The Boy from the Brothel: The Story of a Street Urchin’s Rise to the Pinnacle of Viennese Society

By G.J. Anderson

It is 1907 and nine-year-old Willi has built a solid reputation on the streets. Although he is becoming a legend among the gangs and street urchins for his ability to plan ahead and sense danger, Willi has other ideas. After separating himself from life in the gutter by securing a space in an unused top-floor store room in a warehouse, he is now free to observe the seedier side of the night life of Vienna and the early morning starving artist community alone.

A year later he heroically saves a young woman from a brutal situation. As a reward, he is offered a meal at an exclusive brothel, where he endears himself to the ladies and is offered an opportunity for employment as a messenger. Through his contact with the brothel’s patrons, the Madame’s financial genius, and the worldly education he receives from the ladies, he gains vast insight into the workings of upper society and the financial world. As he matures into manhood, Willi partners with a mentor to build a financial empire. But when the Second World War unleashes chaos, Willi becomes a conduit to save downed allied airmen. As the war draws to its final close, he is badly disfigured by an American bomb while rescuing another girl from a horrifying fate. Guided by the many strong women in his life, his path leads him to eventually rebuild Austria and extend his holdings into the United States, now only time will tell if Willi will be set free of his scars to capture the happiness he has always wanted.

In this historical tale, an intuitive orphan rises from the streets of Vienna with the hope of transforming his dark beginning into a future filled with financial success and happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663240972

G.J. Anderson

G. J. Anderson is a historian who concentrates on the first half of the twentieth century, primarily in Europe. After twelve years as a pilot in the USAF and a thirty-year career in residential financing, he began researching his roots in Austria and Germany. His research provided the basis for his first novel, The Boy from the Brothel.

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Copyright © 2022 G.J. Anderson.

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed

did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names,

and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel

are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-4096-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4097-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022910675

iUniverse rev. date: 07/13/2022

To Janine De Greef, who began smuggling downed airmen before the Belgian schoolgirl turned sixteen years old. By war’s end, she had returned hundreds of British and American airmen to their families. Her family saved 320 of the more than 800 Allied airmen who had survived being shot down. Unlike the 250 members of the Belgium underground who died in concentration camps, Janine survived the war and died peacefully on November 7, 2020, in Brussels.

Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome.

—B. T. Washington

The only difference between me and a homeless man is this job. I will do whatever it takes to survive … like I did when I was a homeless man.

—C. Bratton

CONTENTS

Part 1

Chapter 1     Bertie

Chapter 2     The Bath

Chapter 3     Education

Chapter 4     Discovery

Chapter 5     Wasagasse

Chapter 6     Lessons

Chapter 7     Gerta

Chapter 8     Independence

Chapter 9     Eva … or Ava?

Chapter 10   Partners

Chapter 11   The Chuppah

Chapter 12   Seduction

Chapter 13   Goodbye

Chapter 14   Shloshim

Chapter 15   New York

Part 2

Chapter 1     Elisabeth

Chapter 2     Ruth

Chapter 3     Nightmares

Chapter 4     Anschluss

Chapter 5     Death Ray

Chapter 6     Hohenbaden

Chapter 7     The Inspection

Chapter 8     Billy Ray and Nigel

Chapter 9     The Box

Chapter 10   Explosion

Chapter 11   Solitude

Chapter 12   Hans

Chapter 13   Washington

Chapter 14   Wirtschaftswunder

Chapter 15   Reunions

Chapter 16   The Date

Chapter 17   Goodbyes

PART 1

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CHAPTER 1

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Bertie

1907

After the unexpected blow to the back of Willi’s head, his first semiconscious thought is of the water thrown into his face to revive him. The water is cold, but the temperature of the water doesn’t bother him nearly as much as its putrid smell and taste do. Willi thinks, Whoever threw this water must have scooped it up from the gutter. It’s filled with not only human trash and garbage but also the waste of horses and stray dogs.

Willi attempts to spit out the foul taste and rub the burning sensation out of his eyes. He must regain full consciousness as quickly as possible before another blow can drive him down to the ground again. That would finish this fight. He needs time for his brain to reengage, for his vision to return. Rolling over to his hands and knees, he shakes his head to clear the fog out of his mind. Think! A plan! The texture of the cobbled sidewalk is hard to balance on.

Now he feels the metal toe of a heavy jackboot crashing into his right side, accompanied by the cracking of bones and the unbearable rush of pain. His arms and legs give out. He’s flat on his stomach, facedown and helpless again. I don’t know which is worse—the pain in my side, the fog in my mind, or that I can’t take a deep breath. His mind is clearing enough that he knows he must do something drastic, or he will be killed by this monster. Don’t get up so fast, he tells himself. Stall for time—time to think and plan. He must ignore the pain.

