Chapter Four Maria

Chapter Four

Maria

Kagran, Austria

1913

He's yelling again. I creep to the door and listen, drawing my knees up to my chest, then tugging the nightgown over my feet. Because Mutti is not allowed to spend money on me, the fabric of the gown is stained and wearing thin.

"What do you mean he now lives in the city and doesn't want her back?" Downstairs, Uncle Franz's voice is full of rage.

"Perhaps it's a matter of money," Mutti offers.

"A man who travels the world studying music ?" I can imagine Uncle Franz's enormous face swelling up in anger at my great-aunt's suggestion. "Then how about all those letters filled with money? ‘Greetings from India,'?" he mimics. "?‘Tidings from Brazil!'?"

"I don't believe it's a matter of money so much as it is temperament," Mutti's daughter says. But my uncle doesn't care for his wife's suggestion.

"I don't give a damn what it is!" he thunders at Anni. "If he has the money to rent an apartment in Graben he can pay us more for that child or take her back!"

I can hear the audible gasps from around the table and panic grips my chest. Don't send me back. Please don't send me back. I remember almost nothing about my father. I know only that it's been five years since he cradled my sickly mother against his chest, convinced, I am told, that if he held her body tight enough her soul could not escape. But escape it did, slipping away in the middle of the night when I was only two. A few weeks later my father deposited me with his cousin, the same woman who had raised my half brother fifteen years before. It seemed my father's wives had a habit of dying and leaving him with children.

I shiver in the attic of Mutti's farmhouse. It's small and cold, but it's the only home I've ever known and I don't want to go anywhere else.

"I'm sure he'll provide for whatever his child requires," Mutti says. I have known her as Mutti, meaning mother in German, my entire life.

"We'll see," I hear Uncle Franz respond. "You say he's coming in three days?"

"Yes. I've asked him to tutor her," she replies.

Uncle Franz's laughter echoes throughout the house. "A tutor. As if that child will ever amount to anything more than a schlampe. "

—

At the long wooden table the next morning, when Mutti tells me about my father's visit, I pretend I haven't overheard them. I push the eggs around my plate and hear the word schlampe again in my mind. I don't know what it means, but I'm afraid to ask.

"Well, aren't you excited?" Anni asks. She's Mutti's older daughter. And the prettiest one, with thick blond curls and soft green eyes. When Anni was just out of school she caught the attention of Uncle Franz and her father thought it would be a good match. Possibly because he'd been having trouble with the law and Uncle Franz was an important judge in Salzburg.

"Gusti, this is a wonderful opportunity," Mutti continues, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gray hair is swept back in its usual loose bun and her cheeks are red from cooking. "Think of all the stories he can tell you." She knows how much I enjoy stories. "Like the one about your birth."

I've always loved hearing about that. How my mother went to visit her family in Tyrol before I was born and gave birth to me on the train ride back to Kagran, where she lived with my father. I'd been too stubborn and impatient to wait until we were home and the train conductor had had to stop the train while my mother delivered me. I was named Maria Augusta Kutschera after my mother, Augusta. And by the time I was one, my father began calling me Gusti, the same as her. That's how much we looked alike.

"And though you may not remember this," Mutti continues, taking the wooden chair across from me, "your father is a very accomplished musician. In fact, he's going to become your tutor."

I stare into Mutti's kind, wrinkly old face, confused. "Why?"

"Because music is his passion," Mutti explains, gathering our chipped porcelain plates. Uncle Franz says a few missing pieces don't mean you just throw something away. "And now he wishes to pass it on to you."

But I've seen fathers at the park with their children. Why wasn't he coming to play ball or take me to the zoo? Why did I need to study music?

"There's nothing to worry about," Anni promises, but I don't believe her. Then, two days later, just after dinner, I overhear her in the kitchen with Mutti. "There's something wrong with Gusti," she says.

Mutti isn't concerned. She's baking Sachertorte for tomorrow and it requires all her concentration. She's not a skilled cook.

"Have you noticed how quiet she's been?" Anni persists.

I press myself against the cold stone wall outside the kitchen, straining to hear how Mutti will respond. "I suppose she has been rather well behaved."

