The Ghost Keeper Read online

  Dedication

  For my family

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part III

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  UNDER THE PINES IN THE WÄHRING CEMETERY, A FOX carries the rib of a man in his teeth. He has a burrow under the east wall and he gives me no end of trouble, this fox. I’ve seen him in the sun, trotting princely atop the brick wall, and his black toes are never cut on the glass and his red coat is never caught on the barbed wire. I have seen him in the rain too, under the trees and along the inner wall, with a vole or mouse or brown collarbone in his mouth and his red coat dripping. And I have seen him in the snow, when he is a streak of light and a bolt of God: then I can’t chase him off; he is a miracle. But on this day he’s a bone-thief, and I can yell, “Shoo!” and run at him with my arms flapping and hope that he drops the rib as he scampers so I can bury it again.

  No one comes here anymore—only the fox and the birds, and only me. The ground is like a beast breathing slowly, with the tree roots writhing and stirring the earth and the headstones tumbled all in a heap, here and there. The wall and the broken glass and the barbed wire keep the vandals out—all but a few, ready to be scratched raw to spray something hateful on a toppled marker; and most of that from some years ago, I think, years ago now.

  But nothing can stop this fox, I’ve learned. He will come here into the quiet to hunt voles and mice and avoid the people and cars, and except for his bone-stealing habit I can’t blame him. Here are two green acres where no one ever goes, and certainly he could scamp up the street in the night, through yards and past houses, and make it to the Türkenschanzpark if he tried, but why try, I grant him, why try? No reason to leave except, on occasion, one middle-aged man and his flapping coat, and he—I—have to go home soon enough. But I will make his bad habit a nuisance for him while I can.

  “Shoo!”

  He doesn’t drop the bone this time. Scoots under the wall—Aha!—and the last swish of his red-brush bottom is a grin and a laugh at me, old fellow, who can’t squish like that under the stone. I stand panting by the wall.

  On this day it’s spring, April. Green and grey-brown. The air is bright and keen like running water. And I get the feeling, then, the feeling I get too often in the cemetery, that there is a little red coal underneath my ribs, here.

  I don’t know why, but in my heart all the dead become children. They are very small, and quiet, and they don’t know why no one comes to them anymore, and I can’t explain it so that they understand. But the heaps of headstones like the rubble of a shelled-out warehouse are themselves heaps of bones to me now, heaps of bodies, dry bones. The earth alive.

  IS THIS WHAT it’s meant to be? Some kind of narrative, one would expect, something with a beginning, and yet I can’t find the beginning. All I can see is April light and the red-brush tail, and they hold me, but reason would shout, “Give me the beginning, Josef, the true beginning.” And what would I write? Daniel begat Mendel who begat Josef who begat Daniel who begat Josef Tobak, and that’s me, and I begat Tobias Tobak, and maybe this ought rather to be his story, but I hear, “Set it down, Tobak,” so I write. And maybe I should start back there somewhere, as in, I was born in Vienna, in the Leopoldstadt, in May of 1909, and my mother and father had wanted me to be born in a hospital but no, I was born in my mother’s mother’s house, in a bedroom on the third floor. That building is long gone, though, shot to rubble, something new and concrete-faced standing there now.

  Or I could start with the Anschluss, because everyone knows about that, or I could start with Anna’s eyes on a New Year’s Eve, the first time I saw them, like cool fire and like a home half-forgot. Or I could start with Friedrich Zimmel that awful night. Is that the beginning? There, that ended in the Währing cemetery too. But maybe it was before that, back in New York with the Schwartzes, or maybe Lena or her mother was the beginning.

  It’s only that it’s complex, you see. I may have to come at it from the side.

  Part I

  1

  I’VE WALKED AWAY FROM THIS FOR A WHILE, AND I’VE thought about it, and I find the whole thing hinges on a moment: this final conversation with Friedrich Zimmel, years after the war, years after I came back to Vienna. It begins in the night, with Friedrich under the yellow light in his kitchen. He’s called me here very late, after many nights of wanting to call me but sitting alone with his drink instead. And now his face is purpled, and his eyes are yellowed, and his fingers wrapped round his drink are shaking and he says to me:

  “You’re going to hate me.”

  Because I love him, and because by then I’ve made a kind of peace with his betrayal that followed the Anschluss, I say to him, “Never. Please.”

  And he, looking dark beyond dark, says, “You know about my Lena.”

  BUT HERE I’VE stopped again. I see I’ll have to tell you about Lena, and for that I have to write about Friedrich, and to tell you things about Friedrich, I must tell you first about my family. And I don’t write this to condemn him—Friedrich, that is—so surely it’s not right to begin there, in that kitchen on that night, when it remains that he did so much for us before then. And if it’s a thing that must be set down, then let me set it down in such a way that I won’t grow ashamed of how I’ve treated his memory, nor that of any person. There are none so powerless as the dead, and I believe one must in some way show mercy to memories as much as to bones.

  HERE IS ANOTHER way to begin.