Willi slowly rises to his hands and knees to gain some time and not look ready to continue the engagement. He needs time. But he has only a few seconds to think. Now he sees his opponent clearly for the first time. He’s a Strassenkinder, just like me, but a little older and a lot bigger and stronger. I can’t win this fight through strength or size—only with a plan, with strategy. The aggressor preens and struts overconfidently like a victorious prizefighter, arms raised in a victory salute. He starts taunting Willi, poking and pushing him. He obviously wants to put on a show to demonstrate his dominance for the growing audience of urchins. The larger boy needs to demonstrate his superiority, his higher ranking in the informal hierarchy of Vienna’s street culture. This is his chance for respect, bragging rights, and dominance. Half the street urchins watching the fight cheer him on for a quick finish. The other half yell for Willi to get up and fight back.

Willi slowly rises to his feet, but his knees are still wobbly. He needs more time to clear the fog and think of a plan. He always has a plan. As his vision clears, he looks more closely at the big boy and asks himself, Who is he? Willi does not recognize the man-boy standing in front of him and figures he must have come over from Gumpendorf, a nearby neighborhood. The street children of this area follow Willi’s lead. He is the leader by default in this area of Mariahilf, and all leaders can expect challengers. Willi also recognizes his mistake in venturing too far east to the park that separates his district and the other neighborhoods. While this is neutral territory, it is also a free-fight zone. This is where challenges are settled. The mainly dirt park is all that remains of a once-grassy area. Like the street children who inhabit it, maintenance has been ignored. The only thing green are infrequent weeds scattered among the trash dumped by the locals. It is barren—even the streets surrounding the park have closed storefronts.

As the attacker dances around Willi, laughing and poking at him, Willi remains in a low, crouched ready position, turning in sync with the bigger boy so that he is always facing him. Willi knows that to stand erect will signal that he is ready to resume the fight. But he must come up with a plan first. Having lived on the streets for his entire life, he knows full well the dire consequences of losing the fight. Not only would my home block be embarrassed, but I would also become his subject and be required to do his bidding. I would lose all status and respect. This is the law of the street: the powerful control the weak. It’s true of animals and of humans. Someday soon, Willi will learn that this is how the whole world works. If one is to rise to the top, one has to challenge and defeat many rivals.

Willi is still staring at this overconfident opponent. A plan, he thinks. I need a plan. I must be smart. How can he use this brute’s weakness to overcome him? What is his weakness, anyway? Willi sees his opponent strutting and playing to the crowd of young boys. This takes his attention away from Willi. The plan! Next time he turns his back and raises his hands into the air—attack. Attack from the rear, and attack high. Wrap my arms in front of and through his and lock my fingers together behind his head. Push his head forward. Hard. Willi has been in enough street fights to know that the body goes where the head leads. A quick kick into the back of one knee should take him to the ground. Finally, drive his face forward into the cobblestones with all my weight. If this doesn’t work, and he stands up, my next plan is to run.

The aggressor turns away from Willi for the cheers from the group of boys who followed him into the park. Now! Willi springs up from his coiled position, slips his arms in front of the upraised arms of his opponent, and twines his fingers together behind a large head. Before the other boy can react, Willi pulls his own elbows back and feels the boy’s dirty hair press against his face. The smell of the opponent is a mixture of sweat and boiled cabbage. Willi kicks into the back of his left knee, which immediately buckles. Both boys fall forward toward the sidewalk, with Willi straddling his opponent like a horseman. The other boy’s face makes a sickening thud and then a crunching noise as it contacts the sharp edge of the stone curb. Willi immediately dismounts and steps back. Oh, please, I hope this works, Willi prays. The other boy groans and slowly brings himself up to all fours.

Willi takes a second to look around. Which alleyway is the best and safest? He looks over his shoulder and identifies his escape route. The other boy lets out one last groan and collapses face-first onto the sidewalk. He doesn’t move. Blood slowly oozes out of his head, spilling down over the curb to fill the spaces between the cobbles in the street. The gathering of boys is stone quiet. In the distance, a police whistle sounds. One boy from the invading gang gasps, I think Bertie’s dead. He killed Bertie! The boys scatter, each one heading in a different direction, all of them disappearing into empty buildings, alleys, and shadows.

Bertie, still bleeding on the sidewalk, is left alone to greet the curious mob of adults and the soon-to-be-arriving police. It’s the law of the street.

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In the future, Willi might become a legend. He’s nine years old, and now he has a reputation. He could become a leader on the street. He would be respected and feared. But right now, he is scared and in pain. He takes cover in the alley behind a tavern, squeezing himself between two barrels of yesterday’s trash. A normal person couldn’t tolerate the smell of rotting food and stale ale, but his choices are limited. I can’t take a deep breath. If I remain still, the pain isn’t so bad. Take shallow breaths. He will stay hidden here for four hours, until the tavern owner comes out and chases him away.