"It's not normal," Anni says, filling the washbasin and starting on the dishes. "No muddy shoes, no climbing trees, no picnics with her imaginary friends."

"Sounds like the child is finally learning!"

"Maybe." But I can imagine Anni's face. God hasn't blessed her with any children of her own, possibly because He hates the thought of Uncle Franz being their father. So Anni treats me as if I'm hers. She never minds when my dresses come back torn or my hair sheds seeds and flower petals during my bath. Now her voice grows so low that I have to really strain to hear it. "Or perhaps she's worried about her father's visit."

"Well, she should be. But not for the reason she might think, poor liebling. "

When they don't say anything else, I tiptoe up the creaky wooden stairs to my room. The late-autumn sunshine that spills through the window almost makes the bare walls and wooden planks look beautiful. I wrap my heaviest blanket around my shoulders and perch on the edge of my bed. I have no desire to meet my father. I'm eight years old now. If he'd wanted to see me so badly he should have come years ago.

I lay down, intending to be angry about this for a while, but I must fall asleep, because the next time I open my eyes the sun is up, illuminating a thick line of dust across my windowsill. I put on the outfit Anni has carefully laid across my desk. A simple green dress with a white apron. I know Mutti's hands will be in too much pain to brush my hair, and Anni is always busy with the tasks Uncle Franz has set out for her, so I part my own hair and braid it myself. One braid on each side tied off with a green ribbon.

When I look in the small mirror above my desk, I decide that I look like a good girl, the kind who doesn't bring frogs home in Mutti's pickling jars or keep rocks in her pockets. But when Uncle Franz passes by the parlor and catches me waiting on the couch, he goes still.

"What are you doing on there?" he demands.

"Aunt Anni said I should wait here for my father."

"You've been waiting six years." He laughs. "What makes you think he's really coming now?" But just as he says this there's a knock on the front door, and in spite of my nervousness, I'm secretly pleased that Uncle Franz is wrong. Mutti hurries to answer it. A distinguished-looking man in a long black coat and a gray bowler hat is waiting on the other side.

"Karl!" Mutti exclaims, pulling him into her big embrace. He smiles uncomfortably and takes off his hat. "Well, come inside!" A few leaves trail in behind him as Mutti shuts the door. "Gusti," she calls. "Your father is here."

I rise from the couch. "Good morning," I say stiffly.

"Gusti." My father steps inside the parlor and studies me for a moment. "My God, you look just like your mother."

I stare back at him.

"Well, come in, sit down," Mutti says, and Anni bustles in with a tray of tea. But my father continues to watch me, even after everyone is seated and talking. My aunt Kathy and her husband, Pepi, have arrived from across the village and they all want to know what he's doing now. Is his apartment really in Graben? What's it like? Has he come to stay?

"Yes," he answers, giving me a meaningful look, "I've returned for good."

"Well, that's wonderful," Uncle Franz says, grabbing the largest slice of cake. "I suppose that means you'll want to take Gusti with you."

"No!" I cry, and everyone looks shocked.

"She's just nervous," Anni explains, pouring Uncle Pepi's tea.

"Well, there's nothing to be nervous about," my father assures me. "I'm not here to take you away," he promises. "My apartment is filled with delicate instruments—it's really no place for a little girl."

The invisible band constricting my chest begins to loosen.

"But now that I've returned"—he glances at Mutti—"I do feel it is my duty to teach you, at least. Do you like music?"

I have always liked the music they play at church and the sound of the bells on Sunday morning. But I'm determined to be difficult, so I shake my head. "Not really."

"Gusti, that isn't true!" Mutti scolds.

I take a sip of tea.

"Has she ever played an instrument?" my father asks, and I wonder what sort of life he imagines I lead here.

"And where would we find an instrument?" Uncle Franz asks. He's a very important judge, but I've heard Aunt Kathy say that all of his money goes to drink, which is why we live in Mutti's old farmhouse.

My father looks deeply concerned by this. "Well, would you like to visit my apartment?" he asks me. When I keep my silence, he continues, "Perhaps if you come I can show you my birds."

