Across the Rift

By H.Ann Ackroyd

The storyline follows the lives of members of the same family living in three locations during World War Two: Britain, Nazi-occupied Austria and Southern Rhodesia in Africa.

On the British side, Malcolm is present at Dunkirk and his mother, Helen, experiences the bombing of London.

Nell, British, Rudi, Austrian, and their daughter Acorn sit out the war in Southern Rhodesia, but nonetheless, war touches every aspect of their lives.

The Austrian contingent consists of Amelia, an aristocrat, who is mother of Rudi and two teenagers, Werner and Sofie, who live in Nazi-occupied Vienna. The family is anti-Nazi but pays lip-service to the Nazi overlords, while helping to run a Monarchist Resistance group. Werner, an ambulance driver, is injured in Normandy. Sofie creates a problem for her family by falling in love and secretly marrying a Nazi officer who participates in Hitler's Russian Campaign.

The story follows the British members of the family through to the euphoria of VE-Day and, at the same time, the Austrian members through to the Allied bombing of Vienna. Rudi and Nell in Africa are caught between the winners’ euphoria and the losers’ humiliation.

Despite the dark times, humor, hope, love and redemption feature in equal measure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.Ann Ackroyd
• Release date: Oct 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311958976

H.Ann Ackroyd

H. Ann Ackroyd was born and raised in southern Africa.She is of British and Austrian parentage and has family in Britain, Europe and Africa with whom she keeps in touch and on whose experiences she draws, along with her own, in Colonial Adventures and Other Stories and Across the Rift.She was trained at the University of Vienna, Austria, as a translator: main languages English and German, also Spanish and Portuguese. She has lived in Africa, Europe, Brazil and now lives in Simcoe, Ontario, Canada.

Book preview

Chapter One

Introit

Through translucent skin

the frangible heart of a

foetus nudges a path into

the future beating out

life’s first strident rhythms.

Acorn Arabella

arrives at the Lady Chancellor

hospital

Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia

December 29th, 1937 at 8.09 a.m.

Daughter to Rudi and Nell Acorn

weighs six pounds two ounces.

A week later back home on the farm, Mabeli

Chafa, house servant, gives her a gift of a shilling

Mathias, farm hand, brings her a live

chicken long legs and spurs.

From Edinburgh, Scotland, Helen her grandmother

sends a hundred Guineas.

Her Uncle Malcolm writes a letter:

Dear Acorn

When you read these lines, many years from now...

From Vienna, Austria, neither word nor

present. Her grandmother, Amelia

and her two younger children, Werner and

Sofie are otherwise involved.

Outsiders occupy mind and country.

Chapter Two

Heldenplatz

Vienna, Tuesday, March 15, 1938.

Werner and Sofie, siblings

he seventeen, she sixteen

wearing well cut coats from

Habig’s handmade boots, gloves,

caps and scarves of fashion

witness from the shade of the Hofburg

history in the making:

Anschluß takeover

high jacking.

Someone, a low-life corporal, nobody, loser,

tramp is taking over their country.

Austrian by birth, this person leads

Germany. He’s a Piffke.

His troops

die Wehrmacht

have poured across Austria’s border goosestepped

into Vienna, firing not a single shot

receiving no resistance.

Instead, children shriek in gleeful

welcome wave Nazi flags.

Girls, long blonde braids and bloomers

preen for the soldiery.

Parents and grandparents yell till hoarse

Sieg Heil!

In a few weeks

a plebiscite will legitimize the theft but

the parvenu, in his euphoria, can’t wait.

He’s already in Vienna to hear the church bells peel.

He, once snubbed

now welcomed by the Pummerin

mighty boomer

seldom heard.

Standing on the Imperial balcony

arm stretched in straight-armed Nazi salute

he acknowledges the welcome.

Below, the crowd as thick as ants

swarm over equestrian bronzes:

Prinz Eugen, Erzherzog

Karl heroes of the past

but none so heroic as he on the balcony

come to right the wrongs of 1919

to vindicate humiliation and deprivation.

Uniformed, toothbrush moustache, hair neatly

parted the savior starts to speak.

Werner and Marie Sofie, half- hidden on the

side have binoculars, see in detail

amidst banner and swastika

the upstart on the balcony.

They see the salute

see him swallow before

speaking see him start, slow,

precise and modest of gesture

then gathering momentum words

stream out in cannonades motions

become wild and frenzied. Face

slick with sweat, eyes bulging he

works the spellbound crowd with

rabid rhetoric.

We’re one people, he thunders, spittle flying.