Willi hasn’t seen any of the other guys since the fight, and now it’s getting dark. He doesn’t like the way things are going. He decides he doesn’t want to be a street legend. Willi reevaluates his life. I don’t want to earn respect like this!

Willi’s afraid. He’s not afraid of the Polizei. They’re a joke. They strut around the city’s squares and flirt with the young girls in the cafés. The older street boys in the district control them. The police couldn’t care less if there’s one fewer urchin to chase around the streets. That’s just another throwaway life. What Willi is afraid of is becoming known. He is already uncomfortable with the attention his victory in this fight will bring. Attention always seems to bring trouble. He wants to stay in the background. Notoriety means that people want things from you, like the other street urchins expected him to feed and protect them. Others place demands and expectations on you. Willi is happy to have others take the spotlight while he pulls the strings. Being inconspicuous is his nature.

He must distance himself from the gangs. These gangs form and re-form throughout the neighborhoods of the district. There will be those seeking revenge. Bertie might have an older brother or father who will come. Willi knows he must be alone, divorced from the gang life. This is when he’s most comfortable. When he was first forced to live on the street at age six, he had to choose between joining a gang for survival and being alone. Initially, he became part of a gang, and although he felt secure, he also felt smothered and confined.

Slowly, painfully, Willi makes his way back to his customary hiding place in an abandoned office building. He stays there until hunger finally drives him out three days later. It was three years ago, he remembers, when his mother died of the typhoid and he was kicked out of the women’s dorm they were living in. Willi remembers his introduction to the cold, hard streets. At first, he slept in doorways and parks and ate anything he could steal. He quickly discovered that there was a warm corner in the alley behind the bakery’s trash cans. And he could always find rejects the baker threw away. They make a sweet supper.

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Ach du lieber Gott, the baker’s wife says as she finds Willi sleeping. What do we have here? You poor little dear. Come inside and warm up.

Before he can say a word or fully wake up, he’s swept up, brought inside, and set on a chair in the kitchen in front of a cup of hot coffee and a warm strudel. Willi is familiar with the baker, who hates street urchins and eyes him suspiciously. The baker argues with his wife. These pests are everywhere, like dirty flies, and are constantly robbing me and chasing away the paying customers. If they aren’t stealing, they’re begging.

I think we can fix up a place for him to sleep here in the shop, the baker’s wife says.

Willi is still sleepy and doesn’t take part in the discussion.

No, the baker replies.

But he can help with the chores.

What chores are you talking about?

She points at the ovens. For one, he can fire the ovens up early in the morning. Then he can sweep the floors and set out the ingredients. He can do all that before you even wake up and come down.

Willi remains a silent participant, looking side to side at the couple.

What are you talking about?

The wife is persistent. He can also clean the counters and wash the baking pans before we close.

I said no. Those are your chores. If he does them, you’ll have nothing to do.

But if he does those chores, I’ll have more time for you in the morning and at night.

The argument quickly ends in the face of unquestioned logic.

Willi, without speaking a word, has just been hired to his first job. He is about six years old and is now employed. The baker’s wife is a rigid taskmistress who demands that each assignment be performed just the way she wants it done, which is better than she ever did it. While he never talks to Willi, the baker manages a brisk slap to the back of the boy’s head every time he passes him. Willi’s career as a baker’s assistant lasts less than a month. One night he runs away carrying an armful of krapfen. He so loves the jam-filled doughnuts.

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Now he must find something else. The street gang may offer security, but they’re not individuals, just a pack, like boy-wolves who sleep huddled together with a lookout nearby. Any food they steal is brought back and shared equally among them, and if one is attacked, they all attack back. They roam the streets in a pack, intimidating others. This is the simple law of the street. It was Willi’s life for the last two years. As he matures, he becomes the pack leader because he is the only one with the wit to think of a plan instead of always acting spontaneously. He solves problems in his head, not with his fists or emotions. He is unique among the Strassenkinder, even the older ones. He learns to read the minds of the others, to know who is dangerous or threatening. He learns to read people’s intentions by examining their body positioning and tone of voice. His skill at reading others keeps him alive on the vicious streets.

After the fight with Bertie, however, he has come to realize that the security of belonging to a gang has been replaced with the insecurity of being a leader. The gang and the law of the street are no longer useful. I must be alone, or this cycle of fighting will continue. Eventually I will lose and maybe die. So he begins distancing himself from the gang. Instead of sleeping during the night and roaming the streets during the day, harassing and pickpocketing the tourists, he reverses the pattern. He finds a small space in an abandoned storage room on the top floor of a warehouse along the Danube Canal to sleep in during the day. The room is accessible from an overhead window with a broken lock. It looks as if no one has been in it for years. There are numerous empty crates and boxes that are covered with dust and rat droppings. By arranging and connecting them just right, Willi creates a miniature home, with a sleeping area in one and another in which he can put his meager possessions and a few clothes. One crate has a side that opens for him to slip into. He has only the rats to share the space with. They may bite, but they won’t try to kill me. At least that’s what he hopes.

