Chapter V: V ienna, 1917

Chapter V: Vienna, 1917

For a while, Maria was greatly distracted from her professional work by thinking a lot about Lothar, who had disappeared without a trace after their first meeting. Maria read the book that had evidently been sent to her by General Haushofer. It was a weird but fascinating story of an ancient race that live within our hollow planet Earth and who have harnessed a universal power, Vril. This is described as a force that can create or destroy, give life or take it. Everything can be operated through it, and it itself can be controlled by the mind.

At first Maria thought she wouldn’t understand any of it, but as she read and became immersed in the book, she had a feeling that she had always known that such a force exists; known it and forgotten about it. That she had had the power to control it — but had lost it. This was not a mere story; this was a book of revelations masked as a piece of light entertainment. It was meant to unlock the senses of those who instinctively knew the truth, whether through a previous existence or through the vibrations of the Earth, the Vril itself, which never went unperceived by the human body but was knocking in vain on the locked gates of the human mind.

She waited for a letter, either from Lothar or from the General, but none came. As the months passed, the memory of Lothar began to fade and were it not for the book, she might have tricked herself into thinking that the man had been a figment of her imagination, just to ease the pain of her new-found seclusion after a night that had done to her body what the book had done to her mind. She was unlocked; she was ready. She began to experience trances which were different from the superficial self-induced dreams that were good enough for the customers but never released her spirit from the gravity of the world of the living. There were times when she knew she was no longer earthbound. On these occasions the customers

often left either unsatisfied or puzzled: she hadn’t given the answers she had been expected to give. Sometimes Maria knew that the answers she had written down in her trance were to the questions yet unasked by anyone. Still, her business took on, as her clearly genuine spiritual journeys to other realms didn’t go unnoticed and because whenever she returned she brought something otherworldly with her.

With her financial situation improving, Maria began toying with the thought of moving to a larger quarters in an even more fashionable district. She was often browsing through the ‘Apartments to let’ sections of newspapers, imagining herself either looking at the trees in the Prater from her window or waking up to the chimes of the Stephanskirche. One such reverie was interrupted as her eyes fell upon an article about convalescent fliers. There he was, Lothar Waisz, a decorated hero, who had miraculously survived a bad crash in his Hansa Brandenburg D-I and struggled for many months to fight off death. Now the hero was awake and hopefully back in the battle for the Austro-Hungarian sky soon.

Icy shivers ran down Maria’s skin as she read Lothar’s name. She should have been happy, ecstatic; yet she could only feel the painful falling to pieces of the protective wall she had built close to her heart. Lothar was alive — he wasn’t to blame. When she read further and discovered that the pilot had met his tragedy on the very day he had left Maria’s bed, she knew she must be sorry for the man and nurse him back to health with her love. But would it be the Lothar she knew? The story said the pilot had been ‘badly injured’ and had spent months in a coma. Would he even remember Maria? Would Maria recognize him?

And most importantly — what was she to Lothar? For all she knew, the man might be engaged or married. If she was nothing but a casual adventure to a dashing officer, she could hardly be expected to arrive at his bedside, perhaps to face the lawful Frau Waisz and their offspring.

It took Maria two whole days and nights to reach a decision. On the third morning she dressed herself in white — Lothar had been surrounded by women in white for a long time; bright colours might startle him.

Mart Sander

At the home for convalescent officers, a doctor informed Maria that she shouldn’t exhaust the patient for more than ten minutes. The good news was that there indeed was a Frau Waisz, but she was the patient’s mother. Then came a shock: Lothar had lost an eye, smashed his foot and his face had suffered in the impact. He seemed to be aware of most things but his motor skills had suffered a setback. Whether this was temporary or permanent, the doctor was unable to predict. That the doctor presented this news in a matter-of-fact manner, without even pretending to be sympathetic, actually had a calming effect on Maria, who had wanted to scream at his first words.

Their reunion took place in a numb stupor. Lothar recognized Maria and was sincerely happy to see her. Maria was equally happy, but she had to force herself to smile. Lothar wasn’t as handsome as she remembered him, his speech was slow and dull, and the smell of ether and urine around her prevented Maria from establishing any emotional contact with her own memories of their one night together.

