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Authors: Eliza Granville
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their memories, even.’
‘Most of them would probably like to, if they’re servicing the scum that comes in here.’ Hugo thumped his drained tankard against the table. He seized another and pushed the remaining one towards Benjamin, belching loudly as he leaned over to clout the boy. ‘More beer!’
Benjamin quickly finished his own drink. This time Hugo ignored the waiter, who slopped a cloth across the table and slammed down more tankards without ceremony. The boy returned with his ragged shirt folded up to form a sac full of gleanings, bread crusts, sausage ends, some sweaty slices of cheese, a
Salzgurke
with a bite taken from one end. His feet were bare. Perhaps Benjamin grimaced, because Hugo narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.
‘The brat does better than most. That’s why he sticks around. Think I want him forever hanging on my shirt tails? No, I bloody don’t. I can hardly hear myself think above his constant chatter.’
Benjamin laughed. To his knowledge, the kid had uttered a single word in the last hour. Apart from that he was silent as the grave, barring an occasional bout of sniffing. ‘Don’t know how you put up with the noise. You’re philanthropy personified, my friend.’
‘Can’t leave them all to die,’ muttered Hugo, sending a chill up Benjamin’s spine. ‘We’re on the road to Gehenna when the whole world turns a blind eye to children’s suffering.’
‘Gehenna,’ echoed Benjamin. In the Talmud it was Gehinnam. He no longer adhered to the religion of his forefathers,but remembered the terrifying images summoned up by the Book of Isaiah. Gehinnam was the burning place. It was a vile place of child sacrifice, of pitiless live immolation. The passage still brought night terrors that made him glad to be living in a civilized country in enlightened times. ‘And the king,’ he muttered, ‘shall cause his children to pass through the fire.’
‘Your Gehenna, our Hell,’ said Hugo, after a short pause to quench his prodigious thirst. ‘Same bloodthirsty God threatening the same miserable hereafter unless there’s a whole lot of bowing and scraping and self-denial. Slave religions, all of them.’ He glared from the table to the boy chewing on his scraps. ‘And that’s the second time the little sod’s forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘Obstler!’ roared Hugo, aiming a blow. The boy ducked and ran.
‘You mentioned missing girls,’ said Benjamin in an effort to get the conversation back on track. ‘Anyone in particular? Girls from good families, I mean.’
Hugo’s bleary gaze sharpened. ‘I didn’t mention anyone missing. What’s your interest, anyway?’
‘Might be a reward,’ Benjamin said ingenuously. Hugo snorted.
‘You’re out of luck then. This city mops up missing wenches. Vienna’s lousy with pimps and madams. Little wonder, since every well-heeled
Frau
dismisses her maids when the family leaves for their summer residence. What happens to the poor bitches if they haven’t got homes to go back to? Do they care? No. It all provides easy pickings for the
Hurenböcke
, the filthy pimps. Summer’s the time when raddled old madams trawl the parks and riverbanks harvesting young women – offering sympathy, a meal, a temporary roof over their heads. Next thingthey know they’ve got new careers, flat on their backs in Bulgaria, Turkey, Rumania, and even here.’ Hugo paused to drink, tipping the tankard at such a precarious angle that liquid spilled from the sides of his mouth, trickling down the sides of his neck and under his collar. He dried his face on his sleeve and produced another spectacularly loud belch. A tall, sharp-featured man glanced down at him, his lips pursed into a moue of disgust as he passed.
‘And are there any records of these maids?’ asked Benjamin, shifting uncomfortably. Even kindly Frau Breuer had dispensed with plump little Greet before departing for Gmunden. He’d been sad to see the kitchen maid go – she was hardly
‘Most of them would probably like to, if they’re servicing the scum that comes in here.’ Hugo thumped his drained tankard against the table. He seized another and pushed the remaining one towards Benjamin, belching loudly as he leaned over to clout the boy. ‘More beer!’
Benjamin quickly finished his own drink. This time Hugo ignored the waiter, who slopped a cloth across the table and slammed down more tankards without ceremony. The boy returned with his ragged shirt folded up to form a sac full of gleanings, bread crusts, sausage ends, some sweaty slices of cheese, a
Salzgurke
with a bite taken from one end. His feet were bare. Perhaps Benjamin grimaced, because Hugo narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.
‘The brat does better than most. That’s why he sticks around. Think I want him forever hanging on my shirt tails? No, I bloody don’t. I can hardly hear myself think above his constant chatter.’
Benjamin laughed. To his knowledge, the kid had uttered a single word in the last hour. Apart from that he was silent as the grave, barring an occasional bout of sniffing. ‘Don’t know how you put up with the noise. You’re philanthropy personified, my friend.’
‘Can’t leave them all to die,’ muttered Hugo, sending a chill up Benjamin’s spine. ‘We’re on the road to Gehenna when the whole world turns a blind eye to children’s suffering.’
‘Gehenna,’ echoed Benjamin. In the Talmud it was Gehinnam. He no longer adhered to the religion of his forefathers,but remembered the terrifying images summoned up by the Book of Isaiah. Gehinnam was the burning place. It was a vile place of child sacrifice, of pitiless live immolation. The passage still brought night terrors that made him glad to be living in a civilized country in enlightened times. ‘And the king,’ he muttered, ‘shall cause his children to pass through the fire.’
‘Your Gehenna, our Hell,’ said Hugo, after a short pause to quench his prodigious thirst. ‘Same bloodthirsty God threatening the same miserable hereafter unless there’s a whole lot of bowing and scraping and self-denial. Slave religions, all of them.’ He glared from the table to the boy chewing on his scraps. ‘And that’s the second time the little sod’s forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘Obstler!’ roared Hugo, aiming a blow. The boy ducked and ran.
‘You mentioned missing girls,’ said Benjamin in an effort to get the conversation back on track. ‘Anyone in particular? Girls from good families, I mean.’
Hugo’s bleary gaze sharpened. ‘I didn’t mention anyone missing. What’s your interest, anyway?’
‘Might be a reward,’ Benjamin said ingenuously. Hugo snorted.
‘You’re out of luck then. This city mops up missing wenches. Vienna’s lousy with pimps and madams. Little wonder, since every well-heeled
Frau
dismisses her maids when the family leaves for their summer residence. What happens to the poor bitches if they haven’t got homes to go back to? Do they care? No. It all provides easy pickings for the
Hurenböcke
, the filthy pimps. Summer’s the time when raddled old madams trawl the parks and riverbanks harvesting young women – offering sympathy, a meal, a temporary roof over their heads. Next thingthey know they’ve got new careers, flat on their backs in Bulgaria, Turkey, Rumania, and even here.’ Hugo paused to drink, tipping the tankard at such a precarious angle that liquid spilled from the sides of his mouth, trickling down the sides of his neck and under his collar. He dried his face on his sleeve and produced another spectacularly loud belch. A tall, sharp-featured man glanced down at him, his lips pursed into a moue of disgust as he passed.
‘And are there any records of these maids?’ asked Benjamin, shifting uncomfortably. Even kindly Frau Breuer had dispensed with plump little Greet before departing for Gmunden. He’d been sad to see the kitchen maid go – she was hardly
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