Shipments of food and fish are carried up the Danube by day and then come up the canal in the evening after the city goes to sleep. They’re off-loaded, sorted, stacked, and priced at night. The work is finished before dawn, when the food is distributed to the local markets and restaurants. The warehouse is then shut down by midmorning, until the next shipment arrives that evening. Except for the strong odor of rotting fish, rat droppings, and dust, Willi thinks it’s perfect. He can sleep undisturbed during the day and roam the streets at night. The additional benefits are that he can eat as many scraps as he can find and can avoid being involved with the gangs. He soon finds he has developed a taste for the late-night life of Vienna’s underbelly. He likes the financial opportunities his life now presents. While waiting for the warehouse to shut down each morning, he enjoys his early-morning walks through the streets of the city. He likes to watch Vienna come to life as its inhabitants awaken to the new day. He sees the street sweepers cleaning the overnight filth off the cobblestones. He smells the bakery shops as they begin baking their day’s inventory of bread and pastry, and he watches as the grocers open their stalls and stock their bins with fresh fruit. He finds that it’s easier to steal from the shops early in the morning.

Most of all, he enjoys the city’s starving artists community. He loves to watch the painters, some of whom work in oils, others in watercolors. He admires and envies their creativity. They always start working early, hoping to have a salable product by lunchtime. They’ll walk outside the ropes of sidewalk cafés with many paintings on their arms, hawking them like trinkets to the tourists. When the citizens take their afternoon promenades, the painters rush to the broad avenues and lay their wares on the sidewalks or against the fences, a poor man’s gallery.

Willi admires their talents and their ability to create something so beautiful and magical in a world of soot and grime. He finds it easy to lose himself in their work and imagines being part of the landscapes they paint. He can sit for hours while the artists turn blank white canvases into dreams. If I ever get rich, I will line my walls with beautiful landscapes and dreams, he promises himself.

One morning, Willi’s attention is captured by a watercolorist painting the park by the Danube Canal, which winds through the city. He is captured more by the image of the park than by the talent of the artist. The work is good, but certainly not great. It is somewhat mechanical and shows none of the passion or depth that many of the other artists capture. But the artist himself is magnetic. He paints with such intensity that Willi is drawn to him. When the artist takes a break and sits on a bench to study his work while he eats a stale roll, Willi walks over to him. Another starving artist without a plan. The city is filled with these guys.

Willi decides to be generous. That’s very nice, he says diplomatically as he sits down next to the painter. You’ve captured the waterfront well, and I like the colors.

The artist grunts a thank-you and offers Willi a corner of the roll. They both look closely at the canvas.

The buildings look nice, Willi says, but where are the people?

I can’t do people very well, the artist says quietly as he leans back for another look at the canvas.

You must have studied art somewhere?

The painter shakes his head. No. Actually, I was rejected twice by the Academy of Fine Arts.

Oh. I’m sorry, Willi says after a long pause. You’ve got to be able to draw people if you want to be a successful artist.

Don’t be sorry for me, the artist says scornfully. They’re upper-class snobs. They said that I should look into being an architect instead of an artist. They said my work was too rigid. Too lifeless. Stupid snobs.

Would you like to be an architect? Willi asks.

The odd thing is that I’d really like to go to school to be an architect. I always thought I wanted to be a painter of fine art, but when they told me about designing buildings, I liked the idea. I like the idea of designing cities and large public buildings.

Then why don’t you go to school and do it?

The painter gives him a cynical smile. That’s a long story for another time. Right now, I have to finish this and hopefully sell it to pay for my room and dinner. He shoves the last part of the roll into his mouth.

Is this your only source of money? Willi asks. He finds it’s interesting how people make their money.

Not at all, the painter says. I’ve got many sources of money. Sometimes I’m a day laborer over at the Hotel Imperial on the Ringstrasse. Now his attention is drawn back to his work. Ignoring Willi, he picks up his brush again.

Willi silently watches for a little while longer and then leaves to find some lunch. Maybe he can steal some pastry from that bakery down the street. The owner gets distracted easily when a pretty girl walks in. Willi is glad that the painter didn’t try to become too friendly and ask his name. I don’t need any close friends just now.

