Prater Violet by Christopher Isherwood

Starhemberg … martial law … hundreds of arrests … general strike fails to … Viennese workers besieged … hunt out socialist hyenas, Dollfuss declares…”
    I dropped the paper, ran out into the hall, and dialed Bergmann’s number. His voice answered as soon as the bell began to ring. “Hullo, yes…”
    â€œHullo, Friedrich.”
    â€œOh … Hullo, Christopher.” He sounded weary and disappointed. Obviously, he had been expecting some other call.
    â€œFriedrich, I’ve just read the news…”
    â€œYes.” His voice had no expression in it at all.
    â€œIs there anything I can do?”
    â€œThere is nothing any of us can do, my child.”
    â€œWould you like me to come round?”
    Bergmann sighed. “Very well. Yes. If you wish.”
    I hung up and phoned for a taxi. While I was waiting for it, I hastily swallowed some breakfast. My mother and Richard watched me in silence. Bergmann had become part of their lives, although they had only seen him once, for a few minutes, one day when he came to the house to fetch me. This was a family crisis.
    Bergmann was sitting in the living room when I arrived, facing the telephone, his head propped in his hands. I was shocked by his appearance. He looked so tired and old.
    â€œServus,” he said. He didn’t raise his eyes. I saw that he had been crying.
    I sat down at his side and put my arm around him. “Friedrich … You mustn’t worry. They’ll be all right.”
    â€œI have been trying to speak to them,” Bergmann told me, wearily. “But it is impossible. There is no communication. Just now, I sent a telegram. It will be delayed for many hours. For days, perhaps.”
    â€œI’m sure they’ll be all right. After all, Vienna is a big city. The fighting’s localized, the paper says. Probably it won’t last long.”
    Bergmann shook his head. “This is only the beginning. Now, anything may happen. Hitler has his opportunity. In a few hours, there can be war.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t dare. Mussolini would stop him. Didn’t you read what the Times correspondent in Rome said about…?”
    But he wasn’t listening to me. His whole body was trembling. He began to sob, helplessly, covering his face with his hands. At length, he gasped out, “I am so afraid…”
    â€œFriedrich, don’t. Please don’t.”
    After a moment, he recovered a little. He looked up. He rose to his feet, and began to walk about the room. There was a long silence.
    â€œIf by this evening I hear nothing,” he told me, suddenly, “I must go to them.”
    â€œBut, Friedrich…”
    â€œWhat else can I do? I have no choice.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be able to help them.”
    Bergmann sighed. “You do not understand. How can I leave them alone at such a time? Already, they have endured so much.… You are very kind, Christopher. You are my only friend in this country. But you cannot understand. You have always been safe and protected. Your home has never been threatened. You cannot know what it is like to be an exile, a perpetual stranger.… I am bitterly ashamed that I am here, in safety.”
    â€œBut they wouldn’t want you to be with them. Don’t you realize, they must be glad you’re safe? You might even compromise them. After all, lots of people must know about your political opinions. You might be arrested.”
    Bergmann shrugged his shoulders. “All that is unimportant. You do not understand.”
    â€œBesides,” I unwisely continued, “they wouldn’t want you to leave the picture.”
    All Bergmann’s pent-up anxiety exploded. “The picture! I shit upon the picture! This heartless filth! This wretched, lying charade! To make such a picture at such a moment is definitely heartless. It is a crime. It definitely aids Dollfuss, and