  I am a little boy in Vienna. Papa is an accountant for the company Geisman–Zimmel, and we (my sister, Zilla, my parents, my mother’s parents and I) live together in an apartment in the second district. My papa is still a young man, and Geisman–Zimmel is a sprawling, self-confident kind of manufacturer, owned jointly by Hans Zimmel, a Catholic, and Otto Geisman, a Jew. Perhaps this is unusual, even then. But take note: when Papa comes home, he speaks of his department boss, Nussbaum, as a shiftless lecher, but when he talks about Mr. Zimmel or Mr. Geisman, they are heroes—men who, like my city’s statues, I only ever see as if from below and backlit by the sun. Perhaps it’s because these men are liberal in the sense that only dogmatic capitalists can be liberal: any man who can turn a profit under dures
s has their respect. Papa loves them for that. Hans Zimmel is Friedrich Zimmel’s father.

  Daily Papa travels from the second district to the company offices (across the Danube canal, catch the tram, hop off on Rechte Bahngasse and then up to the great broad doors on Strohgasse), and then back to our apartment at the end of the day. Ours isn’t a small apartment, by neighbourhood standards: we have two floors to ourselves, the second (which is really the third, above the mezzanine) and the one above that. Oma and Opa were fairly well off to begin with, besides which, Papa’s job pays well, and he works furiously—all his pride is in it.

  As a boy in the Leopoldstadt, I can run down to the canal, past the bakeries and grocers and coffee houses on Taborstrasse, and right up to the water, which is green or grey or brown, depending on the season and the sky. I can lean over and see the shadow my head makes on the surface of the water, shuddering. It’s a shadow that carries down through the green beyond the surface, like a tunnel I could fall through, fitting perfectly.

  Sometimes, at the canal, there are processions from the Orthodox synagogue, and these fascinate me. By the rail on the bridge I crouch and watch them. The reflection of the bodies in the canal is black on green, like my shadow, but it seems sometimes like it is the water reaffirming this crowd, doubling them and praying along.

  (We are not religious, my family, and this is thanks mainly to Papa, though Mutti supports him in it. She lights candles on Fridays, yes; but that’s for my grandparents’ sake. Papa’s lips are always tight as she does it. Some weeks he sits and reads the whole way through the prayer. Even then, though, the veins snake out over his temples and he flips the pages of his book or newspaper forward and back as if at random.)

  Run south along the canal and you come eventually to the fairgrounds at the Prater, with its shouting and garbage and light, and the immense Riesenrad Ferris wheel with red boxcar pods arcing snail-slow across the sky. Until I’m about five years old I can hardly stand to look at it. This monster, I imagine then, is bigger than God, and it seems always just about to topple over onto me.

  Of course I don’t tell my friends that it scares me. There are a lot of things I don’t tell my friends, many things beautiful or frightening—these I carry inside, like coins in my pocket that only my own fingertips know.

  IN MY CHILDHOOD home, Papa does not let any of us speak Yiddish, and because of that I never learn it well. We speak German, like “proper Austrians.” Mutti says “vulgar” when she talks about the way our neighbours speak, and the one time my sister, Zilla, curses Papa, at the dinner table, in Yiddish (in a moment of rebellion more than hatred, when she is twelve and I am seven), her punishment confirms this: Mutti shouts and sends her straight to her bedroom, and though she tells my father that Zilla is too old to be spanked, after dinner Papa goes up to Zilla’s room with his belt folded in two. And I know he would not be half so furious if she had cursed in German.

  There, see: Zilla is another person to whom I owe justice here. Begin with Zilla, then.

  When I am a boy, my sister, five years my senior, is tall, striking, fearless and alien. Papa and Mutti want her to mix with the right people—that is, high-society Viennese, not our Leopoldstadt rabble. Our father makes introductions through his work, but he never, in the end, thinks quite the way she does. Zilla’s particular rebellion is to take our father’s direction and press it to extremes he doesn’t dare consider. At fifteen she spends her evenings in coffee houses, tucked up against men three times her age. She laughs with and at women who wouldn’t have a word to say to our mother. And she is intelligent, too—too smart to have much patience for her average admirer.

  “He’s just boring.” This is the worst she can say about anyone. She thrives on scandal; she keeps pace with the most controversial ideologies; she courts playwrights and psychologists and musicians and diplomats, Communists and Catholics—but to be boring is unforgivable. For most of our lives together I live with the terrible suspicion that I too am “boring.” It keeps my mouth clapped shut most of the time, my believing that.

  Oh, but remember—she is also tender. And has such love for the good that her heart is set for breaking. How many people see that? I wonder. Even I could forget it, sometimes.

  FRIEDRICH ZIMMEL IS one of the men in love with Zilla. The first time I go with her to a party at Friedrich’s downtown flat (when I am an awkward sixteen, and she is twenty-one and very much in her element), he comes straight up to me and tumbles into what must be, I assume, a stylish psychoanalytic dispute.