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Willi has been living in the warehouse loft for over a year. He’s ten years old, and his ties to the gang have been broken. He feels free and safe. All he needs now is some food each day, which he pays for with the coins he hustles from the drunks late at night outside the bars and burleske Häuser. His ribs have healed, and he has grown. He is almost as tall as the workers roaming the streets of the district, though he lacks their bulk. Late one afternoon, he notices a commotion at the Café Sperl, a local bistro. Because of its location close to the Royal Military Academy, the Sperl is frequented by army officers and cadets, along with artists and actors. Willi sees a crowd gathering as two loud voices rise above the conversations of the late-afternoon customers. One voice is a frightened woman, the other an angry man. As Willi pushes through the spectators to get a close-up view of the action, he sees that the man is a policeman. The Polizist is pulling on the young woman’s arm, attempting to take her away, but she is crying and pleading for mercy. She doesn’t appear to be more than eighteen and is overdressed for this early hour. She is too pretty and too young to be guilty of any crime.

Come along with me! the policeman shouts. You’re under arrest.

I didn’t do anything! she cries. I was just talking with this cadet gentleman here, and he asked if he could buy me a drink.

The gentleman in question turns and dissolves into the crowd of onlookers.

No need to lie, the policeman says. "You’re a Prostituierte. I’ve seen you before doing business on my beat. I won’t allow that. I won’t allow that on my streets."

There was no harm. Let me go. There’s no harm.

Willi has lived on the streets long enough to know what’s going on, but today he is confused. Why her? And why now? There are plenty of prostitutes roaming the streets in this seedy part of town. The Polizei have always turned a blind eye to their activity. Willi has always assumed they’ve been getting payoffs to not pay attention. That’s it. This cop didn’t get his money as promised, or maybe a rival was paying more to get her off the street. Getting rid of the competition, Willi thinks.

Please let me go, the girl says. I’m on my way home. My mother will miss me. I didn’t do anything bad.

The policeman seems unmoved, and even aloof, playing to the crowd. It’s about time we cleaned up the streets of trash like you, he says with a dramatic sweep of the arm.

The crowd is getting bigger and pushing in toward the arguing couple. Thanks to his sheer size, the policeman is winning the battle. It looks like the young lady is on her way to jail. That’s not fair. She’s so young. Willi uncharacteristically reacts without a plan—he rushes forward and jumps on the policeman’s shoulders. His weight makes the cop release his grip on the young lady, who immediately disappears into the crowd. Why did I do that! Now I’m stuck without a plan. I must disappear. But the cop has already turned and grabbed Willi by the wrist. In one quick, instinctive move, Willi spins away from the policeman and bites down hard on his thumb. There is a loud scream, the grip is released, and Willi is free. Counting on his speed and knowledge of the shadows along the streets, he dashes toward a bistro. The cop is closing in. Weaving among tables, customers, and waiters, Willi heads through the kitchen toward the back door. If he can get to the alley behind the bistro, there’s an unlocked door at the back of the bakery. As he dashes through the kitchen, he tips over a large service tray to block the policeman. The clamor and confusion buy him a few seconds. He pushes through the door and turns right. But he reaches his planned shelter only to find the door locked. When did the baker start locking the damn door before closing? He looks back to see the cop fly out the back door of the bistro, yelling at him to stop. Willi turns and runs at full speed toward the end of the alley. Getting lost in the evening dinner crowd becomes his impromptu backup plan.

As he approaches the end of the alley, a sleek black motor coach pulls to a stop, blocking the end of the alley. Suddenly, the back door opens. He instinctively jumps into it and falls on the floor behind the chauffeur. Just as quickly as the car appeared, it lurches off, leaving the policeman waving and yelling.

Willi has never been in an automobile before. He has seen many, of course, but has never actually been in one. He’s never seen a carpet either, and now he’s lying facedown on one. Before he can gather his thoughts, he rolls over and looks up at the occupants of the back seat. One is the young woman he just helped. She is no longer crying but has a thankful smile on her face. She is beautiful, with a silky white face and rose-colored cheeks. The other lady is middle aged, maybe sixty, and beautifully dressed, with her graying hair perfectly arranged above her soft face. The older lady looks down at Willi, making eye contact. She has warm blue eyes that seem to look deep into his mind and understand him. Willi is used to reading the thoughts of others through their eyes, but now he feels the older lady’s gaze penetrate his eyes. This is a reversal. She has a kind smile. He knows immediately he can trust her. Willi pulls his legs under him and sits up. He looks around at the most elegant room he’s ever seen. The seats are velvet, and the trim is a highly polished wood. There is a little vase with a rose by each door. The compartment smells of sweet perfume that makes him think of the flower market. He just sits still and looks up at the two ladies.

What do they want? Where are they taking me? Don’t say anything. It’s time to listen.

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CHAPTER 2

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The Bath

1909

Finally, the older woman says, Young man, I understand you saved Gerta. She nods toward the young woman. Thank you. After a long pause, looking into Willi’s soul, she asks, Are you hungry? as if she knows the answer.

Willi nods. Maybe he can get a free meal out of these two ladies.

