Second Violin by John Lawton Read Free Book Online

to live in Palestine and complicated life for the
British instead. Meanwhile, it amuses them to make us jump through hoops. We fill out their forms, we pay their bribes, we sit in the trees and we chirp like birds.’
    ‘So you jumped? You have an exit permit? You have a passport?’
    ‘Of course not. Why would an old Jew like me have a passport? I have never been out of Vienna in my life. That is why we go by night, on a boat. That is why Trager will escort us across
the city. With him in uniform the night patrols will leave us alone. If anyone asks he will say he has arrested us.’
    ‘And how much has Trager asked for this service?’
    ‘Nothing,’ he said.
    ‘Yet,’ said Hummel. ‘Yet.’
    ‘Come with us, Joe. Joe, I have known you all your life. I spent the night of your birth sitting up with your father. I was present at your bris , at your bar mitzvah. Your
father asked me to watch over you the day before he died. I am too old to do that now. Come with us, Joe, you can watch over us.’
    It was a neat inversion. The most subtle form of blackmail. Hummel smiled at the old man’s wiliness.
    ‘And the shop, Herr Bemmelmann, what about the shop?’
    ‘Ach, I sold it this morning.’
    ‘You were able to find a buyer?’
    ‘A gentile . . . ten pfenigs on the mark . . . he’d buy you out too at the drop of a Nazi hat.’
    Hummel knew this to be true. The miracle, small though it was, was that he, Bemmelmann and the rest of the street were still in business. All over the city Jews had been forced to sell their
businesses at pitiful prices to demanding gentiles – Aryans as they saw fit to term themselves. In the tailors’ alley Schuster’s old shop was boarded up, as was the widow
Hirschel’s – although the old lady still lived behind the boards and broken glass – the rest carried on a scrappy trade, but then it had never been much better than scrappy.
Vienna had too much of everything . . . too many photographers . . . too many painters . . . too many composers . . . too many psychiatrists . . . too many tailors.

 
§ 20
    It was a long walk. Hummel was surprised Frau Bemmelmann had the strength – across Leopoldstadt, zig-zagging through the side-streets along Praterstraße, in what
Hummel thought to be a daft attempt at being unobtrusive on Trager’s part, to the broad avenue that led straight to the banks of the Danube, at which point Trager abandoned his plan and
ushered them along in the open. Hummel carried the bags. Trager walked behind them, carrying nothing but his rifle.
    ‘Why would I be carryin’ bags for Jews – be sensible.’
    ‘They are old, Joe. Perhaps we could catch a tram to the river?’
    ‘Now that is askin’ to get nicked. We walk, just like I’d collared you lot. Now, just trust me, will you?’
    They reached the railway line that ran along the banks of the Danube, ducked under it to the riverside, and emerged on a stone quay a few yards from the Reichsbrücke. Hummel stared
unbelieving at the unbroken darkness of the other bank of the Danube, so dark he could almost believe it wasn’t there. He’d never been there. It wasn’t Vienna, at least not his
Vienna. He’d heard it was still farms and fields, and Hummel had never been to the country and never felt the desire to go to the country. This was as far east as he’d ever been.
    They descended by steps to the water’s edge, Frau Bemmelmann wheezing all the way, and ducked under the shadow of the bridge. Two more German soldiers waited for them, visible at first
only by the glow of their cigarettes. No money changed hands. Hummel could only assume that Trager had taken care of all this beforehand.
    Then he saw the boat. He grabbed Trager by the sleeve of his jacket. The look Trager gave him was enough to make him relax his grip and take a step backwards. There were ways to behave when they
were alone and ways to behave when there were other Germans around. He’d just broken the cardinal rule. He’d