Lothar told her he had written to General Haushofer on the previous day and had been planning to compose a letter to her that very afternoon, but as he got exhausted easily he hadn’t got around to it yet. Soon the doctor appeared, announcing the end to the brief visit. As he escorted Maria out, probably deeming her to be the hero’s fiancée, he expressed his hopes that the patient should be fully recovered in a month’s time.

It took about a month, in fact, for a letter from the General to reach her. The man seemed to be a kind and friendly spirit, doing his best to comfort Maria ‘in her hour of distress.’ Lothar had obviously informed the General about their more-than-passing meeting; God only knew what the General read into it. Maria learnt that General Haushofer was occupied elsewhere but would undertake a trip to Vienna in three months, bringing along a Baron von Sebottendorf, whose name was familiar to Maria from the occult magazine Ostara she was following and whom she had met briefly at a symposium on oriental mysticism.

Lothar was indeed back on his feet by that time, but their relationship, probably marred by the bitter aftermath of what now

seemed to be a confusing memory from a distant past, had congealed into a friendly and melancholy status quo, with any sprouts of a romance mercilessly neutered.

The meeting at the Café Schopenhauer was one of the turning points in her life. After that evening, she often lay awake in her bed, striving in vain to recall the moment when an otherworldly entity had spoken through her. She never was able to.

The gentlemen had gone back to Munich; Lothar had returned as well, as he was deemed unfit to continue his career as a fighter pilot. He had asked Maria to join him there. In fact, all of them had asked Maria to move to Munich. Yet she hesitated. For some reason she was reluctant to give up the life she loved to hate for a life she dreamt about. Dreams are only comforting as long as they are definite — and they are only definite as long as they are never tried out. The thought that she might find herself unable to offer what was expected of her when in Munich kept her firmly in her small apartment in Vienna. But instead of renting a larger one, as she had planned some months ago, she now found herself saving her earnings. Was this for the trip, for a new beginning in Munich? Whenever she tried to answer that question, she forbade herself to listen to the reply.

Things took a turn for the worse the next year. The Empire was crumbling. All of a sudden the once proud Viennese realized that they were hated by everyone whom they had considered their loyally equal neighbours. The Empire was divided into smaller and smaller portions almost daily. Nothing seemed the same; in fact, nothing was the same without that certain Imperial and Royal seasoning that everyone had taken for granted. Lacking that, the Imperial Opera was just another theatre; the Danube was just a dirty river. Café Schopenhauer had become an unremarkable coffee house, one among hundreds. Maria sat there for hours, trying to put her finger on what exactly had changed, as if naming the curse could cure the place and restore its ambience. But nothing had changed except an era.

She had written to both Sigrun and General Haushofer, urging them to get to know each other. She was anxious to find out whether the General would find a replacement for her in Sigrun, but in his

Mart Sander letter the General assured Maria that even though her lady friend had such a deep interest and knowledge regarding the spiritual world she exhibited no actual mediumistic qualities. Maria was still impatiently expected in Munich. But at the same time the General and von Sebottendorf had come up with a plan to form a ladies’ subsection of the Thule Society, concentrated solely on mediumistic communication with other worlds in the search for the universal power described in the book as Vril. By all accounts, Munich was the place where things were happening. A new national movement rooted in the glory of the days gone by was sprouting, and this was exactly what was needed to dispel the universal depression, grey and damp like the mists of November. Her hesitancy overcome, Maria packed her belongings and took a train there.

The mood was rather exiting. Everyone wanted to gain power; everyone betted on a New Era, the New Man, New Ideas. It was at once hilarious and lethal. Sigrun hadn’t changed, even though she was now of age and dressed more smartly. She had made new friends: there was Traute, a nice maiden from the provinces, and Hella, a charmingly simple yet aristocratic young lady whom Sigrun had met through the General and von Sebottendorf. Both ladies had beautiful long hair, though not quite matching Maria’s.

