Vienna Farewell: September 1937-June 1938

By David Jordan

On March 12, 1938, the German Army marched into Austria, greeted enthusiastically by much of the population, making the country part of Nazi Germany. Overnight, 200,000 Austrian Jews were turned from citizens into hated and hunted outsiders, unprotected by law or custom.

Jacob Abels is one of them; a young Jewish man in beautiful Vienna, immersed in the youthful world of friendships and new love. Suddenly, his familiar and beguiling city is a place of danger and fear.

Vienna Farewell is the story of people-Gentiles and Jews, Nazis and anti-Nazis, rich and poor, young and old-lives and fates intertwined, trying in many different ways to make their personal adjustments to this new historical reality; some by attempting to escape abroad, others by resigned and hopeless waiting for the improbable return of better days, and others-Nazis and their allies-by taking brutal advantage of their newly won powers.

David Jordan, drawing on his personal experiences, describes the actions and motivations of his contemporaries with the clarity of the inside observer who "knows his Viennese." Part history, part novel, Vienna Farewell shines a revealing light on a place in a time of darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 14, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595878611

David Jordan

Hiking, trekking and camping since a young age, David Jordan's earliest memories of walking adventures were family holidays, let loose among trees and fields with a Kodak 'instamatic' camera and notebook. Many years on, little has changed, although the boots are bigger and camera technology has definitely improved. Still the highlights of each passing year are the opportunities to roam, explore, photograph and document what was found. David has hiked and camped extensively across much of the higher ground of the UK, Europe and Norway, as well as the US. A first taste of long-distance walking started with a circuit of the Tour du Mont Blanc in 1992 and led through sections of the Appalachian Trail to a full thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail in 2016. Returning to the Alps David spent four years researching and exploring the Grande Traversata Delle Alpe. In 2023 David hiked the PCT for a second time and became one of fewer than 200 people ever to thru-hike the trail more than once. When not travelling David lives on the Arnside and Silverdale peninsula, a designated 'area of outstanding natural beauty' on the edge of the English Lake District with his wife and dog.

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Copyright © 2006, 2007 by David Jordan

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Although this novel is set within the context of historical events, the characters are fictional and composites drawn from different individuals and imagination. No reference to any actual person is intended or should be inferred.

ISBN: 978-0-595-43534-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-69247-7 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-87861-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

September 1937

October 1937

November 1937

December 1937

January 1938

February 1938

March 1938

April 1938

May 1938

June 1938

Notes

September 1937

I

The morning light slipped softly through the slits between the blinds, formed parallel lines on the dark wall, crossed the tabletop and ended abruptly on the worn floorboards. On his narrow cot Jacob stretched and yawned, waiting for the alarm to sound, but behind the closed doors of his parents’ bedroom all was silent.

After a few minutes he got up, raised the blinds, and opened the windows to the fresh air and the noises of early morning: steps on the sidewalk, a truck rumbling down the street, factory whistles in the distance. The alarm began to ring behind the door.

He walked swiftly through the narrow, dark, stale-smelling kitchen into the hallway, glanced briefly through the only window at the tiny weed-filled backyard, then used the common toilet. He filled a pitcher with cold water from the faucet. Returning to the kitchen, he met his mother on her way out, her ample shape swathed in a worn bathrobe. She smiled at him and stroked his arm as they passed each other. He poured the icy water into the chipped bowl on top of the wooden coal bin, washed face and arms, brushed his teeth, and poured the soapy liquid into the large pail on the floor. Back in the living room he dressed quickly, folded his cot, and rolled it into its corner.

His father appeared in the bedroom door, face flushed from the daily attack of smoker’s morning cough, nodded at Jacob, and walked out through the kitchen. A few minutes later all three were seated around the table.

Mathilda Abels, pouring coffee into her cup, turned to her son. Isn’t it exciting, Jacob, the first day!

Don’t be silly, said her husband, chewing and cutting himself another slice of bread. He isn’t a child anymore at seventeen. What’s so exciting about the first day of school?

But Moritz, she protested, it’s the first day of the last year!