"One family. Austria has come home

to the bosom of the Thousand Year Reich!"

Bullshit! huffs Sofie, we’re not Piffkes.

Werner places a gloved finger on rosy lips.

"Shh, Schatzi! Someone might

hear." Not likely

as two hundred thousand voices

bellow in thunderous acclaim:

"Heil Hitler!

Siegheil

Unser Führer!"

Mass hysteria

delirium

ecstasy.

Chapter Three

Granny in Edinburgh

Scotland, Late March, 1938.

Helen

in the hall at Fountain Road

feels she carries middle-age

lightly yet now, as she looks in

the mirror adjusting pearls

tying under her chin

a scarf to match tweed and twin-set

she sees that worry has aged her.

How not worry, she wonders

bending to lace garden brogue.

Awful Germans rattling sabers, war likely son

Malcolm, ready to leave Oxford to fight

daughter Nell in Africa with husband and baby

he Austrian, another type of German

meaning in the case of war

all three, Rudi, Nell and Acorn

will become The Enemy.

Doesn’t bear contemplation!

Pottering in her high-walled garden

Helen sees green shoots lifting crusted earth:

helleborus, primrose, crocuses.

Nature’s so hopeful.

Oh, dear best not to cry.

Straightens her shoulders, lifts her

chin has a reputation for coping

no, won’t cry.

Chapter Four

Christening

Saturday, March 19th, 1938.

At the font, in high heels and big hat with netted

veil Nell faces the congregation

holding baby Acorn who

wears a Christening gown

long and white of embroidered

lawn worn before her

by both her mother and grandmother.

Flanking Nell are Acorn’s godparents:

Blair and Margaret of Gomboli.

The priest asks each in turn

"Dost thou, in the name of this

child renounce the devil

and all his works

the vain pomp and glory of the world

with the covetous desires

of the same

and the carnal desires of the flesh..."

What an extraordinary agenda thinks

Rudi, shifting on hard wooden pew.

Although such rite and ritual

structured his Austrian childhood

he hears the words as though for the first time. Is

tempted to laugh, but then the priest takes Acorn

holds her over the font

pours water over her head.

She doesn’t like it, screeches.

Ouch, Rudi wants to jump, rescue his

daughter. Resists. Knows the intention is to

wash away sin but what sin can Acorn have?

Doesn’t believe in Original Sin

has broken from dogma, prefers to probe

unfettered the limits of human reach.

Believes in all-embracing love free of doctrine.

In 1935, he left his native Austria

disliking the Nazi presence

but also the stifling conventions

of his background and church.

Chin set in a stubborn line he tells himself

no one will tell me what to do or think!

Then, realizing he is glowering not

wanting to offend Father Desmond

who he likes

arranges his features into a pleasanter configuration.

Chapter Five

Leguan

Saturday, March 19th, 1938.

Acorn recovers from her hair wash

and the service reaches a final Amen.

Rudi joins Nell to proceed down the

aisle to the portal

where he stands by wife and child

square-jawed, high forehead, proud

acknowledging the well-wishing.

When Nell retires to feed the

baby he escapes to the

cemetery waving as he goes

to Blair and Margaret in their Daimler.

Calls, See you back on Mabeli!

In the cemetery, he wanders amongst silent

graves where people, only whites

rest unseen in the dappled shade of msasas.

Suddenly, with whoosh of wing

a hawk sweeps down, grabs in razor

talon a young leguan

bantam dragon

sunning itself on a granite grave top.

Together prey and predator rise into the

trees before the dragon detaches its tail

slams back to earth, landing at Rudi’s feet,

sideways. Stunned he notes the toes

-webbed and clawedthe

scales on its tummy, bigger than those on

its back. In undignified haste the creature rights

itself scuttles away.

How long for the tail to re-grow

Loves to know these things.

Meanwhile

the hawk perches in a nearby msasa.

Hooked beak, hooded eye, it glares

at him claws buried deep

the severed tail wriggles like a live

thing. "Schön!" sighs Rudi.

Knows the incident has meaning

yet the meaning eludes him.

Must do some research.

Chapter Six

Truck Ride

Saturday, March 19th, 1938.

Accommodated in their half-tonner

windows open, hair blowing

Nell and Rudi head back to Mabeli for the reception.

Despite the bumpy ride, corrugations and potholes

Acorn lies in her mother’s arms asleep.

Nell reaches out, pats her husband’s

knee "How are you, dear? Glad it’s

over?" To her mystification, he replies

"Still in one piece, unlike the

dragon. And you?"

