The Flames, page 16
There has been such a strained silence in the house since they arrived, since the fire, that all this shouting scares Gertrude. She can’t hold her tears back. Her brother, his eyes also red and watering, holds a finger to his lips.
Mother looks the doctor in the eye. ‘I insist that you appraise him again, mein Herr,’ she says, rubbing her arms where he grabbed them.
‘There really is no—’
‘Please, doctor, I beg of you.’
A look of understanding passes between them.
He opens his briefcase with two clicks, then rolls up his sleeves, shaking his head as he does so.
Gertrude watches the doctor conduct his examination with the utmost precision, listening to Father’s chest with that same peculiar instrument, feeling once again for a pulse at his neck, determination etched on his features as he looks up at the ceiling, then putting his cheek very close to Father’s mouth. They wait.
Gertrude hears the clock toll midnight, the sound of celebration exploding from the adjoining houses. People laugh and clap, voices are raised in traditional song. There’s a distant burst of fireworks and Gertrude remembers the New Year with her parents, five years ago, that marked the fresh century.
‘I’m afraid it’s as I suspected, Frau Schiele,’ the doctor says, deliberately. ‘Your husband has taken his final breath. I understand that it’s upsetting.’
Egon makes a choking noise beside her; the book slips from Melanie’s hand.
Gertrude reflects on Father’s final breath. Where did it go? Could his air have somehow entered her lungs? She takes a breath, holds it.
‘Very well,’ Mother replies. She looks at her timepiece. ‘But I make it three minutes past midnight.’ She shows it to the doctor. ‘And I insist you record it as such. Quite the start to the new year,’ she sniffs.
The doctor records the new details in his notebook – three minutes past midnight on Sunday, the first of January, 1905.
The doctor nods at her, then slides the notebook into his jacket pocket, tapping it with finality. He offers a restrained bow, places his hat atop his head, and moves towards the door.
‘Good evening, Frau Schiele. My condolences once more.’
‘And a happy new year to you, doctor,’ she calls after him.
12
January 1905
Under a bright January sky, Father is buried. Gertrude and her family wear mourning clothes, Egon in long trousers, the hems let down, his boots buffed to a shine. Melanie has woven black ribbons through Gertrude’s hair. Mother was able to borrow a pillbox hat with a veil.
The gravestones back in the old cemetery in Tulln are tightly packed together. Father’s coffin will be lowered into the ground in front of the large gravestone engraved with the words FAMILIE SCHIELE. Pale lichen has grown into the letters since they were last here. Egon vows he will return to scrub the stone clean. Elvira’s name has been lost.
Father lay for several days at home, flowers in his coffin to mask the smell. His former colleagues took the train to Klosterneuburg and entered the front room, removing their caps and lowering their eyes, clasping Mother’s hands and making promises for the future. Father had been dressed in the gala uniform of a senior railway official, minus the stiff red jacket, which had never been recovered after the day he was found under the bridge.
Gertrude secretly carries with her the shiny button she took from it, is rubbing it now.
There was a short ceremony in the church near by, where Father was spoken of highly, praised for his dedication to his career, his role as head of the family. Prayers were recited over the body, psalms read. Together, they sang a hymn, the words pulsing through Gertrude.
And now, the coffin is being lowered into this gaping hole in the earth. Egon shudders as mud lands in shovel-loads, thudding against the wood. Gertrude holds her brother’s arm, while Melanie leans on Mother for support.
‘Show compassion to your people in their sorrow … Lift us from the darkness of this grief to the peace and light of your presence,’ the minister intones.
When the earth has been returned, those gathered bow gently then move on to pay their respects to the family. Mother listens to each and every platitude from Adolf’s former colleagues and the many local well-wishers, some of whom she has never spoken to before.
Gertrude notices a short man standing on the periphery of the funeral party. He sports lavish grey hair, with a neat beard and a moustache twisted into elaborate points. She guesses that he can be no more than a year or two older than her father, but it’s clear that life has been kinder to him. He steps closer, and places flowers on the ground by the grave. Then he moves towards them, one hand thrust deep into the pocket of his pressed trousers, the other clutching an elaborately carved, silver-tipped walking stick.
