“Listen closely now, fräulein. The phenomenon my father discovered, and to which he gave the somewhat fanciful name the ‘Lost Time Accidents,’ is nothing enigmatic or arcane: no new star in the sky, no fifth dimension, no perpetual-motion machine. Time’s most fundamental quality, after all, is that it should be continually lost to us. Is that not so?” He leaned in close to her — so close that the smell of marzipan eclipsed all others. “That being the case, my dear Sonja, the ultimate Lost Time Accident is death.”
* * *
Kaspar’s immediate reaction upon coming home and learning what had happened was to take up his coat from the banister — the very same spot, Sonja noted, where Waldemar’s jacket had hung — and return the compliment without delay. His brother had left no card, no telephone number, no clue as to his whereabouts, but for once my grandfather was resolute. Perplexing as Waldemar’s visit had been, the malice behind it was as clear as Bohemian glass.
The SS, in those first heady days of the Anschluss, hadn’t yet commandeered the Italianate hotel on Morzinplatz that would serve as its den for the next seven years: its interim quarters, when at last Kaspar found them, turned out to be decidedly less grand. A cast-iron stair led up the rear wall of the Bundesverkehrsamt — the Viennese equivalent of the Department of Motor Vehicles — to a spacious but badly lit warren of rooms, already stuffed to the rafters with stacks of mildewed files and plywood crates. The disorder of the place ought to have reassured my grandfather, but somehow it had the opposite effect. Anything might happen in a system this entropic, he found himself thinking. A person — or at least that person’s dossier — might easily disappear without a trace.
Within weeks of Kaspar’s visit, the nerve center of the Gestapo would be transormed into an occult fortress, sequestered behind its bureaucratic façade like a tarantula hidden in a filing cabinet; but on that particular afternoon — March 19, 1938, day seven of the post-Austrian era — Kaspar entered magically unchallenged. Young men in squeaking boots and fastidiously creased uniforms brushed past him in the hallway, neither returning his greeting nor meeting his eye. No one asked him his business until he arrived at a broad, skylit foyer at the labyrinth’s center, empty save for a row of undersized chairs and a desk that looked pilfered from a headmaster’s office. A bald and rat-faced goblin slouched behind it, collating stacks of curling mimeographs. It wasn’t until the goblin glanced up from his paperwork, however — after what seemed a full hour — that Kaspar was able to place him. He was none other than Gustav Bleichling, proud owner of Sigismund the terrier.
“Good afternoon,” said Kaspar curtly.
“You have the wrong floor,” Bleichling answered, still shuffling his papers. “The Motor Vehicle Department—”
“We’ve met before, sir, if I’m not mistaken. The first time was at Trattner’s kaffeehaus.”
The mention of Trattner’s had a curious effect on Bleichling. He sat bolt upright, as if he’d been poked in the ribs, and raised his right arm in a cramped, defensive motion; just as quickly, however, he recalled where he was, and transformed the gesture into a salute. “You’ll have to pardon me, comrade. Those were thrilling days — superlative days! — but occasionally a face or two escapes me. I recall you now, of course. Sieg Heil.”
“My name is Kaspar Toula. I’ve come to see my brother.”
Bleichling’s right arm sank slowly, seemingly of its own accord, and came to rest against the cluttered desktop. “You couldn’t see him now,” he said inflectionlessly. “If you’d be so kind as to write down your address—”
“Why can’t I see him now? Is he not here?”
Bleichling hesitated. “He’s asleep.”
“It’s four in the afternoon, Herr Bleichling.”
A smile stole over Bleichling’s soggy features. “You haven’t seen your brother in quite some time, Herr Toula. He may have habits you are not familiar with.” He glanced slyly over his shoulder, toward a small metal door, half-hidden behind a row of cabinets. “It’s his custom to rest after an interrogation session, especially a long and fruitful one. He puts so much into his work, you see.”
Kaspar returned Bleichling’s insipid stare, unsure how to respond. He couldn’t imagine why the little man should share information so freely — and with him, of all people — unless he was simply a fool. The timing of Waldemar’s movements didn’t correspond to what Bleichling was telling him, either. Not unless he’d gone directly—
“What’s the name of the suspect?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The man my brother was questioning. Tell me his name.”
Bleichling’s smile sharpened. “My apologies, Herr Toula! I assumed he was the reason that you’d come. A natural assumption, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Why, that he arrived here from your own residence, of course. He took pains to make clear that he wasn’t your butler.”
* * *
Sonja was waiting at the street door when Kaspar brought Ungarsky home, so that he was momentarily convinced that his wife possessed the gift of second sight; but he soon realized that she’d been standing in that exact spot, straight-backed and expectant, the entire time he’d been away. The twins watched impassively from the mezzanine balcony as their father and mother conjured a phantom out of the hired car’s backseat. The phantom wore nothing but his socks and underclothes, and his face — once rakishly whiskered — was naked and pale. He moved haltingly and stiffly, straining his shorn gray head forward, like a newborn pigeon knocked out of its nest.
Once they’d brought him upstairs, Ungarsky allowed himself to be laid lengthwise across the divan, then craned his neck to scan the floor around him. When he’d found what he was looking for, he sighed contentedly and let his eyes fall closed. “Praise Jesus,” he whispered. “Those damn wingtips cost me a fortune.”
He said nothing more until morning, when Sonja brought him a tray of ladyfingers and a cup of weak black tea. The entire family was in attendance, maidservants included. Ungarsky sipped his tea gratefully, looking only at Sonja, then fumbled feebly at his undershirt. He’d slept in his clothes — he’d begged not to be touched — and Sonja had let him be, ragged and foul-smelling though he was. But now a sight was disclosed that brought gasps from the children: a cruciform bruise, sharp and black as a stencil, extending from his breastbone to his belly.
The twins were whisked out of the room at once; Mama Silbermann — who’d fallen into a swoon — was revived with ammonium carbonate. Scissors were fetched from the kitchen. Kaspar cut the undershirt free, muttering and perspiring like a surgeon; Ungarsky, for his part, observed the proceedings at a slight but definite remove, as though the injury were no concern of his. Sonja began to suspect, as she gripped his slack hand, that their guest no longer had his wits about him. But when he spoke his voice was sure and calm.
“They took me to a room with a chair in it. A straight-backed armchair with a slotted steel base. Very modern. Nothing else in there, not even a table. A narrow green door, like the door to a closet. Sometimes I could hear the other one — Kalk — talking outside the door. I couldn’t make out what he said. It doesn’t matter.” Ungarsky hesitated. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It doesn’t matter, Felix,” Sonja whispered.
“What happened then?” said Kaspar, keeping his voice as deliberate as he could manage. Ungarsky’s shirt lay pinned beneath him now, revealing the wound in all its grisly glory. It looked like the beginning of a blueprint, or a crudely scrawled target, or a butcher’s X traced on a hunk of meat.