So? And afterwards? We haven’t the money for university, and there’s no job waiting for him …

Something will turn up, you’ll see. Such a wonderful age, seventeen. Don’t you think so, Jacob?

Jacob took a big mouthful of his breakfast cocoa. Can’t think right now, he said light-heartedly, too busy eating.

But aren’t you happy and excited?

Leave him alone, Mathilda. You talk like a child.

So I am childish! Remember what a beautiful baby he was? People stopped in the street to look at him. It seems like yesterday; how the time flies!

Jacob patted her hand. I know, Mama, but now I’m a big boy and I’d better hurry so I don’t miss that great first day at school.

He got up, wished them a good day, and left. He walked down the six steps into the musty lobby, with paint peeling from the walls, opened the heavy front door and stepped out into the sunny street.

Wurmgasse—Worm Street—offered the usual view of a weekday morning. Jacob had lived here all his life, but it seemed different now, almost a little strange, so soon after the two months of summer spent in the mountains, He shook his head to chase away the memories of lake and forest, of the children in the summer camp where he had been a counselor, of days of hiking and climbing, swimming and boating, and evenings around the campfire, after the youngsters had been sent to bed. The sparks rose in the starry sky as if they had become stars themselves, and the counselors, huddled under their blankets on the ground, had time for themselves. And then he thought of Ruth.

The grating sound of steel shutters being raised tore him from his dreams. On his right, Prokosch, the tile stove maker, was opening his cellar workshop beneath the Abels’ windows. Across the street, Huber, the tavern keeper, was busily sweeping last night’s floor dust into the street, while the greengrocer next to him was putting the finishing touches on his display of fruit and vegetables.

The stove maker waved at Jacob. Good morning! He spoke with a heavy Slavic accent. How are you? Just came back?

Day before yesterday. And you?

No vacations for me, Prokosch said. Too much work. And what would I do on vacations? The wife and the boy went to her sister over the summer, you know, a little village near Prague, like last year. And of course he has forgotten half his German. Can you tutor him again like before, twice a week?

Of course, Herr Prokosch, with pleasure.

That was a good beginning, Jacob thought, continuing his way to school. If I could find a pupil every afternoon, just for an hour or two, that would be fine. There was very little money in tutoring, but it helped and he wasn’t dependent on his parents for every penny. Of course, the most important matter right now was the baccalaureate looming only a few months ahead. He was a good student and he was determined to pass it with top grades, the way he had gone through the past seven years of the gymnasium. The time seemed so short since he had first set foot in school. He remembered it as clearly as if it had happened just a few short months ago.

He reached the end of Wurmgasse where Braun, the butcher, was opening his doors. Inside, the apprentice was rinsing the tile floor, spilling a stream of bloodstained water onto the sidewalk. Jacob avoided the swirling flood by a quick jump and, looking back in protest, saw the butcher standing in his doorway, shrugging his shoulders and smiling apologetically.

He turned the corner into the next street where traffic was livelier. Trucks and cabs, horse-drawn carts and cyclists moved in a steady stream. The sidewalks were filled with people going to work and children on their way to school. From the upper floor windows, housewives shook dustcloths into the air, dropping lint into the gentle breeze. Up in the sky, flocks of white clouds were moving eastward like an army of toy soldiers.

Walking with the crowd, Jacob felt that he was part of this city, his native Vienna. At a street corner he suddenly smelled the sweet scent of wild flowers. Two women in the peasant dress of Lower Austria walked slowly from house to house, each holding a large basket of dried lavender. He hadn’t seen lavender sellers since last year or the year before; they had become a rarity, but his mother, like many Viennese housewives, liked to perfume their linen closets with bunches of lavender. He stopped and listened to their song in the local dialect:

Buy lavender, Twenty pennies a bunch of lavender, Here we have lavender, Who wants to buy?

He remembered that he had to be in school at eight, so he turned and continued on his way. There is something special about Vienna, he mused, something that can’t be found anywhere else, but then, of course, he hadn’t been anywhere else.