Fine. Then you’ll be our guest this evening. It might be best if you stay with us and off the streets tonight until I can correct your little misunderstanding tomorrow with the police inspector.

Willi nods again. He can’t take his eyes off the two beautiful women. One mature and elegant, the other young and innocent. Willi has never known anyone who has influence with the police.

Gerta finally breaks the silence. Madam, I’m really sorry for what I did.

Willi is still sitting on the floor behind the chauffeur, quietly absorbing the situation. He already knows their names. He can learn more by listening than by talking. People talk more freely if he melts away into the background and they don’t notice him.

You must realize that this rule is not only for your protection, the older lady tells Gerta as if Willi isn’t there, but for the full protection of our patrons. I provide a safe environment—a safe, discreet environment—where our patrons can enjoy themselves without fear of repercussions or problems. Not only do I give you room and board, plus the largest commission in all of Vienna, I provide weekly medical examinations. These examinations allow me to guarantee that you are clean. If you go out onto the street and get your own customers, how can I ensure your cleanliness and safety? What do I say to our patrons who might witness you being arrested and dragged off to jail?

The automobile turns down an alley and enters a garage, where the three occupants get out. The chauffeur rushes forward to open the door to the house.

Come to my room, the older lady says as she leads Willi into the most beautiful house he could ever imagine. The walls are covered with fine embossed red velvet wallpaper. The floor has rich, thick rugs woven with beautiful designs. The air holds the scents of fine cigars, flowers, and sage. Willi also hears music from a Victrola. Nothing like the sounds and smells of the gutters and streets that he’s lived in for so long.

Just before they reach the parlor, the older lady makes a sharp right turn and goes up a highly polished wooden staircase. Like the cars of a train, Willi and Gerta follow her to the third floor, where they enter a large room that is even more beautiful than the parlor downstairs. Against one wall is a large four-poster bed covered with luxurious blankets and pillows. Fine silk draperies hang from the ceiling, and the walls are filled with beautiful landscape paintings. Real paintings—not like the ones the early-morning artists sell to the tourists. Opposite the bed is a desk of fine dark wood with a leather writing pad and more decorator pieces sitting on it. Pieces that Willi has no idea what they might be used for. Between the bed and the desk are a settee, two armchairs, and a love seat spaced around a coffee table, on which sit a gilded coffee service and a plate of sugar cookies.

Willi is startled when he spots a ghostly shape sitting in the shadows behind the door. He steps forward and sees an old man seated on a simple chair. The man doesn’t acknowledge Willi but just stares as if lost in a far-off memory. Willi is momentarily frightened. But he’s no more harmful than the statues here in this great house. The old man is almost a statue himself.

The older lady, now seated behind the desk, turns to Willi. And what’s your name, our young hero?

Willi.

"Well, young Willi, you can call me Madam Mainz. We’ll be serving our evening meal in about an hour. I’m sure the girls will be very happy to meet you. They don’t receive many innocent young men. She smiles. Gerta will take care of you. Another smile. Welcome to our humble residence."

Willi doesn’t think of the obvious: Where am I? What girls? What’s going to happen to me after dinner? His only thought is, Will she offer me some of those cookies?

Would you like some cookies? Madam says as if she can read Willi’s mind, but she’s only reading his eyes.

Without saying a word, Willi steps forward and takes a large cookie in each hand. He shoves a whole cookie in his mouth as Madam turns toward Gerta.

You’ll need to be isolated for at least a week, or until the doctor clears you. Please take our Willi and wash the gutter off him and find some clothes for him to wear to dinner. There might be something that fits him in the basement storeroom. You might have to burn his clothes to get rid of the fish smell.

Gerta makes a tiny curtsy. Yes, Madam. I’m really sorry for this afternoon. I’ll never do it again.

Madam ignores the apology. Just go and take care of Willi before the entire house starts to smell. And tell Victor to make sure the car doesn’t smell either.

Gerta gently takes Willi’s arm and leads him out of the room. He shoves the remaining cookie in his mouth even though he hasn’t finished the first. He follows her, but he can’t take his eyes off the ghostly man until Gerta quietly pulls the door closed behind them. Willi follows her down the stairs to the second floor, then down the hallway, where they make a sharp left turn into Gerta’s room. It is considerably smaller than the room they just left, but to Willi, it is still enormous. There is a single bed centered against the far wall and a chair and ottoman nearby. There is a small octagonal window above the bed. Next to the chair is a door. Against the wall on the opposite side is a dressing table, its top filled with bottles and lotions and powders, all below a gilded mirror. Next to the dressing table is a washstand with a porcelain basin and a matching water pitcher on the lower shelf. Willi stands motionless in the center of the room.

First thing, Gerta says as she opens the closet door and pulls out a porcelain stand-up bathing tub, we have to get rid of your filthy clothes.

