himup. She took off her jacket, folded it and slid it against his cheek. She examined his face. No, he hadn’t aged. He still looked impeccably stylish and effortlessly aristocratic. His hair was like that of a forty-year-old. His brown moustache gave his face a flirtatious edge, adding to his natural elegance. She wondered how he must have looked aged twenty. She’d never paid attention to young men. She’d only ever liked mature men. Truth be told, she hadn’t ever loved anyone except him. There he was now, sleeping like a baby. She would never have children. He felt too old to become a father. He also refused to bring a new life into this hostile world. His other wife hadn’t cared much about that as she’d already had two daughters from a previous marriage.
Lotte had resigned herself in the end. Would her health have allowed her to become a mother? “You’ll die in childbirth,” the doctors had warned. She didn’t want to die in childbirth. She didn’t want to die at all. That’s why she had followed him, all the way to the end of the world. So he could protect her. He gave her the feeling he knew where he was going. He had the gift of seeing into the future. He’d known when to leave Austria and when to leave England. He was equipped with a sixth sense, he knew the bleak horizons towards which the world was headed. He knew how to decide where they should run away to.
He opened his eyelids and suddenly straightened himself up. He asked her whether he’d dozed off. He sounded irked. She told him he hadn’t. Stefan leant towards her, looked her right in the eye and told her they would be happy here. But he kept pursing his lips. Those words were devoid of any real joy, lightness or reassurance. He wanted to dispel the effect his words had left behind, whereupon she felt the incandescent warmth of his fingers in the hollow of her hand. He asked her if she doubted him. Did she think he was lying to her?
“I believe you,” she said, “I will always believe you.”
“Good,” he said. He wanted her to forgive his mood swings and bouts of melancholy. He hadn’t been able to repress the feelings of horror that continually assailed him.
“I know,” she murmured.
From time to time, his soul seemed impenetrable to the light. Everything was pervaded by shadows and suffering. He found himself in a dark wood whose trees had turned into bodies.
“You’re not walking alone any more, I’m right here beside you in the middle of that forest and I’m holding your hand.”
She had to forgive him. Some days, everything exuded a heavy weariness as life woke up in the middle of a vanished past. Could she understand that? There was nothing she couldn’t understand. He was deaf to the sound of mellow birdsong, the promise of a coming springtime, or even the heralding of a new day. The spark of life was missing. Time stood still, the stream of hours and minutes had come to a halt on that morning of 6th March 1934 when he’d left Austria. The giant clock of Vienna’s railway station had come to a stop. Time had frozen. He felt as if he’d been cast off to the other side of the world. She understood that, didn’t she? He had been given everything only for it to have been taken away. Needless to say, he didn’t have the right to wallow in that state of mind, or feel sorry for himself. He was privileged. Most of his friends didn’t have imaginary demons snapping at their heels. Their demons were very real, and those demons had sworn to vanquish them as well as all their nearest and dearest. He didn’t have the right to throw in the towel.
“Of course you have the right to,” she said, “you don’t have a warrior’s insensitivity. You feel things more deeply. You’re a writer.”
He knew he had to look strong in front of the legions of theweak-willed, but his strength abandoned him. He was being seduced by the void.
“You only need to rest, to relax a little. You’re going to recover your health
Lotte had resigned herself in the end. Would her health have allowed her to become a mother? “You’ll die in childbirth,” the doctors had warned. She didn’t want to die in childbirth. She didn’t want to die at all. That’s why she had followed him, all the way to the end of the world. So he could protect her. He gave her the feeling he knew where he was going. He had the gift of seeing into the future. He’d known when to leave Austria and when to leave England. He was equipped with a sixth sense, he knew the bleak horizons towards which the world was headed. He knew how to decide where they should run away to.
He opened his eyelids and suddenly straightened himself up. He asked her whether he’d dozed off. He sounded irked. She told him he hadn’t. Stefan leant towards her, looked her right in the eye and told her they would be happy here. But he kept pursing his lips. Those words were devoid of any real joy, lightness or reassurance. He wanted to dispel the effect his words had left behind, whereupon she felt the incandescent warmth of his fingers in the hollow of her hand. He asked her if she doubted him. Did she think he was lying to her?
“I believe you,” she said, “I will always believe you.”
“Good,” he said. He wanted her to forgive his mood swings and bouts of melancholy. He hadn’t been able to repress the feelings of horror that continually assailed him.
“I know,” she murmured.
From time to time, his soul seemed impenetrable to the light. Everything was pervaded by shadows and suffering. He found himself in a dark wood whose trees had turned into bodies.
“You’re not walking alone any more, I’m right here beside you in the middle of that forest and I’m holding your hand.”
She had to forgive him. Some days, everything exuded a heavy weariness as life woke up in the middle of a vanished past. Could she understand that? There was nothing she couldn’t understand. He was deaf to the sound of mellow birdsong, the promise of a coming springtime, or even the heralding of a new day. The spark of life was missing. Time stood still, the stream of hours and minutes had come to a halt on that morning of 6th March 1934 when he’d left Austria. The giant clock of Vienna’s railway station had come to a stop. Time had frozen. He felt as if he’d been cast off to the other side of the world. She understood that, didn’t she? He had been given everything only for it to have been taken away. Needless to say, he didn’t have the right to wallow in that state of mind, or feel sorry for himself. He was privileged. Most of his friends didn’t have imaginary demons snapping at their heels. Their demons were very real, and those demons had sworn to vanquish them as well as all their nearest and dearest. He didn’t have the right to throw in the towel.
“Of course you have the right to,” she said, “you don’t have a warrior’s insensitivity. You feel things more deeply. You’re a writer.”
He knew he had to look strong in front of the legions of theweak-willed, but his strength abandoned him. He was being seduced by the void.
“You only need to rest, to relax a little. You’re going to recover your health
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