‘The young Fräulein Schiele, I presume,’ he says, removing his hat.
‘Gertrude,’ she replies.
‘The pleasure is all mine.’ He smiles, and she accepts the stranger’s soft hand.
‘And you?’ he says, nodding at her brother. ‘You must be Egon? The man of the family now.’
Egon shakes his hand. ‘And you are …?’
The man folds a silk handkerchief into a tidy square and inserts it into his suit pocket. ‘You won’t remember me. I’m your Uncle Leopold. Leopold Czihaczek.’ He raises an eyebrow and receives no hint of acknowledgement. ‘I’m married to your aunt Louisa. She sends her condolences that she can’t be here today; she’s rather unwell, you see.’ He scans their faces. Egon and Gertrude exchange a glance that is laden with suspicion. ‘Now. I must offer my condolences to your dear mother,’ he continues, his deep voice cutting the sombre conversations. Mother, hearing it, turns to its source, her eyes searching his features. It takes a moment for a look of recognition to cross her face.
‘Marie,’ he booms, stepping over with a flourish. ‘How good it is to see you after all this time.’
‘My goodness. I almost didn’t recognize you, Herr Czihaczek.’
‘Leopold, I insist,’ he says, squeezing her fingers. She pulls her hand away before he can plant a kiss upon it. ‘No need for formalities between family.’
Mother cocks her head to take in the sight of this well-fed, well-dressed, well-mannered man. ‘We didn’t expect to see you.’
‘I wanted to pay my respects to my brother-in-law. I was always fond of Adolf, you know that. I admired how hard he worked, and his dedication to his family. His demise is a tragedy,’ he says, nodding towards the plot. ‘Fifty-four is hardly any age at all, these days.’
She purses her lips. ‘It was generous of you to take the time to come from Vienna.’
‘It’s hardly an inconvenience,’ he says. He hesitates a moment before continuing. ‘Marie … I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye and for that, I apologize. Perhaps we might agree to put the past behind us now? My wife, your husband … their relationship was fraught, but we must let bygones be bygones.’ Mother doesn’t soften, so Uncle Leopold steps closer. ‘I apologize that Louisa and I didn’t make the trip when Elvira …’
Mother stiffens. ‘I really must join the others,’ she says.
He nods. ‘Before you go … if I may be so bold? I’m well aware of all the difficulties Adolf suffered at the end of his career. We spoke at length about his concerns. In light of that, I have an offer, so to speak, that may interest you and … be of some benefit, financially?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Herr Czihaczek,’ Mother says. ‘We’re adequately provided for. There’s Adolf’s pension – we were grateful he held on until the first day of the new year – minutes after the clock struck midnight, in fact – as it increased the final value. And he saw to it that we were left with a share or two.’
Uncle Leopold looks at her with gentle, knowing eyes. ‘If ever you do find that you need assistance, please don’t hesitate to call upon me. I have a very comfortable life in Vienna, with little to occupy me. In fact, it’s for that reason that I’d like to talk to you about the boy,’ he says, gesturing to Egon, who looks up with surprise. ‘I’d like to stake a claim in his future, if possible? Before it’s too late.’
Mother straightens her spine. ‘I assure you, that won’t be necessary. I intend to see to it that Egon finishes his education. He has another year at the school here in Klosterneuburg, and we have every intention that he will pass his exams and then train to work for the Imperial-Royal Austrian State Railways, just as his father envisioned.’
‘So be it,’ Gertrude’s uncle says, dipping his hat at her mother. ‘But you know where I am if you need me.’
13
June 1906
Gertrude is unpacking Egon’s satchel when a folded note falls from his dog-eared workbook, which is covered in doodles – evidence of his endless distraction in the classroom. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands. The note is addressed to ‘the loveliest girl’. Gertrude opens it, her heart skipping.
She scans the letter quickly. The words jump out, as if they’re trying to bite her.