Willi has never seen a closet, much less a bathing tub. He’s never taken a real bath. He would just swim in the canal whenever he got so bad he couldn’t stand the smell.

Without any hesitation, Gerta turns to Willi and begins to unbutton his shirt. As he jerks back, holding the shirt close to his chest, she just laughs. Don’t be shy, now, boy. You’re not the first man to have me take his shirt off. And you won’t be the last. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.

"My name is Willi, not boy, Willi says, summoning all the pride he can muster as he’s being undressed. Will I be getting a real dinner tonight? I don’t like this bathing thing."

You have no options if you expect to eat. Mary might be preparing her strudel.

Being undressed might just be worth some warm strudel on a real plate. He weighs his options. He surrenders.

With each article of clothing that she removes and drops, Gerta exclaims, Whew! How long have you had this? Do you ever wash any of your clothes? Willi tries to step back to hide his embarrassment, but there’s no place to hide. Finally, she pulls the last piece off his frame, gathers up the pile of clothes, and walks toward the door, leaving Willi, naked and shivering, standing in the center of the room. As she opens the door, she turns back and says, I’m going down to the cellar to find you some better clothes and throw these into the furnace. Make yourself comfortable. Mary, the housemaid, will bring up some hot water for your bath.

He wonders why he needs to take a bath to eat. Willi’s hunger is becoming overwhelming, and the torture of a bath seems acceptable. He lifts up his arm to smell his pit and almost gags. I guess no one would want to eat with someone who smells so bad.

He’s uncomfortable in these strange surroundings. He feels exposed but has no choice but to trust his new benefactors. He can’t blend into the background. I’m standing in the middle of a room naked and at the mercy of anyone who comes in. I can’t run. I can’t hide. There’s no place to hide. This situation is against anything he’s learned on the streets. The room is warm, but he begins to shiver. He looks around. Aside from a few items, the room is void of personality. It is efficiently cold, with no feeling or warmth. As he turns slowly to survey his temporary prison, he spots his image in the mirror over the dressing table. He is curious. He sees a thin man-child in the first stages of puberty. His first instinct is to examine his genitals. Not very spectacular. He looks to confirm what he has felt, a beginning wisp of hair. He quickly raises his arm and finds the same beginnings of manhood. Then he sees something different on his right side, about halfway up. He turns for a better view and sees a bluish scar and a bulge about the size of a large walnut. This must be where Bertie kicked me. The ribs didn’t heal properly. He feels the spot and realizes that the bones must have fused into an awkward position.

He is embarrassed to be immature. He looks again at his scrawny white body with bones sticking almost through his skin and no hint of muscle development. When he finally looks at his face, he sees his unkempt hair and how dirty it is. I look so white from the neck down and so dirty from the neck up. He looks like a puppet whose two halves don’t match. He now regrets having neglected normal hygiene.

The door behind him suddenly opens, and a short portly woman in a housekeeper’s apron enters without a word. She is carrying a bucket of hot water in each hand. She is followed by a younger maid carrying the same load. The assistant is about Willi’s age and a little taller. She’s shyly looking down at the floor and giggling. Her giggling makes him uncomfortable. The younger maid abruptly stops and raises her head to stare into Willi’s eyes. Their gazes lock momentarily. She has pretty hair and soft eyes.

Kichert! Don’t stare, the older maid says. Just leave the water.

They both set their buckets down next to him and leave the room. In mere seconds, they’re in and out. He reaches down to feel the water. It’s hot but not too hot, unlike water in the streets of Vienna, where the only choice is dirty and cold or dirtier and colder. He wonders if he should bathe without Gerta or wait for her. He pulls the bathing tub to the center of the room, but before he can do anything else, Gerta returns with an armful of clothes.

We don’t have many things to fit skinny kids, she tells him, but I brought what I could find. It’s amazing how much clothing is left behind. Then she takes a large bar of lye soap lying on the pile of clothes. Stand in the tub. I’ll scrub you down. As he climbs into the tub, she removes her dress and petticoats and then puts on a smock to cover her silky underwear.

Now he’s really exposed. What is this going to feel like? She pours the first bucket of hot water over his head, careful not to spill too much water on the floor. The water feels warm and wonderful. Next, she lathers up the harsh soap and begins by washing his matted hair. She goes to the dressing table for a comb to untangle his mop, but running it through his hair is no easy task. Eventually, she is satisfied that his hair is acceptable. Now, she picks up a rough sponge and begins washing his body from the face and neck down. First, the grime of the streets must come off his face, and then the odor of the city must come off his body. No part of him is ignored, especially his groin. After washing each part of him, she rinses him with more warm water. When the tub is filled, he steps out, and she empties it back into the just-emptied bucket. Then, at her direction, he steps back into the tub for more washing.