Was nervous, now am fine.

"Afraid our child might drown in Holy

Water?" She laughs.

"No. Russian Orthodox immerses totally

and your mother’s friend survived."

Nicholai survived Lenin, Rudi reminds

her tone non- confrontational, has no wish

to offend. "Tough old bird. Our Acorn is

more delicate didn’t need a hair wash!"

"You’re incorrigible! How did your mother

cope? Mama would have said

Rudolf!

It is the Holy Catholic Church, not hair-dressing

you speak of. Go to your room. Now!

Three days bread and water.

Or she’d apply The Look

the one The Almighty uses for eternal damnation.

I’d scuttle to my room, quaking

yet still wondering how a babe in arms

could be anything but pure."

They now drive through Soshwe, Native

Reserve. The road worsens

potholes bigger, scenery impressive:

balancing rocks, kopjies and stony terrain.

Nell’s eyes follow black women, wending their way

single file, on a path through high grass

to their kraal by the kopjie.

They carry babies on their backs, water on their

heads the pots clay, bulbous and heavy.

They’d be singing, but distance drowns the sound.

Reverting to their conversation

Nell says, "Christian rituals help shape the intangible

are familiar, comforting, but..." She pauses.

But? Rudi urges

I’m hoping to hear it’s OK to differ.

Nell smiles.

"I don’t know if it’s OK, but differ we

do. Sometimes. Though for me

not when it comes to sin in babies."

Rudi’s turns to stare in disbelief.

You’re saying Acorn isn’t spotless?

I believe we, as her parents, says Nell, "taint

her." Rudi aims for levity.

"You imply we’re not perfect?

We’re so enlightened! Try to do what’s right."

"True, yet we believe Mabeli is ours

when Africans are more entitled. Rudi

shifts in his seat, brakes to avoid a dog

ribs prominent, it chases a flustered

pullet. A naked child, pot- bellied,

snotty- nosed thumb in mouth

watches from the side-lines.

They now leave Soshwe

look down on fertile plains to Mabeli.

Our farm, says Nell, "and we love it.

Will pass that love on to Acorn

and when blacks say it’s theirs, she

like us will want to keep it.

I feel that might be what the church calls sin."

As they cross the river, pass the African store

compound, school, butchery post office

Acorn wakes for the party to be held in her honor.

Chapter Seven

Incident on the Graben

Vienna, Late March, 1938.

In an alcove, housing a window

that reaches from waist-height to cavernous

ceiling Amelia and her friend Nicholai

- she mother of Rudi, Werner and Sofie

- stand side by side, their elbows on the

sill looking down on the Graben.

He is big and portly

with signet ring, buffed nails, and silver

goatee. Pristine white sleeves

with gold monogrammed cuff links

extend from a charcoal, three buttoned jacket:

lapels notched and made of tweed.

She, immaculately coiffed and

attired is a big-boned woman, fair

of face body well proportioned.

Look at that! exclaims Amelia.

They see a wave of brown

ahead of it drummers and flag.

Storm troopers, says Nicholai his

voice deep, a famed Russian bass.

The crowd shouts, "Death to the Jews!

Juden heraus! We don’t want you."

A young Brown Shirt leaps in the air like a

fawn with flying kick, shatters a shop

window tobacconist’s - more box than shop.

Others enter

throw cigarettes, tickets, magazines and

papers onto the street.

As the old man, owner, protests he’s

dragged outside, thrown to the crowd

kicked and beaten.

No! Won’t watch. Amelia heads to the kitchen.

Won’t watch! Nicholai parrots her.

Is a White Russian, aristocrat, émigré

chased from native land by Lenin.

Closing the window, he turns the handles

checks they are locked.

With the roar of the mob now a distant

rumble he paces, the room

furniture Biedermeier, mirrors gilt,

portraits by Wiedenhofer

artist favored by Vienna’s elite.

Amelia makes tea. Nicholai hears her in the kitchen.

Franzi, servant, harridan, is off for the day

Gott sei Dank!

Unlike Franzi, Amelia makes tea the Russian

way the way he likes it, maybe even, if he’s

lucky accompanied by Russian tea cakes.

A surge from the outside mob

sends him rushing to the piano, Rachmaninoff

as loud as he can.

Must drown out the noise on the Graben.

He feels like trying white noise, but Amelia is calling.

They sit in a small salon, well away from the street.

There, on oak table

a lordly samovar reigns over Golatchen,

Dobostorte Guglhupf, Cinnamon Snails and

Mozart-Kugel. His eyes search the spread for

Russian tea cakes. Alas...