  “Here, Josef, listen to this one and ask Zilla what she thinks.” He keeps glancing in her direction as he talks, but Zilla is laughing with a neurotic-looking Spaniard who wipes his mouth on the back of his hand between grins, and she doesn’t once look at us. “I was reading the Zeitschrift für Psychologie yesterday, and there was another letter on Adler’s birth-order theories, and despite all the anecdotal evidence I can’t help but take issue with the assumption that—”

  I nod and nod, but there is no hope. Friedrich is an amateur psychologist, if such a thing exists. He studied philosophy at university and would have liked, he tells me, to become a medical doctor, but the fact that his father is grooming him to take over his business leaves him stuck. He reads everything, though, and whenever he can he meets with the gentlemen in Doctors Freud and Adler’s circles; but Friedrich is a manufacturer and a manufacturer’s son, and no matter how wealthy he might be, he is not especially fascinating to the people who fascinate him most.

  IN THESE CONVERSATIONS, though, I will argue that there was something gained. Certainly Friedrich began inviting Zilla to parties soon after he met her, when they were both very young, and certainly his inviting me had (at first) more to do with his feelings for her than for me. But see this: he could speak to me in her place, when he was nervous, or she cold. And though I suspect that at first and for a long time he saw me as a surrogate for her and a path towards her, as I became an adult there were times—and as time went on, it became common—that he’d come to me asking or telling things that I knew weren’t meant for my sister’s ears.

  We would sit in his father’s library, and he’d talk, one of those psychiatric treatises spread over his knees, but he’d hardly glance at it. He let me borrow his books of poetry. He let me read the poems aloud to myself. They seemed sometimes to sharpen him for a moment, as if some light in a far window had caught his eye.

  It’s strange, I would think; because I wasn’t the kind of person he ought to have made time for, and yet he seemed, more and more, to depend on me, and not simply for access to Zilla. Me—why? I never asked him. As if the question might jerk us both into wakefulness, into a world of sense, where a person had no time for such friendships and where we’d recognize each other as strangers, and myself as useless to him. Isn’t it so? I would ask the night, walking home from his place; yes, it must be so.

  2

  WAIT—I’VE GONE ASTRAY ALREADY. YES, SET THESE lives down; they’re part of it—but if this culminates with the cemeteries, Tobak, find the place they enter in.

  SO BACK, FOR a moment, to an earlier time, when I’m still a child. This would be 1915, during the Great War, when Geisman–Zimmel has switched from metal fixtures for sinks and bathtubs to arms manufacturing. Before deprivations hit us hard, I suppose—though to children these differences need to be parsed in retrospect. The world is full of strangeness, then, but to me the biggest change is that my father’s mother has moved from the countryside out in the east, the region that’s Czechoslovakia now, to the city. When her Viennese husband died, she’d moved back to be with her sister, but now that sister too has died, and so back she comes to be near her son. At the train station, when we go to meet her, I stare and stare for a lady who looks like Papa, but am embraced instead by a tiny old woman with a face like a turnip. Papa never smiles at her, though he carries her bag to the tram.

  Papa tells his mother that there is no room in our apartment for another person, and perhaps it’s true
. He helps her get a room in a boarding house two streets away from us, farther from the canal, and she settles in well.

  And she isn’t like Oma and Opa, my mother’s parents, who are just about the type of Austrian citizens Papa would like us all to be. She tells me to call her Babka, which is also the name for a kind of cake, and I always think of her as cake-coloured after that, or of cake as grandmother-coloured. Her tiny apartment is sectioned in two—into a kind of sitting room and a bedroom—and though she isn’t supposed to cook in her rooms, she has a Primus alcohol stove that sits in the corner and she almost always has a coffee pot heating on it when I visit.

  HERE I AM, a child sitting in an armchair across from my grandmother. Outside there is grey rain and feet and wheels and horses making noise on the roads. My shoes are by the door and my feet, in blue wool socks, are wet from the ankles down. The room smells of pickles and also, today, of rum, because Babka is heating some milk with rum for me, to take off the chill. Her cat, Liba, another thing not really allowed in the boarding house, is curled next to me on the armchair, her long grey leg stretched out straight to just barely touch the blanket over my legs. She will uncurl if I move, I know, and so I am sitting very still.

  Babka is talking to me in Yiddish as she watches the little stove. She is explaining something about when she was a girl, but I don’t really follow. I know what Papa would think, and it makes me nervous—so much so that I don’t let myself understand half of what she’s saying, though I suspect I could, if I tried. I think instead about Liba, watch the way her coat shifts in the soft light like smoke in the cold autumn air. I am not allowed to have a pet.

  Out on the street, a man shouts, “Almost too late!” And now Babka is telling me the story about the fish.

  It’s hard for me not to listen to the story about the fish. I can understand almost all of it. In the story, which she will tell me at least a dozen times as I grow up, a man named Simeon goes fishing. He lives in Vienna, in the second district, like us, but the story takes place many, many years before.