'Katrina Marek,' says Zahn. 'I should go back for her.'
'Put the poor boy to bed,' says Grandmother. 'He's totally addled. Get him out of that costume and put him to bed.'
'Jesus,' says Zahn. 'It's been one long day.' But my mother is too kind to tell him that the morning's just beginning.
And although I'm sure that Schuschnigg already has guessed the outcome, the day must seem long to him too. It's only nine-thirty when Hitler makes a phonecall and delivers a personal ultimatum to the poor Chancellor: the plebiscite must be postponed for at least two weeks, or Germany will invade Austria this evening. So Schuschnigg and the faithful Skubl confer: the class of 1915 Austrian reservists are called to colors, supposedly to keep order on the upcoming election day; the Socony Vacuum Oil Company of Austria is asked to supply extra fuel to motorize possible troop movements. And Chancellor Schuschnigg gloomily notices that by noontime the city is preparing a second day of celebrations for Schuschnigg's Austria. Leaflets for the plebiscite are floating down the streets. The sun is very warm and bright at noon. The people don't seem to notice the increase of militia on the fringe of every little fest. And the militia, too, are tapping their boots to waltzes and patriotic marches, from radios pointed out the open windows.
Schuschnigg makes his third phonecall to Mussolini, but the Duce is still unavailable. Someone sends another message to France.
The noontide report on Radio Johannesgasse is somewhat vague with the worldwide news. It's about the Salzburg border being closed, and the uncounted troop build-up; a rhino assembly of tanks inching forward in the night, a daze of headlights peering across the border, and, in the morning, a screen of smoke hanging above the German forests - from a million cigarettes lit and puffed once and put out on signal. And something about how Radio Berlin is broadcasting the news of yesterday's and today's Bolshevik riots in Vienna, where there haven't been any rioting Bolsheviks since the great siege and capture of the Schlingerhof Palace in 1934.
The local news is more detailed. The kidnapped worker has been found; he was beaten off the birdman's speeding taxi and miraculously escaped with scratches. The birdman, the worker estimates, is at least seven feet tall. That was in the Schillerplatz. The birdman was then spotted on a Gusshausstrasse tram; a brave group of technical-high-school students tried to capture him but were overpowered. And lastly, on the Schwindgasse, the birdman assaulted Frau Drexa Neff, laundress. Frau Neff maintains the creature is most certainly not human, and she didn't see which way it went after it attacked her. Authorities in the nearby Belvedere Gardens are searching the shrubs and trees. And there is still no sign of the apparently abandoned taxi, with JA! SCHUSCHNIGG! on the hood.
But my grandfather knows where to look. By checking the theater listings and discovering where Katrina Marek has been astounding as Antigone, and by realizing that the Atelier Theater is neatly between the castaway worker at the Schillerplatz and the eagle's first taxiless appearance on the Gusshausstrasse tram. So Grandfather empties a two-quarter cookie crock and dampens a sponge; he puts a funnel in his overcoat pocket. Zahn doesn't have a key on him, so Grandfather hopes the eagle left it in the ignition. Then Hilke puts the sponge in her pocketbook, and Grandfather carries the cookie crock under his arm, hefting it up as if it were full; they leave the Schwindgasse apartment, trusting my grandmother will tend to the undisturbed sleep of Zahn Glanz, laid to rest in Hilke's bed.
It's unfortunate that Kurt von Schuschnigg is of a more compromising nature than my grandfather. At a little after two-thirty, Schuschnigg bows to one of Germany's ultimatums. He asks that Seyss-Inquart phone Goring in Berlin and convey the Chancellor's decision to postpone the plebiscite; Seyss-Inquart also tells Goring that Schuschnigg has not resigned his Chancellorship. Grandfather, of course, could tell Kurt a thing or two about the insatiable nature of Field Marshal Goring's appetite.
But my grandfather isn't available for consultation. He's walking my mother out of the Tankstelle on the Karlsplatz, with a cookie crock of gasoline under his arm - just three-quarters full, so he can walk without slopping. My mother is smiling more than a family-outing smile, because Grandfather has told the Tankstelle man that the cookie crock is a surprise for an uncle, who eats too much and is always running out of gas.
They cross the Getreidemarkt, whispering family secrets; they slow down to look at the billboards on the Atelier Theater.
'Oh, look,' says Grandfather, reading matinee times.
And Hilke says, 'I think there's more around the side.' And turns up the alley, trying not to be startled by the taxi squatting under Katrina Marek's nose. 'Come on,' she says to Grandfather. 'It's really the best picture I've seen of her.'
'Just a minute,' says Grandfather, still staring at the matinee schedule. But he moves along, reading, and darts a look up and down the street; he sticks his
hand round the corner of the alley and waggles a finger at my mother. She takes the damp sponge out of her pocketbook and rubs JA! SCHUSCHNIGG! off the taxi's hood. Then she stands back to look at Katrina Marek, and moves casually round the taxi, here and there whisking away a flake of chalk. Then she comes back out of the alley and tugs my grandfather's arm.