Rachmaninoff, comments Amelia

sipping from a glass in metal container

never sounded like that before!

Next time I feel this way, Nicholai tells

her "I’ll try white noise. If I can

but I’m afraid my training might stop

me. You speak in riddles."

"In my childhood, I often heard tell

that people in distant villages

sing without formal structure

pour their emotions into sound produced on the spot.

Ah! says Amelia. "Peasants in Spain do the same.

They pick up a stone, listen to it

then sing what comes to mind. Say it comforts."

Nicholai studies Amelia, ankles crossed

back straight, epitome of an elegant contessa

yet her mind ranges further than most of her kind.

Strokes his goatee

says, "Our musical traditions are riddled with

rules hamper emotional outlet."

Amelia looks doubtful, says

"I won’t discourage you

but shall continue to find my comfort in this..."

She holds up her glass and he raises his.

They drink tea laced with rum. Toast each other.

Civilized custom, he says, taking a Kipfel.

At night when I can’t sleep, Amelia tells

him "I make tea. It helps ban the menace of

marching uniforms, rallies, goose-stepping."

Such, says Nicholai, holding up the last macaroon

"is our only defense against power so absolute

so monumental..

His speech is slow and ponderous

24

his rhythm that of a Russian

bear dum de DUM da-da

DUM da-da dum-de dum.

Impatient, she continues where he left off.

so cold and calculating, so mechanical..,

but he’s now found the words, takes back the

baton: "A power so clinical, so militant and

faceless." They know each other well

these exchanges are now a game

she trying to hurry him, he resisting.

I wish we hadn’t seen that film, she

says refers to Triumph of the Will, Leni

Riefenstahl. He nods and she continues

"How can we, with beating human hearts

deal with those fiends outside?"

The feast finished

he says what no one in their circle wants to

hear "The juggernaut is unstoppable.

We flounder beneath the wheels, or say

Jawohl, mein Führer

and pretend to play their game.

Chapter Eight

Princes Street

Edinburgh, Late March, 1938.

Handbag over her arm, tweed suit, pearls and twin

set Helen walks along Princes Street.

From castle rampart, above the gardens

The One O’Clock Gun, puff of smoke, as every

day marks the moment: lunchtime.

Not Mons Meg that speaks

as a child Helen always wished she

would now knows as monumental

medieval siege gun she’s too elderly, too

venerable a lady. Rests on her laurels, if

not her carriage -wood long since rottenin

castle precinct.

Besides, she only fired balls of stone.

Helen sighs: a bellicose past. Yet

worse than the present?

Shakes herself. Must stop brooding.

It is lunchtime, should wend her way

homeward but not yet hungry.

Sight of the Waverly Station

reminds her she needs gloves -left

the last ones on a train-crosses the

street, pops into Jenner’s. Ten

minutes later is back outside

eyes the Scott Monument, aspires to Heaven

been to the top, counted the steps:

two hundred and eighty seven.

Sees gardeners preparing the ground for the floral

clock looks up The Mound, that’s the way she’s heading

starts the climb, steep even for the stalwart

a category to which she belongs

husband wouldn’t have tolerated her otherwise.

He himself never merely walked, always

strode resembling, as she sometimes told him

the figure on his favorite bottle:

Johnnie Walker Black Label.

He died nine years ago tears

still fill her eyes, misses him.

Like Icarus. if not the Scott monument

he aspired too high

fell, by using the wrong glue on a home-made glider.

Ridiculous hobby! She’d always said so.

Otherwise such a clever man.

She breathes more heavily. The slope is steep.

Needs a taxi, looks around, nothing available.

No matter.

Climbing will keep at bay her present obsession:

visceral dislike for the Germans.

Even now, in spite of the physical effort

she feels her jaw clench, the bile rise.

An intolerable people

glorying in war and the military!

Their goose-stepping, their horrible

rallies! So un-British!

Too late she notices an unoccupied cab.

Bother! Sees the missed opportunity

as chastisement for her intolerance.

Continuing to negotiate the slope

she tries to rectify the problem.

No matter how unpleasant

she lectures herself

no matter how noisy

how lacking in the humor and the grace of us

British Germans are cousins. Get it into your

head, Helen cousins, competent cousins!

Stopping to catch her breath, nearly at

the top asks herself

As cousins might we be too alike? Does

Britain not also glory in her expansion?

Does not British dominance

-empire and colony-depend

on military might?

Is not the British will to impose, conquer, subjugate

the same instinct so unattractive in