I lower my teacup. "In your apartment?"

"Oh, yes. Dozens of them."

I glance at Uncle Franz, certain he'll have thoughts about something as outrageous as birds living in an apartment, but he is actually grinning. "I think that's a wonderful idea," he says through a spray of cake crumbs.

My father smiles, and for the first time I realize what a handsome man he is, even if he's older than the fathers of most of my school friends.

"Well, then, that's settled," Uncle Franz announces. "She will take the bus on Saturday mornings and stay the weekend."

"What about church?" I cry.

"Oh, yes, she must come with us to church," Mutti puts in.

Uncle Franz nearly chokes on his cake. "A waste of time!" he rages.

"It doesn't matter," my father says. "I'm afraid I can't keep her on Sundays. I teach."

Uncle Franz's cheeks have gone red. "Saturdays then."

And just like that, it's decided. I'm to be sent every weekend to the apartment of a man I hardly know. And he will teach me about music.

My father stays the remainder of the day, talking about things that don't interest me—his travels through China, Austrian politics, art. Then he stands and I'm expected to go and embrace him. I give him a stiff hug and he pats my back.

"We'll meet again in a few days," he promises.

—

On Saturday, Anni walks me to the bus station, where an old double-decker is loading its passengers. It's my first trip alone.

"You will return before dark," she says, nervous. But there's no question of her coming with me. Franz wants her home where there is housework to do. "And no stopping in the park or finding someone to talk with." My two favorite pastimes. "Also," she adds, tucking a loose curl beneath her straw hat, "be sure not to touch anything in your father's apartment."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because your father has traveled around the world collecting musical instruments. I doubt any of them are replaceable."

I clutch the small sack of food Mutti has prepared for me and twist the burlap ends in my hands. I haven't had breakfast, but my stomach is so full of dread that there's nothing in Mutti's bag I'd possibly want to eat. "But what if I don't go?" I whisper.

Anni reaches out and caresses my face. "It's only one day. You'll be back in your own bed by tonight, liebling. "

I take a seat at the top of the open-air bus and give a small wave as it lurches down the road, leaving Anni in a cloud of dust. Tears are beginning to cloud my vision, so I distract myself by counting the cows. Kagran is a small farming village, so it isn't long before the old farmhouses and wooden fences are behind us. I've only left Kagran once, to attend a church service with Mutti in Vienna, and I remember now the feeling of the buildings crowding in on me and the oppressive crush of people. Except, for some reason, it's different this time.

We cross the Danube and as we approach the city the entire world seems to come alive. The cobbled streets and squares are teeming with people in their weekend best, the men in waistcoats and top hats, the women in traditional Austrian skirts. It's such a pretty day, with the old white buildings of the Landstrasse clustered like pearls beneath a turquoise sky. I inhale the warm scent of freshly baked bread from a B?ckerei where a long line of patrons curls out the door, making me wish I had the money for a pastry.

The bus jerks to a stop outside the Kaisergruft, the church where Austria's most important royalty is buried. I hurry to get off, then stand on the pavement for several moments, looking up at the old, tall buildings. There's something about being on my own that feels exciting. I ask for directions half a dozen times before I reach the address on Mutti's scrap of paper. My father's apartment is in a cream-colored building with fancy scrollwork and high, arched windows. A black-suited man holds open the door for me and I step inside.

"Is there someone you wish to see?" The man frowns.

"Karl Kutschera."

The doorman's suspicion deepens. I'm not carrying an instrument, and perhaps my clothes could be finer. "Are you a student of his?"

"No. He's my father."

At this, the man goes very straight. "Does he know this?"

For the first time that day, I laugh. "Of course. He's expecting me."

I'm not sure if the doorman believes this, but he nods and points to the stairs. "Third floor, the only door on the left."

I take the stairs two at a time, enjoying the sound of my footfalls on the polished marble. It's like being in a palace. The sunlight, the space, the columned walls. But as soon as I reach the third floor, my mood darkens. I don't want to be here. My father hasn't cared enough about me for the last six years to visit even once. Why should I care about seeing him now?