Lothar, who had come to meet Maria at the train station, looked well enough but his initial charm had gone the way the charm of Vienna had. Something was missing — he was nice but no longer made Maria’s heart skip a beat. He greeted her as a man would greet his sister and secretly Maria thanked God for this. She was much happier with Lothar as a brotherly figure. Refusing his offer for her to move into his spacious apartment, Maria found top floor rooms for a reasonable price and began settling in. She discovered that the competition between the professional traders in the occult was a fierce one. They advertised everywhere, trying to attract attention by every possible means. But it wasn’t really any wonder, because this was a city where death walked alongside you. The mourners were prepared to pay for anything that fuelled their hope of a reunion with their loved ones.

Sigrun had undertaken a small mediumistic business of her own, but by the time Maria arrived in Munich, the establishment had reverted back to its proper application as Sigrun’s apartment. She had done a lot of studying and was actively involved in the work of the Thulists — as was Hella — but both women had come to terms with the realization that they would never be what they always had hoped for — true mediums — and had settled for the next best thing, adapting to various occupations for the good of the cause.

Maria was almost immediately regarded — and indeed, sometimes regarded herself — as the unofficial leader of the group. On most occasions they were merely a gathering of friends, interested in the same issues, discussing these among themselves. There was never any talk of organizing themselves into a society of their own and going through all the necessary hustle and bustle that came with it — putting down a constitution, voting for or against topics and schedules, and so on. Only once did they laughingly jest on the possibility of raising money by taxing themselves: to impose a membership tax as well as a special penalty fee for not attending a meeting.

Months passed, but there was no news from General Haushofer, who was evidently engaged in business elsewhere. Maria met with Lothar every now and then — they’d have dinner or take a walk; a tension between them which had replaced the initial thrill of the first meeting had begun to fade away, and that made their association easier. Maria had two or three bookings per week; most of the clients came to her apartment and left moderately satisfied or sometimes overwhelmed; occasionally she was invited to the houses of the wealthier citizens who were eager to contact their lost sons and were grateful for each grain of consolation. These visits paid well and Maria was able to treat herself and Sigrun (who remained her best friend) to an evening at the moving pictures and a beer garden every now and then.

When Maria had met Sigrun at the beer pavilion and told her about the visit of Hess and Hitler the previous day she had felt a tingling sensation: it was she who had been chosen to deliver the message to Sigrun, not the other way around.

Mart Sander

“So, were they handsome?” Sigrun had continued to press.

“Moderately,” Maria replied. “Yes,” she then giggled. “Especially the dark one. Deep set, fiery eyes; tall and lean. The other one, Hitler — your typical next-door chap. Though not without a certain appeal. Austrian, you know.”

“Was he?”

“He was, even though he tried to conceal it. I would say, from the Salzburg area. But you’re missing the point. After I had passed the test, I learnt of their real reason — and here it is!”

Maria handed Sigrun the note from General Haushofer, which read: “Dear Maria, it’s been over a year since our last meeting in Vienna. I would ver y much like to have the honour of a further one on 4th of February. There will be a gathering in a hunting lodge in Berchtesgaden — you already know most of those who will be attending. We would like to discuss our work and achievements of the past year and consider some possible improvements which could advance our cause. Please extend this invitation to the other ladies in your circle. Transportation will be organized.”

“Funny,” Maria said, contemplating the frost flowers twining on the window pane of the beer pavilion. “We have come a long way, you and I.”

“From where?” Sigrun asked, still immersed in the letter, which she was reading for the third or fourth time.

“From our first little séances. From the cards, glasses, crystal ball, tea leaves, Ouija boards, summoning the plate spirits. Everything was such fun, such a thrill. Now it feels so much is expected of us. And the fun seems to be lost.”

Sigrun folded the letter and embraced Maria.

“Isn’t it always like that? It’s pretty much what Frieda told me only last night.”

Maria knew Frieda to be a girl from the corps de ballet, Sigrun’s current room-mate.

“What did she say?”

“She said — every little girl dreams of being a ballerina. And every little girl who eventually gets to stand on the stage in her tutu and

pointe shoes has been stripped of her dream. Not the dream of dancing — her dream about dancing.”

Maria felt a shiver. The pavilion was cold; it was designed for good times: to be a well-heated, well-lit island of pleasure. Instead, it struggled on as a poorly-lit, poorly-heated establishment for those who shunned the thriving places where groups of politically active folk went. It had fared even worse than the Café Schopenhauer.