He noticed two girls walking a few steps ahead, talking and giggling, the wind carrying the sound of their voices and whiffs of perfume. He watched their hips and thighs moving rhythmically under their light skirts and remembered that he would see Ruth tonight. The thought filled him with joy—perhaps his mother was right; everything would turn out perfect.

He crossed a large square bordered on one side by a long brick wall covered by an endless line of posters from which the stern face of Chancellor Schuschnigg, head of the Austrian government, peered disapprovingly. At the far end of the wall the posters had been smeared over by crude black swastikas and a fat policeman was trying half-heartedly to remove them. Nobody stopped to watch. People hurried by with a furtive glance and ironic smile. Nothing has changed over the summer, Jacob concluded; nobody in Vienna was taking the government seriously.

What was serious, however, was his future. He admitted to himself that, practically speaking, he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do after this year. He thought of his friend, Hans, who had sat next to him in school since the first day and whose future was all laid out because of some family connections in engineering. But there is nothing waiting for me, Jacob mused, nothing at all. No money, no contacts except in my father’s world of little grocery stores that makes me shudder when I think of it. No training for anything that would help me make a living, or at least get started.

He didn’t notice the man till they collided, head-on. He fell backwards under the impact into the arms of another man who pushed him violently forward. Turning rapidly, Jacob saw himself surrounded by four men, all tall and heavyset and wearing white knee socks, the unofficial uniform of the outlawed Nazi storm troopers.

Look out, Jew boy, shouted the first man, fist raised. Can’t you watch where you’re going? Think you own the street, do you?

A crowd began to gather, waiting eagerly for the entertainment, encouraging the four thugs. Give it to him! The Jew deserves a little beating, it’ll do him good. Go on, let’s have some fun!

Jacob coiled like a cornered animal. When the first man struck he jumped aside, bent low, slipped swiftly under the man’s arm, pushed through the crowd and ran. He heard them calling behind his back, Look at that Jewish coward! How he runs! He glanced back over his shoulder, but they did not pursue him. One of them, shaking his fist, yelled, Wait, we’ll get you yet, all of you!

He slowed to a fast walk now, looking very carefully at everybody coming toward him. He passed a policeman standing at a corner, arms folded over chest, watching Jacob suspiciously. Guardian of law and order, he thought grimly. I wonder if he saw? I’m sure he did. He walked on, feeling cold despite the sunshine and his hurried stride. No reason to be upset, really. Attacks on single Jews were common in Vienna; he remembered stories he had heard and he had his own memories. When he was still a small boy he had often been pursued by boys his own age or slightly older, some of them neighborhood children whom he knew by sight or even by name. The method was always the same: three or four of them, sometimes more, always against a single victim, starting with insults or one of their hateful ditties. He remembered one:

Jew, Jew, spit in your hood,

Tell your mother it tastes good.

But for the last few years, when he had grown strong and agile with adolescence and a fight would have been a serious matter, the thugs of Wurmgasse had left him alone.

He also remembered complaining to his father once, and the reply:

You want troubles with the neighbors? They’re all against us, there’s nothing you can do about it. Just get out of their way when you see them coming; you can tell by their faces. Don’t fight—there are always more of them, and if by chance you beat them off they’ll wait for you next time with twice their number. Don’t complain to their parents—that’s where they learned hating us in the first place. So what do you want to do? Go to their teachers? They’re anti-Semites themselves and in any case, they won’t stick out their necks for you. The police? They’ll say you’re the troublemaker. Their priests? They’ll say, after all, you killed Christ! So, get used to it. They won’t kill you; all there’s to it is you have to work a little harder, and sometimes close your ears. He wondered whether his father had ever been set upon by anti-Semitic thugs while making his daily rounds of grocery stores. In any case he had never mentioned it.

He suddenly felt that somebody was keeping step with him, and turning quickly, faced his friend, Hans Hofer, sun-tanned, smiling, and marching steadily at his side.

I’ve been walking with you from the corner, said Hans, and I was wondering how long it would take you to notice me. Looking straight ahead like a recruit on parade! Another minute and I would have made my presence known by a kick!