I stand in angry silence on the landing outside his door. From here I have a view of the stairs and I begin to count them to calm myself down. I reach twenty-one before the door opens and my father, blinking, steps into the hall. For a moment, the sun turns his eyes a dazzling shade of blue. Then they darken and narrow.

"Gusti? How long have you been here?"

I don't answer him.

"Well, would you like to come in or do you plan on staying outside?"

I consider the question without moving. It's not a bad landing. It's bright and sunny. Plus, I can watch the comings and goings of the residents below. Right now, a woman with a small white parasol is making her way down the stairs, her small, gloved hand gliding along the polished wooden banister.

I turn to my father and try to make out the apartment beyond. It looks nothing like our farmhouse. I can't imagine who hauls the buckets of water all the way up here to the third floor. Or the pails of milk. I can hear his birds, chirping from some mysterious place behind him, but I can't see them. I take a tentative step forward and my father smiles.

"There you are. Put down the sack and come have some tea."

The carpets are nicer than any I've ever seen, thick and soft with vivid patterns in orange and blue. I leave my sack on a table near the door and follow him inside. The apartment smells like paper and leather and I immediately understand why. The first room we enter is a library.

In Kagran, the only books we own are my uncle's law books and the Bible. But here they rise in tiers to the ceiling, surrounding us on all sides. A pair of wooden ladders that roll along a bar must allow him to reach the very top shelves. I have the sudden impulse to climb one, then remember my aunt's warning and continue to look around. The room is filled not only with books. There are papers as well, rising in tidy stacks from every corner. But most interesting of all are the instruments hanging from various places along the walls, just as Anni predicted.

My father must catch me staring at them because he says, "When Mutti heard I had returned to Vienna she insisted I find you and give you lessons."

I press my lips together to keep something hurtful from spilling out. So he didn't visit Kagran because he missed me. He came because Mutti had asked him to.

"Mutti believes you have some talent for music. Is it true that you sing while doing your chores?"

I look around the room without meeting his eyes. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Not well. She also thinks you might take quickly to an instrument."

There's nothing I can say to this. I've never held an instrument in my hands, and the only one I've seen up close is the organ at church.

"Now, I've not taught a child in many years. So if I'm going to tutor you in music," he begins, "there will need to be rules." I turn and pay attention. "No eating in this room, no shouting, no running." I wonder what sort of occasion he imagines I might have to run and shout in a place like this. "If you wish to touch something," he continues, "you must ask. And always, always, move carefully among the instruments."

The sound of birds calling to one another from the next room is almost deafening, and I suppose my father can guess which way my thoughts are tending because he says, "All right. One peek at the aviary and then we start."

I follow his footsteps down the hall to a room that's been separated from the rest of the apartment by a net. The smell is so overwhelming that I cover my nose with my apron. When I realize what I'm looking at, however, I gasp. A tree is growing from an enormous pot in the center of the room. Dozens of birds flitter around its branches, chirping happily and eating from feeders. My father parts the net and offers me the chance to step inside.

"It's unbelievable," I whisper. "Where do they all come from?"

"India, China, England," he rattles off. "There are two from Brazil."

There's a red one with a large, curved beak and quite a few green ones that make a lot of noise. I want to spend all afternoon in here, but after a few minutes my father looks impatient. "Ready?"

"Oh no! Not yet." The tree stretches past the high arched windows and practically touches the ornate ceiling. The whole room is too wonderful to be believed.

My father smiles and we spend another ten minutes inside. One of the green birds lands on my shoulder and I scare the other birds by shrieking. "Ow, their claws are sharp!"

My father cups the little bird in his hands and it flies away. I brush a dropping from my dress and he laughs. "Ready now?"

"Yes."

He takes me back through the net to the library where all the instruments are arranged, then points to a fancy silk cushion on the floor. I sit while he takes a funny-looking guitar down from the wall.

"This is an oud," he says. "Do you think you can remember that?"

I nod obediently. "An oud," I repeat.