He can see the scrubbing in the mirror. He can’t stop watching. He sees a woman in her underwear and a smock running her hands over his body. He begins to feel strangely aroused, but nothing happens. Nothing works. Now he feels more exposed and self-conscious. When she has finished washing the street off him, she begins to dry him with a soft towel. The entire time, she has said not a word, just efficiently done her job.

Willi’s curiosity takes over. He is able to speak again. Why did that policeman want to arrest you?

She gives a half grin. He asked me for sex in a back alley and got angry when I quoted him a price. He thought it should have been free.

Willi is startled. She doesn’t look like the prostitutes he’s seen. She’s clean and young and pretty. The ones from his district look old and shriveled, with sunken eyes and gray skin from the drug use.

Um, who was that man behind the door in Madam Mainz’s room?

That was Theo, she says. Theodore. He just sits there all day. I think he’s like a personal bodyguard or something like that. He just sits there all day and stares straight ahead.

Is that all you know about him?

Don’t tell Madam I said this, but I think it’s creepy. Enough said, eh?

She rises to her feet and goes to the dressing table for some bath powder, and then she comes back and pats it on his body, after which she combs his hair straight back. It’s so long she can tie a small tail on his neck. She picks a pair of undershorts from the pile of clothes she brought back and smells them. These are fine for now, she says, so she hands him the shorts and tells him to put them on. They are too big, so she folds the waistband over and uses a safety pin to hold them up. This process is repeated for each article of clothing. She finds the smallest thing, he tries it on, and then she gathers the spare material and pins it. The shoes are also too big, so she stuffs scraps of cloth in the toes until he can walk without the shoes falling off his feet.

When Willi is satisfactorily dressed, Gerta stands back and admires her work. Not bad, she says. Not bad at all. You’ll make a fine-looking gentleman, young Willi, who would make any woman proud. But just remember—it was Gerta who saw it first. She winks and gives a nod toward his groin. Finally, she puts her dress back on and then turns to the door. Willi catches a final glance at the mirror. Is that me? She’s right—not bad at all. He follows her down the stairs. Finally, he’s going to get that dinner he’s been promised.

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The dining room used by the women who work for Madam Mainz is not as glamorous as the other rooms in the house. The foyer and the two parlors are for the patrons, as Madam Mainz refers to the gentlemen who visit each night. Those rooms are filled with the finest furniture and decorations. The couches are embroidered velvet. The walls are covered with beautiful wallpaper and paintings of women in seductive poses. The lighting is dim and romantic, the music soft and easy to dance to. The women frequently dance with one another for the pleasure of the patrons.

But the patrons cannot go into the rest of first floor of the house, where the daily lives of the girls take place. The communal dining area, which is just off the kitchen, is bare. While very clean, it lacks any decoration. There is a long table in the center of the room with twelve chairs, five on each side and one at each end. At the head of the table is an armchair that is fancier than the rest. This is Madam’s chair. By the time Gerta and Willi arrive, Madam is seated and the meal has started. The room goes quiet as the latecomers take the two empty chairs near the foot of the table. Willi is overwhelmed by so many mature women staring at him.

I’m sorry to be late, Gerta says with a smirk, but there was a lot of grime and soot to wash off.

Did you wash off anything else? says someone from across the room.

The girls all laugh. Gerta does not dignify the comment with a reply, but she does grin. Willi doesn’t understand the joke.

Please, girls, someone says. He’s just a boy, and he’s obviously embarrassed.

Just then, Mary comes into the room, followed by Kichert, who sets a plate of goulash in front of Willi. This is the largest portion of the thick beef stew he has ever seen. He notices that all the girls have stopped eating. They’re looking at him. He timidly takes his first bite, using a spoon in an awkward overhand grip. The stew is warm and delicious, and his hunger takes over. He almost chokes on a carrot as he shovels the delightful food into his mouth. He doesn’t bother slicing the small potatoes but gulps them in whole. He is so preoccupied with his meal, in fact, that he fails to realize that he has spilled considerable amounts of gravy down the front of his new used shirt. After he’s scraped the last morsels from the dish with his spoon, he grabs at a nearby loaf of bread, tearing off an end to wipe up the remaining juices on the plate. At last, he looks up to see all the eyes still looking at him. Everyone is smiling. Now he feels embarrassed. I acted like a wild animal and feel bad. What does Madam think of me?

Madam clears her throat, and all attention goes to her. Young Willi, she says, I’m glad you enjoyed your supper. Mary has prepared a little something extra for you tonight.

Entering from the kitchen, Kichert accompanies Mary, who is carrying a large plate of warm Apfelstrudel covered in sweet crème. Mary sets the dish in front of Willi, who is speechless. He’s the center of attention among strangers—just where he doesn’t want to be. With his hunger now satisfied by