'Come on, go look,' she says. 'It's a wonderful picture of her.'
'You read this,' says Grandfather. 'Would you just read this? Isn't that amazing?' And he moves around the corner, pointing back to the matinee schedule. Hilke tosses her head, gets a look both ways; she shakes her bracelet for Grandfather.
From the alley, Grandfather says, 'A real beauty, you're right.' And removes the gas cap his first trip round the taxi; inserts the funnel while leaning against a fender, gazing fondly at Katrina Marek. 'What do you think of that schedule?' he calls, and my mother jingles her bracelet again. Grandfather empties the cookie crock into the gas tank. On his way out of the alley, he passes the driver's-side window and is delighted to see the key in the ignition.
'This is truly incredible,' says Hilke, pointing to the schedule. She takes Grandfather's arm, and together they walk on, past the alley and up a block. Then Grandfather makes her a bow, kisses her cheek and hands her the cookie crock. My mother returns the kiss and goes straight on, while Grandfather turns up a side block. He comes out behind the theater and waltzes into the alley, facing the taxi head-on.
My mother tosses herself along, throwing back her hair for the storefront windows to see; she cuddles the cookie crock against her high, light bosom; she sees herself, transparent, passing through racks of dresses, rows of shoes, swivel displays of cakes and pastries; through the Kaffeehaus windows too, she sees herself lift faces from the rims of cups - and pass indelibly, even if transparent, through the mind of everyone who's looking out when my mother looks in. She imagines Zahn Glanz is watching her too, in his dreams brought on by her girlishly perfumed bed. But she's not in such a trance that she forgets her street corners; she slows at Faulmanngasse and Muhl, and hesitates until she recognizes the driver before she hails the taxi coming along.
'Where to?' says Grandfather, chin on chest, and waits until they're under way before he says, 'Pretty damn slick father you've got, haven't you? Went all the way down Elisabethstrasse for a full tank of gas, and picked you off this corner just as you got here. I could see you coming. You didn't even have to wait. Some sense of timing, I have.'
Hilke tugs her hair around her ears; she laughs a bright, adoring laugh, and Grandfather, nodding his head, laughs along. 'Pretty slick, pretty slick - a flawless job, I must say.'
Anyone watching them, bobbing up and down in the getaway taxi, must be thinking: Now what could an old man like that have to say, to make such a pretty girl laugh?
My grandfather gets things done - delicately, and with fanfare.
So does Goring - but with much less fanfare, and no delicacy at all. Just twenty minutes after receiving the phonecall of Schuschnigg's first concession, Goring phones back. He tells Seyss-Inquart that Schuschnigg's behavior is unacceptable and that the Chancellor and his Cabinet are asked to resign; that President Miklas is asked to nominate Seyss-Inquart for the Chancellorship. Goring has such an odd way of putting things. He promises that Austria will have German military aid, if the Schuschnigg government cannot change itself promptly.
It's a most embarrassed Seyss-Inquart who breaks this news to Kurt von Schuschnigg, and Schuschnigg takes his next-to-last step backward. At three-thirty, or only half an hour after Goring's phonecall, Schuschnigg simply places the resignation of his entire government in President Miklas' hands. And here's an arbitrary matter: it would have looked so much nicer, after the war, if Schuschnigg had held out an hour longer - until Lord Halifax's message was conveyed from the British Embassy in Vienna; how His Majesty's government wouldn't want to be taking the responsibility of advising the Chancellor to expose his country to dangers against which His Majesty's government would be unable to guarantee protection.
It's a matter of giving in when you're abandoned, or abandoning yourself when you know you're going to be abandoned. But after the fact, fine hairs are indeed split.
At three-thirty, Schuschnigg doesn't need anything formal to know he's been abandoned. He can anticipate; that Lord Halifax will evade; that French charge d'affaires in Rome, M. Blondel, will be told by Count Ciano's private secretary that if the reason for his visit is Austria, he needn't bother to come; and that Mussolini will never be reached by phone - that he's hiding somewhere, listening to it ring and ring.
So Schuschnigg leaves Federal President Miklas with the decision for a new Chancellor. Old Miklas has been this route before. Under the Nazi Putsch of four years ago - poor Dollfuss murdered in the sanctity of his Chancellory office, and a courtyard of toughs below, waiting to sway the crowd whichever way the limbo turned; then Miklas turned to Kurt von Schuschnigg. Now Miklas has until seven-thirty. So the old President goes looking for a Chancellor.
There's faithful police head, Skubl, but Skubl declines; he's known in Berlin, and his nomination would be a further irritation to Hitler. There's Doktor Ender, authority on constitutional law, who feels his need to be Chancellor already has been satisfied, as leader of a previous government. And General Schilhawsky, Inspector General of the Armed Forces says he's an officer, not a politician. So Miklas finds no takers.