First World War as from the Austro-Hungarian Army. The number of Habsburgers taken prisoner (2.2 million) was twelve times that of the British (170,000). At the end of
The Radetzky March
, the high-born protagonist, Lieutenant Trotta, plunges into the fray. Soldier Onufrij, his valet, simply goes into hiding in his village. ‘The harvest was about to begin. In the imperial and royal army, there was nothing left for him to do.’
It is Sunday. I go to the Stephansdom for edification. The priest welcomes us with a hearty ‘
Grüss Gott
’ and notes that last night at Klagenfurt thetemperature plummeted to eighteen degrees below zero. The congregation sings hesitantly, the psalms rising up in clouds from their fur collars. The priest tells a story about the legendary mayor of New York, Fiorello Henry La Guardia. When still a judge, La Guardia once tried a poor man for stealing a loaf of bread. He sentenced him to a fine of ten dollars, then pulled out his own wallet and gave the man ten dollars with which to pay his fine. ‘Justice,’ the priest says, ‘must always go hand in hand with compassion.’ ‘Amen,’ everyone nods, and we all turn and shake each other's hands. Then a Japanese girl comes strolling up the aisle, looks around in surprise and starts taking pictures of the congregation.
Does anything ever really happen here? At Ottakring station, a woman in a fur coat is sitting on the lap of a man in a fur coat. A drunken man staggers down Kärntnerstrasse. At the central train station, a pretty woman walks by, the first one I've seen in Vienna. She has dark hair, light, almond-shaped eyes, but the most striking thing about her is the dignity in her movements. She is pushing a little cart; her job is to empty the rubbish bins and sweep the floor. That, apparently, is how she earns her living. These are the only things I have to report from this city.
Today, on this Sunday, I am on my way to put a rose on the grave of the unknown waif. Along the Danube, behind the neglected shipyards and the last dusty silos, lies the graveyard for bodies washed up from the river, the Friedhof der Namenlosen. Here lie all the unknown persons who jumped from bridges in desperation at the beginning of the twentieth century, a regular occurrence in the highly strung Vienna of that day.
The wind roars through the bare branches. My rose ends up beside a few faded plastic flowers, on the grave of someone who turns out to have a name after all, Aloisia Marscha (1877–1905).
All the city's bells are rung at eventide, the air is silver with their tolling. Stephansplatz is deserted, except for a few tourist carriages. The moon above the old houses is full and yellow. It is freezing hard. On the street the vendors are offering chestnuts and roast potatoes.
There is a peculiar drawing of the Michaelerplatz, made in 1911 or 1912. In it, the young artist A. Hitler depicts the square in its entirety, with theexception of one building. That building housed a haberdashery, and was put up by the modernist architect Adolf Loos in 1910. The artist has replaced that building with one copied from an eighteenth-century drawing. Loos’ ‘house without eyebrows’ was already famous at the time, but Hitler would not allow it to exist.
These days the Loos building is home to a bank. At first glance, to our eyes, it blends in quite well with the surroundings. The portico is made of beautiful green marble, with two huge round pillars, and the interior is marked by warm wooden walls and ceilings. Beside Loos’ quiet façade, the neighbouring house front is a potpourri of flowers, wreaths and other gaudy bits and pieces. From the square itself you can see how the portico of the Loos house recedes elegantly from the sweep of the Michaelerplatz, how it provides an ironic retort to the pomp of the Hofburg. This building plays with its surroundings, and that is an uncommon thing.
The Loos house, plain and without ornament, was a plea for candour in the
The Radetzky March
, the high-born protagonist, Lieutenant Trotta, plunges into the fray. Soldier Onufrij, his valet, simply goes into hiding in his village. ‘The harvest was about to begin. In the imperial and royal army, there was nothing left for him to do.’
It is Sunday. I go to the Stephansdom for edification. The priest welcomes us with a hearty ‘
Grüss Gott
’ and notes that last night at Klagenfurt thetemperature plummeted to eighteen degrees below zero. The congregation sings hesitantly, the psalms rising up in clouds from their fur collars. The priest tells a story about the legendary mayor of New York, Fiorello Henry La Guardia. When still a judge, La Guardia once tried a poor man for stealing a loaf of bread. He sentenced him to a fine of ten dollars, then pulled out his own wallet and gave the man ten dollars with which to pay his fine. ‘Justice,’ the priest says, ‘must always go hand in hand with compassion.’ ‘Amen,’ everyone nods, and we all turn and shake each other's hands. Then a Japanese girl comes strolling up the aisle, looks around in surprise and starts taking pictures of the congregation.
Does anything ever really happen here? At Ottakring station, a woman in a fur coat is sitting on the lap of a man in a fur coat. A drunken man staggers down Kärntnerstrasse. At the central train station, a pretty woman walks by, the first one I've seen in Vienna. She has dark hair, light, almond-shaped eyes, but the most striking thing about her is the dignity in her movements. She is pushing a little cart; her job is to empty the rubbish bins and sweep the floor. That, apparently, is how she earns her living. These are the only things I have to report from this city.
Today, on this Sunday, I am on my way to put a rose on the grave of the unknown waif. Along the Danube, behind the neglected shipyards and the last dusty silos, lies the graveyard for bodies washed up from the river, the Friedhof der Namenlosen. Here lie all the unknown persons who jumped from bridges in desperation at the beginning of the twentieth century, a regular occurrence in the highly strung Vienna of that day.
The wind roars through the bare branches. My rose ends up beside a few faded plastic flowers, on the grave of someone who turns out to have a name after all, Aloisia Marscha (1877–1905).
All the city's bells are rung at eventide, the air is silver with their tolling. Stephansplatz is deserted, except for a few tourist carriages. The moon above the old houses is full and yellow. It is freezing hard. On the street the vendors are offering chestnuts and roast potatoes.
There is a peculiar drawing of the Michaelerplatz, made in 1911 or 1912. In it, the young artist A. Hitler depicts the square in its entirety, with theexception of one building. That building housed a haberdashery, and was put up by the modernist architect Adolf Loos in 1910. The artist has replaced that building with one copied from an eighteenth-century drawing. Loos’ ‘house without eyebrows’ was already famous at the time, but Hitler would not allow it to exist.
These days the Loos building is home to a bank. At first glance, to our eyes, it blends in quite well with the surroundings. The portico is made of beautiful green marble, with two huge round pillars, and the interior is marked by warm wooden walls and ceilings. Beside Loos’ quiet façade, the neighbouring house front is a potpourri of flowers, wreaths and other gaudy bits and pieces. From the square itself you can see how the portico of the Loos house recedes elegantly from the sweep of the Michaelerplatz, how it provides an ironic retort to the pomp of the Hofburg. This building plays with its surroundings, and that is an uncommon thing.
The Loos house, plain and without ornament, was a plea for candour in the
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