You rosy, enchanting creature. Seeing you makes my heart ache … Gertrude drops the letter on the floor. There’s no way he’d confess such feelings for any of the local girls in Klosterneuburg. They’re all piggish and dull, he’s said so himself.
Her skin prickles, making her itch. Gertrude is furious. She shuffles the piece of paper back into her brother’s belongings. She never wants to think about that note ever again.
But the next day, Gertrude returns and searches her brother’s satchel once more, her fingers reaching into the tightest pockets. The note is gone. She cannot find evidence of any other indiscretions among his things. Who could it have been for? She repeats a list of names, guessing at connections, trying to prise any hint of sentiment from them.
Her brother, in love? It’s impossible. There are no secrets between them.
Now Gertrude is more alert to Egon’s behaviour than ever before. She searches his belongings for any clue, looks through his sketches for any hint she can pursue. If she catches him daydreaming, she imagines another girl’s face inside his mind. It makes her want to hurt him.
Gertrude is twelve now, too old for the dolls on to which she used to transfer her love, wiping their cheeks and looking into their painted blue eyes. She clears her bedroom of them. One morning soon after, she finds dark streaks of blood on her nightdress and the bedsheets. In the days to come, she bleeds, a rushing, vibrant red. Is she dying like Elvira did? Or being punished? She tries to plug herself with wads of tissue, to no avail. The bleeding stops abruptly, and she prays it will not start again. She looks at her body in the mirror. Her eyes seem bigger, her ribs sharpened. Her hair has grown and she no longer plaits it.
Their home in Klosterneuburg has taken on a quieter, calmer rhythm in the eighteen months since Father died. There are no trains, for a start, and rarely any shouting. Egon and Gertrude attend the local schools, and Melanie has taken on a job as a ticket vendor at the local station. After school, Gertrude helps with the chores – she cleans the windows and tends to the plants, which grow and grow. She reads Mother’s recipe books, the ones filled with the traditional dishes of Bohemia, and which are no longer hidden in the pantry. Reading them makes Gertrude hungry, but she doesn’t eat – she has come to enjoy the hollow feeling inside.
When the bleeding starts again Melanie notices it, and shows Gertrude how to wash her undergarments. That same week, Gertrude is given a thimble, needle and thread and taught to darn. She pushes the needle into a rip in her skirts, stitching two elements into one.
Melanie shares her geranium-scented cold cream and offers her sister tips on how to rub it into her face. She also shows her how to buff her nails, but Gertrude hasn’t any interest in making them look pretty. There are other changes, ones that are hers alone – coarser hairs on her body, sore lumps beneath her flat nipples. Gertrude is surprised at the stabbing desire she feels for Egon to make drawings of her, to record how her body transforms itself across time. She will suggest it.
A week later, Gertrude is rewarded once more for her snooping: she discovers a new drawing in Egon’s sketchbook. It’s of a girl with hazel hair, pink cheeks, and a sickeningly sweet little smile. Could it be Margarete Partonek? It’s a name that had crossed Gertrude’s mind in the list of possibilities, but she’d dismissed her outright, for she possesses a traditional prettiness that Gertrude had assumed Egon would scoff at. Margarete’s such a plain girl, her face full of symmetry, her lips the shape of a pink bow. She practically lives next door, in the house across the street – she can occasionally be seen going about her business from the window of the main room. Gertrude is disappointed her brother couldn’t lose his heart further away than his own front door.
At fourteen years old, Margarete is two years younger than Egon and two years older than Gertrude. She and Margarete have, on occasion, spent time together. They walk home together sometimes, and Gertrude has been to her house, watched her play the piano, looked at her collection of figurine ponies. Gertrude feels a tightness in her chest – she’d assumed that her neighbour considered her brother to be an ass.
Gertrude extends an invitation to Margarete to walk home with her. She wants to observe her up close. They meet at the school gates and, as the older girl approaches, Gertrude watches her every movement. Margarete’s hair is so unlike her own copper-red locks, Gertrude notices as they walk along the river path – light seems to bounce off it. Her hands look as soft as a peach, her nails smooth and clean; it makes Gertrude want to stroke them. Gertrude’s own are nibbled to stubs. Melanie is quite right about telling her off for the state of them.
