw him, but now he was older she would complement him on how little he had grown, keeping his slender figure well into his forties; each time David whispered to her the same measurement as the one she had recorded in her book from the previous visit, she would nod with a smile. Then, after a period spent with the tailor passing the best tweeds and suiting materials through his hands, Georg's choice would be made, and soon the aroma of strong coffee would herald Miriam as she emerged again from below with a steaming pot. Cutting the home-made chocolate babka, she would ask after each of his children, as she and David had done with his father before him, and David's comments on goings-on in Vienna would keep Georg usefully up to date. Then later, after a final fitting, a special delivery to the Villa von Trapp in Salzburg would deliver the finished suit, and when he tried it on, not only would it fit like a glove, but the Captain could also convince himself that he could still smell a faint whiff of coffee and hear the amusing chitchat that had gone with it.

Georg reached the end of the shops as a gust of wind blew the first of the late summer leaves onto the pavement before him, and walking through them as they tossed and curled, he could sense the beginning of autumn. Turning the corner at the end of Bergstrasse, he looked for the familiar green shopfront furnished with tailor's dummies, elegantly dressed and gesturing to some unknown audience, which since youth had fascinated him with their headless forms: lively…yet lifeless.

Two hours later, Georg arrived back at Elsa's mansion on the park, taking the broad steps to the front door two at a time. He searched for her in the salon, until the butler told him she was already upstairs changing. Georg's heart sank: he had forgotten they were due at the Opera that evening with more friends of hers. He rose up the curving staircase deep in thought, putting the afternoon behind him as he walked into his room. For there on the bed, the valet had laid out his white tie and tails, shirt and trousers, each item of clothing immaculately ironed since his arrival in Vienna. But casting his eye over them, he realised he had forgotten something. Turning, he went to Elsa's half-open door and tapped gently before going in. She took him by surprise, sliding her arms around him from behind.

"Where have you been, Darling?", she murmured.

"Oh, walking off that strudel from lunch so my tailor wouldn't have to let out every one of my suits", he managed nonchalantly. She pinched his waist playfully as though testing for fat, but found little to complain about. She chuckled quietly and laid her head upon his shoulder.

"Elsa, I seem to have forgotten my cufflinks; you wouldn't have any spare, would you?"

"Of course, Heinrich had dozens. Come and chose some for yourself." She led him to the separate dressing room off her bedroom, and opened a wardrobe to reveal several shallow drawers beautifully made in walnut. As she pulled out one of them, Georg's eyes widened as it glided to a stop, filled with a hundred pairs of cufflinks, all carefully set in black velvet compartments to show them off at their best. And the best they were: diamonds set in gold, silver with onyx, ebony and ivory. She opened several other drawers containing endless gold watches, pearl tiepins and signet rings, all of the best quality. Georg stared at the array sparkling in front of him as it glinted in the light set into the drawer. He shook his head, unsure which to choose. Elsa waved her hand over them:

"Take whatever you want, darling; there are more underneath, and Heinrich is too dead to object." As he deliberated, she said,

"Here, take these, they are my favourites", and pressed them into his hand. The truth was that Georg had been taken aback by the collection, a telltale of conspicuous wealth. Because although Elsa was clearly well-heeled, with her modish clothes and comfortable house and staff, the collection he had just seen told of a lifestyle of glamour far beyond what he had imagined.

"Keep them", she said as he turned to get ready for their evening out.

But it was as he began shaving in his own bathroom that he knew he would have to ask her the question. He had just run water in the basin and placed a towel around his neck - far whiter and thicker than any he was used to at home. He applied his shaving cream, picking up his razor from the marble on which it lay, when Elsa entered dressed in couture with a handful of jewellery. Placing the collection on the table, it glittered with a clarity that told Georg of diamonds. She began by picking up a necklace, looking in the mirror to check her appearance, glancing sideways at him from time to time as he shaved. As she began to put on some earrings, he had nearly finished, and it was time to ask.

"Elsa, what did your husband do when he was alive?" She tilted her head to see how the earrings looked.

"Hmm…he was in steel."

"What sort of steel?"

"Well, he started making car parts, then ships. And other things." She replaced the earrings with another set while Georg put the finishing touches to his shave.