Jacob smiled. This seems to be my day for kicks, he said. He considered for a moment telling Hans about the morning’s incident but decided not to.

What do you mean?

Oh nothing, I was just walking without looking.

Thinking about something important, I bet.

Girls, said Jacob.

Don’t boast. You’re much too timid. Anyway, how was your summer job?

That’s exactly what I mean. Dark brown hair and freckles.

Really? Come on, tell me about her. Oh, you’re just inventing stories. You wouldn’t know what to do, anyway.

I can teach you a few things! And how was your summer?

The usual, with my uncle in Salzburg.

That must have been wonderful, with all those concerts and plays …

Don’t be silly. I’m not a tourist!

Turning another corner they faced the gymnasium, three-storied, stuccoed, and gray. Students were entering through the large open gate flanked on both sides by oversized female statues in flowing gowns, their plaster heads whitened by many generations of pigeons.

Inside, the large lobby was crowded and noisy. Schmitz, the custodian, stood serenely in front of his little office watching the scene, his heavy bald head reflecting the light from the tall windows and his impressive moustache flowing generously down the sides of his face.

Emperor Schmitz looks as splendid as ever, whispered Jacob as they mounted the stairs.

He’s really very nice once you get to know him, said Hans.

How do you know?

Never mind, replied Hans, smiling mysteriously. Personal secret.

They reached their classroom and greeted familiar faces, exchanged summer adventures and the latest gossip. Jacob had shared this room with most of the students for the last seven years, although Hans was his only close friend.

At eight the school bell rang and everybody sat down. There were three places to each desk; Jacob and Hans had shared theirs since the first year of school. The third seat was vacant.

Suddenly the door opened, the room fell silent, and everybody got up. Professor Rauscher entered briskly, mounted the dais, looked at them gravely for a few moments, then nodded and sat down, followed by the students.

Welcome back to school, he began, adjusting his pince-nez. I hope you all had a restful summer. To put you in the right mood for this first day I want to tell you that this year will be harder than the last. This school is proud of its tradition of sending only qualified graduates out and there will be no compromise in this, your last year. Any questions? I will now take attendance.

He opened a large black folder on his desk but before he could read the first name there was a knock at the door and Schmitz, the custodian, entered, followed by an unknown youth.

Excuse me for interrupting, Herr Professor, said Schmitz, approaching the dais. This is the new student the office may have mentioned to you. Rauscher nodded curtly.

He was assigned to this class, Schmitz added. He handed Rauscher a paper and left with a bow.

Rauscher looked at the paper, then at the new student. So your name is Erich Aron? Aron is the last name, I suppose.

A few boys giggled and the new pupil said politely, Yes, Sir.

Yes, Herr Professor, corrected Rauscher. So you think you can enter this school at the last year and pass the baccalaureate? He glanced at the paper again. I see you went to the gymnasium in Riga. I wonder why they didn’t let you stay there? The reports are not bad, but standards are different, of course. This is a tough school, Herr Aron. How about your German? Adequate, I hope?

Yes, Herr Professor. At home we speak only German.

Well, I think there is a difference between the German spoken by Germans and the other kind, but we’ll find out soon enough. And speaking Latvian won’t help you here—I assume that’s one language you speak well!

Yes, Herr Professor. Also French, English, and Russian.

Ah, I see, a genius! The giggles in the classroom turned to uproarious laughter which only a few students did not share. Silence! I’ll have a little more discipline here! If I want to make a joke I’ll let you know. Now we’ll have to find a place for Aron. How about there, next to Abels! They go well together—I mean alphabetically, of course.

Why does he have to make those little anti-Semitic remarks, Jacob thought. He glanced at Hans and noticed that his friend tried to suppress a smile as if he felt embarrassed, it wasn’t clear whether by Rauscher’s remarks or by the boys.

The new student approached, bowed formally, shook hands with Hans and Jacob, and sat down in the empty seat next to him. The taking of attendance began, followed by other dull formalities of a first school day.

