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Authors: Elisabeth de Waal
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military moustache framed a pair of very blue eyes that were now smiling under a film of tears. And the mouth under its stubbly moustache was smiling too. The whole bent figure was turned upwards, the head raised, the shoulders lifted by an inner elation shining through the aged body and the shabby clothes. Recognition was instantaneous and mutual. Adler ran down the last steps with hands outstretched, clasping the old man’s hand with both his own.
‘Grasboeck, you are still here! How are you? How good to find you again!’
‘Oh, Herr Professor, so you have come back, you have come back!’
They could exchange nothing but exclamations, well-worn phrases, just to express, however haltingly, feelings too deep for words.
‘It’s been a long time – we have both grown older – but I knew you immediately – and I was so happy when I heard you were coming back to us.’ And again and again: ‘Such long years – such terrible years!’ And they shook hands once more. Adler patted the old man on the shoulder and Grasboeck seemed to want to do a service for Adler – carry his briefcase, perhaps – but Adler had none with him, so they stood there brimming with goodwill for each other and at a loss what to do. The old man recovered himself first, stepped backwards and murmured something about having to sweep the courtyard. Adler hesitated. The impulse rose within him to say: Let’s go out and have a glass of wine together, but of course Grasboeck would not be able to leave his work in the middle of the morning.
Then he remembered: Grasboeck had had a little boy who sometimes sat in his cubicle doing his homework or playing around the courtyard.
‘Your son, Grasboeck, what happened to your son?’
‘He was killed at the front, Herr Professor, having to fight on the wrong side – on the wrong side.’
Six
Theophil Kanakis knew what he was looking for and he was convinced he would find it; although, when he made his first trip to Vienna very soon after the end of the war and a couple of years before Adler had decided on his attempt at repatriation, he had for a moment had his doubts. When he saw what the desultory bombing by over-zealous Americans on the verge of victory, and the vindictive shelling by desperate Germans in the throes of defeat, had done to the face of the city – the gaps in the familiar streets, the heaps of rubble where some well-remembered building had stood – he had, at first, felt that the prospect was not very promising. It was not that he grieved very deeply about the destruction he saw. It was, he thought, not really very widespread nor very severe. In fact, compared with other European cities, with London and Rotterdam, with Berlin or Munich, Vienna had escaped with minor injuries: perhaps there was not much more fortuitous destruction there than what New York was perennially and deliberately suffering in the continual process of being pulled down in order to be rebuilt. That was a most laudable and extremely profitable process of which he thoroughly approved, for it had made him, and was still making him, a very rich man.
What made him apprehensive on this, his first return to Vienna, was not so much the destruction that he saw, but the fear of what the rebuilding – which was bound to take place sooner or later – was going to do to the character of the city. It might do a great deal of damage. And it might obliterate, if the bombing had not already done so, that very piece of property he was looking for. At this stage it was very difficult to foresee.
It was equally difficult to foresee, in the present condition of shock, bereavement and poverty, whether life in the old place would ever be the same again. If not, there was no point in continuing his quest. He must take his chance; but that he had always done, with almost incredible success, exercising his intuitive gift for investment in real estate, buying derelict buildings or promising sites for development. However, that
‘Grasboeck, you are still here! How are you? How good to find you again!’
‘Oh, Herr Professor, so you have come back, you have come back!’
They could exchange nothing but exclamations, well-worn phrases, just to express, however haltingly, feelings too deep for words.
‘It’s been a long time – we have both grown older – but I knew you immediately – and I was so happy when I heard you were coming back to us.’ And again and again: ‘Such long years – such terrible years!’ And they shook hands once more. Adler patted the old man on the shoulder and Grasboeck seemed to want to do a service for Adler – carry his briefcase, perhaps – but Adler had none with him, so they stood there brimming with goodwill for each other and at a loss what to do. The old man recovered himself first, stepped backwards and murmured something about having to sweep the courtyard. Adler hesitated. The impulse rose within him to say: Let’s go out and have a glass of wine together, but of course Grasboeck would not be able to leave his work in the middle of the morning.
Then he remembered: Grasboeck had had a little boy who sometimes sat in his cubicle doing his homework or playing around the courtyard.
‘Your son, Grasboeck, what happened to your son?’
‘He was killed at the front, Herr Professor, having to fight on the wrong side – on the wrong side.’
Six
Theophil Kanakis knew what he was looking for and he was convinced he would find it; although, when he made his first trip to Vienna very soon after the end of the war and a couple of years before Adler had decided on his attempt at repatriation, he had for a moment had his doubts. When he saw what the desultory bombing by over-zealous Americans on the verge of victory, and the vindictive shelling by desperate Germans in the throes of defeat, had done to the face of the city – the gaps in the familiar streets, the heaps of rubble where some well-remembered building had stood – he had, at first, felt that the prospect was not very promising. It was not that he grieved very deeply about the destruction he saw. It was, he thought, not really very widespread nor very severe. In fact, compared with other European cities, with London and Rotterdam, with Berlin or Munich, Vienna had escaped with minor injuries: perhaps there was not much more fortuitous destruction there than what New York was perennially and deliberately suffering in the continual process of being pulled down in order to be rebuilt. That was a most laudable and extremely profitable process of which he thoroughly approved, for it had made him, and was still making him, a very rich man.
What made him apprehensive on this, his first return to Vienna, was not so much the destruction that he saw, but the fear of what the rebuilding – which was bound to take place sooner or later – was going to do to the character of the city. It might do a great deal of damage. And it might obliterate, if the bombing had not already done so, that very piece of property he was looking for. At this stage it was very difficult to foresee.
It was equally difficult to foresee, in the present condition of shock, bereavement and poverty, whether life in the old place would ever be the same again. If not, there was no point in continuing his quest. He must take his chance; but that he had always done, with almost incredible success, exercising his intuitive gift for investment in real estate, buying derelict buildings or promising sites for development. However, that
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