"What other things?" There was a pause.

"Oh, you don't want to know, Georg. It's awfully boring."

"Oh, but I do." She dabbed a little scent onto her neck.

"He moved to Berlin…to make smaller stuff."

"Like what?" Elsa leaned forward to check her make-up.

"Guns."

Georg jumped and nicked himself. Slowly he turned to her:

"He was an arms dealer to the Germans?"

"Of course", said Elsa, carefully smoothing out her eyebrows.

Earlier that afternoon, Georg had turned the corner from the tailors' shops on Bergstrasse Avenue, and walked past eight shops on the left. The Rubin's atelier was the fourth, but he thought he must have missed it. Or maybe forgotten where it was, because he couldn't see it. He stopped and looked further down the street, then turned around and retraced his steps. Slowly he approached the shop which was fourth on the left, then stood still and stared. It was boarded up. His eyes scanned top and bottom of the boards to search for anything he recognised of the shop he was searching for, and there it was: the familiar dark green paint. Going closer, he peered up, and between the planks caught sight of some lettering. He could make out only part of a letter, but it was enough: part of a B in the middle of the signboard - all he could see of the familiar 'D. RUBIN ,Tailor' written in white. How could it be? Georg had only made his appointment the previous week by speaking to Miriam on the telephone, who had sounded perhaps a little reserved, but still keen to see him. Then with relief it occurred to him that maybe they had moved premises and she had forgotten to tell him: yes, perhaps they had decided to move to a larger shop on the back of success. He turned and went into a neighbouring store and approached a woman serving there.

"The Rubins, where have they gone?", he asked her quietly, pointing to their atelier. The woman said nothing, staring at him. "The tailors David and Miriam, where are they?" The woman called a man out of a back room, and Georg repeated his question. His heart sank as the man shook his head.

"They came for them" he whispered, as though not to be heard.

"Where are they?", Georg spat out the words in disbelief. The man shook his head again, waving Georg away and they disappeared, leaving him alone in the shop, shattered. He ran back to the boarded-up atelier, desperate for some evidence to say it wasn't true. But peering at the nails driven into the boards, some bent over, some broken, all at angles, he could tell it had been a recent and hurried job: a crack in the glass, letter box jammed, door handle removed: he was incredulous. Pressing himself up against a gap in the boards, shielding out the light, he looked in through the window, desperate for some information which would tell him the Rubins might still be there and unharmed. His eyes saw little in the shop's dark interior until his gaze fell downwards, coming to rest on two sartorially dressed tailor's dummies lying at angles upon the ground.

Georg straightened up and staggered backwards, then ran down the street in the direction of a telephone box. He grasped the receiver, ran a finger down his diary, rang an old naval colleague who worked for the Ministry of the Interior.

"Hallo? Can I speak to Rear Admiral Meier please?", he shouted down the crackling line.

"Herr Meier no longer works here." Georg was aghast, his friend was the only person in political circles he knew he could trust. He tried more numbers with the same response: clearly everyone had been replaced since the Anschluss. Even their home numbers had been changed or were unobtainable. He had to do something to find the Rubins, to get help. He staggered back along Bergstrasse, grasping at connections he might still have in the current government. But he knew no one reliable, no one useful: he was out of touch. He kicked out at the leaves lying around his feet, then it struck him: Elsa's husband had had business connections in the government. Maybe, just maybe, Elsa could make use of those contacts to help the Rubins. He quickened his pace, driven by the race of his heart, the click of his heels and the screech of the birds in the trees whose leaves were falling all around him. Wild images swirled in his mind, of the two headless tailor's dummies lying askew in the shop: one was wearing a fine houndstooth suit, and the other, pintucks.

Georg eyed himself in the bathroom mirror as Elsa finished choosing her earrings. A pallid man stared back at him, stunned at what she'd said. On the towel around his neck a deep red stain arose from where he had nicked himself; trying to rub the blood off the towel, he ended up spreading it further until he could no longer hide it. Elsa saw him trying to deal with it, dabbed his chin with the towel then shrugged as she unwound it from his neck. She glanced at him, kissing him on the cheek, looking for more. Georg turned away.

[To Be Continued]