Jacob hardly listened. His thoughts turned again to the future—there were so many unknowns! The baccalaureate itself did not frighten him; he was one of the best in class. But afterwards? He thought of the way his father made a living, selling his goods to grocery stores, always on the streets, in any weather, depending on the favors of customers. Then he thought of Wurmgasse where people lived their dull, monotonous lives, never changing, as if the street you lived on determined your fate with unbending finality. And then he remembered this morning’s attack—unprovoked, cowardly, simply because he was a Jew. He knew that this fact in Austria meant that he would encounter the additional hurdle of anti-Semitism whatever he endeavored to do. It was a depressing prospect.

He looked to his right at his new colleague, Erich Aron, who was obviously Jewish. His name as well as his looks pointed to this conclusion; Rauscher’s barbs never missed their mark.

He turned to the left where Hans Hofer was dreamily doodling on a piece of paper, drawing little circles with protruding lines at right angles sticking out like crosses. They had become friends almost from their first day at the gymnasium, had eaten at each other’s houses, played soccer and chess together, had shared secrets and books, and had walked together for hours through the streets and parks of Vienna as boys in that city used to do. Still, it seemed to Jacob that their friendship had lately cooled a little. It was as if the end of school and the start of real life threw a dark shadow on their relationship.

Jacob’s attention returned to Professor Rauscher who was just warning against smoking in general and on school property in particular. At this moment the bell began to ring and Rauscher left.

Everybody got up. Hans folded the scrap of paper on his desk, and Jacob noticed that the little circles and crosses had grown rectangular tails and looked suspiciously like fledgling swastikas.

Congratulations, he said sarcastically. You too?

Don’t be silly, said Hans, embarrassed, crumpling the paper and throwing it on the floor. I was just doodling. There’s no law against that!

Suit yourself, said Jacob. I don’t care.

You’re really an idiot sometimes, declared Hans angrily, his face flushing.

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and turned to the new student who was standing indecisively at his desk and said, Come, Erich, this is recess and we have to be good boys and walk in the school yard. Did they do that in Riga, too?

Of course, said Erich. Discipline above everything.

They walked down the staircase into the yard where the five hundred students walked noisily in a large circle while a few teachers tried to keep order.

I’m glad I’m sitting next to you and—ah, what is his name?

Hans Hofer, said Jacob. But regarding your place—you can change any time, you know—that was one of Rauscher’s little anti-Semitic jokes. He’s famous for that. I assume you’re Jewish—forgive me for asking such a personal question—so am I. So, he put us next to each other. He meant no real harm; in fact, he’s quite fair as teachers go. But he knew it would amuse the boys and create a good atmosphere—in other words, help him teach. Anti-Semitism as educational tool, you understand? You heard the boys sneer, didn’t you?

I didn’t notice, said Erich, blushing. In any case I’m glad he put us together. Are you religious? I mean, do you believe in some sort of divine being?

Oh, God, no! said Jacob. Do you?

I only believe in irreligious things, replied Erich mysteriously. I made that decision as a boy years ago.

I understand, said Jacob. But why did you move to Vienna just before the baccalaureate?

Couldn’t be helped. My father is a banker, you know, and his firm decided they need him here in Vienna. What a mess! Selling the house in Riga—near the sea, mind you—packing furniture, moving the whole thing to Vienna, renting a place here, unpacking again. And my mother! Painters and decorators, movers and carpenters …

Terrible!

Terrible? You don’t know her! She was in seventh heaven! Of course, she complained incessantly, and my sister even worse. But Emma—that’s my sister—is really different from Mama. And of course, now that the decorating is over, they’re so enthusiastic one would think they never wanted to stay in Riga! Vienna! Music! Dance! The opera! Culture with every meal, and also before and after! The trouble is my family is very middle-class, while I’m not at all. Are you?

Jacob smiled. I guess so, perhaps on the lower side.

That’s different. I have to tell you something funny. My father is a banker but he’s not middle-class at all, while my mother and my sister are extremely so—and both are artists.

Artists?

"My mother used to be a pianist and she’ll still play sometimes for