"I brought it from Egypt because I liked the fact that it has eleven strings. Listen." He plucks out a tune and looks up to make sure I'm still listening. "We're going to go through each of these instruments," he says, "and write down what we like best about their sounds. Where is your paper?"

I look around. "What paper?"

"How are you going to write without paper?"

"You haven't given me any."

He stares in exasperation. "All right. Then play this instrument and see what you like best about it for yourself." He hands me the oud and I struggle to position it comfortably in my lap. "The same notes that I just played," he says.

I pluck a few notes and look up. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"Why not? Weren't you listening?" He takes the instrument and plays the notes again. Then he hands it back to me.

When I fail to mimic them, his face grows red. "Like this!" His hands fly over the strings and produce sounds I will never be able to make. When my eyes brim with tears, he shoves the oud back into its carrying case. "I don't know what she was thinking," he mumbles.

"Please, if you can teach me—"

My father straightens, the gold of his cuff links catching the light. "Teach? You either have an ear for this or you don't." He closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "Perhaps we'll start with an easier instrument," he says. "One you can take home to practice on."

He leaves the library and I try to imagine what he's going to fetch. A recorder, I think. Or maybe a tambourine, like they have at school. I remain sitting on my round silk cushion, wondering if I should touch a giant violin that's propped against the wall. I decide against it, but when my father returns I ask him about it.

"The cello?" He shakes his head. "Definitely not. Try this," he says. "This is a guitar."

It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever let me hold. I lay it flat on my lap and begin plucking the strings until my father sits down on the cushion next to mine and shows me how to hold it. Sitting like this, I can smell the lavender from his clothes and I wonder where he washes them with no river nearby. And then I wonder if my mother smelled like this, too.

He goes and fetches another guitar, then begins to teach me how to pluck the strings. There are six of them, each with a different name, and I'm supposed to memorize these and practice something he calls chords. We go on like this for a while, then my father stops and asks if I'd like to sing while he plays.

"What should I sing?"

"Whatever you wish. How about a lullaby?"

I choose "Der Mond ist aufgegangen." I don't know why. In English it's called "Evening Song" and it's very simple. But when I'm finished my father's face has completely changed. "Sing it again," he says, so I do, and at the end he claps his hands together and jumps up. "Gusti, you have perfect pitch!"

Of course, this means nothing to me, but it seems incredibly important to my father, so I smile. My perfect pitch must kindle some hope in him that I'm not such a failure after all, because he spends the rest of the afternoon working on my voice. Apparently, not everyone can sing the very high notes of "Der Mond ist aufgegangen."

"Well, Gusti," he says wonderingly, "it turns out Mutti really was right about you."

—

"And what is that?" Uncle Franz asks at dinner when he sees the giant case propped against the wall.

"My guitar!" I exclaim. "Papa got it for me."

"I hope you don't think you'll be playing that in here."

So I play whenever my uncle isn't home, and after a few months my father starts teaching me how to read music. As soon as I enter his apartment with its floor-to-ceiling books and birdsong we begin. And I discover in those long hours how similar we are. We both like the same food, we share the same laugh, we even have the same hatred of carrots.

One winter evening, as the snow is falling slantways, I look at my father in his chair by the fire and have a sudden yearning to stay. What's the point of going home? Uncle Franz doesn't want me and I only cause trouble for Anni. Besides, what if I get lost in the snow?

"Papa," I begin. He looks over the edge of his book at me and I'm sure he's wondering why I'm not already in my mittens and coat. "It will be a long walk to the station in this weather," I tell him. "Do you think that maybe—just for tonight—I could stay here? In your apartment?"

He blinks several times, trying to process my request, and I know just from the tone of his first few words what the answer will be. "Gusti, my apartment's not fit for a little girl."

"But I stay here in the day," I protest. "It can't be any different at night."

"I don't think it would be a wise decision." He closes his book and balances it on his knee. "What about Mutti?"

"Oh, she won't care!"

"I think she would." He rises and goes to fetch my coat. Then he holds it open for me. "Shall I walk you to the end of the street?"

The lump in my throat is too big for me to speak, so I shake my head.

"Then good night," he says formally. "Rhythm and note reading next week."