When they arrive, Gertrude invites her friend inside.
‘Is there anything I can help you with, Frau Schiele?’ Margarete asks.
Mother’s apron is thick with grease, its pattern faded from repeated washing.
‘What a polite young woman you are, Margarete,’ Mother says, drying her hands. ‘If only a little of your charm could rub off on Gertrude …’
Then the front door slams and Egon enters. He stops as he reaches the kitchen.
He frowns, tucking his loose shirt tails into his trousers. The muscles of his throat contract as he swallows. Egon’s hair is in tufts, his shirt unbuttoned. Ink leaks through his blazer pocket. Margarete’s eyes flit towards Egon and away.
‘You’ve made such a mess of yourself,’ Gertrude says to him. He glares at her as he drops his satchel and tames his hair.
‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Partonek,’ he says.
They talk amicably for a few minutes, before Margarete turns the conversation to his art. ‘Your mother says you have aspirations to apply to the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna?’
‘I’d have to take an entrance interview over the summer,’ Gertrude’s brother replies, trying to look nonchalant as he inspects the bubbling stock on the stove. ‘I must present a portfolio of my work, but I’d be the youngest student ever to attend if they accept me.’
‘And you prefer art over a more conventional career?’
‘My tutors are keen that I put myself forward. Herr Strauch is impressed by my abilities. Besides,’ he adds, ‘it’s unlikely I’ll get the grades to do anything else.’
‘Enough of that kind of talk!’ Mother interrupts. ‘You should be leaving, Margarete.’ Mother flashes her eyes at Egon as she dices some onions. ‘Your mother will be waiting.’
Gertrude is relieved to say goodbye. Egon offers to walk Margarete across the street. Through the window, Gertrude watches them, hidden from view by the thick folds of the curtain. At her door, Margarete hands Egon a piece of paper that he slips into his pocket. Then he returns home with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Gertrude searches for more letters between Margarete and Egon. She’s occasionally rewarded. I do believe art to be a foolish pursuit, her neighbour has written to Egon. Perhaps you could channel your passions into design or architecture. My father would be able to get you an apprenticeship, and not one on the railways, as that’s clearly not a life you desire.
We could be happy, Egon, she writes in another. I promise to love you like you say you love me, but we must have a secure future. When you’ve completed your studies, and secured a solid career, you can talk to my father about marriage, Gertrude reads with dismay. Egon would never give up his dreams of becoming an artist. It’s the only thing he has ever wanted. It has made his life impossible, earned him beatings from Father, disappointment from Mother, ridicule from most of his teachers. It’s all Egon has ever cared about.
Margarete doesn’t understand her brother, Gertrude decides. She’s asking him to be something he’s not. Egon will eventually return his affections to Gertrude, and, when they’re old enough, they’ll live together in Vienna. Egon will paint and she’ll model for him. They won’t have to live by the rules, certainly not those once imposed by Father, or society.
Father has made it clear that I can never marry an artist. I must refuse your offer of being your right hand for art. I would not be an able or willing accomplice. Yours, Margarete.
After that, there are no more letters, at least none Gertrude can find.
Does her brother still write to Margarete, making promises he cannot keep? Egon’s eyes are sad. Gertrude can see that he believes it might be better if he were able to bury his passion for art. He’d be a better man to Margarete, who’d marry him. He’d be a better son to Mother, who’d be able to live comfortably. He’d be less selfish, less self-obsessed. He’d do the memory of Father proud.
Egon begins to slick his hair into a neat sweep over his ears. He tucks his shirts into his trousers and tries to make sure that the material stays there. He polishes his shoes. Mother is delighted. She believes her words have finally sunk in. But cleanliness and order cannot restore Egon’s energy. He speaks less at mealtimes, leaves his breakfast untouched. Egon is lovesick, Gertrude realizes. No, it’s more than that. He’s trying to starve the artist out of himself, kill the urge that draws him to that world.
