I was to have one more glimpse of my old world before I took the leap into the new one.
In 1915 my parents were in Karlsbad, and my father who had not been able to recover from a heart attack was very eager to see me. But how was I, the citizen of an “enemy” country,* to travel to Austria?
“Write to Count Berchtold,” my father wrote me. “He will give you an entry permit for sure.”
In the old Austria everything was possible. I received the permit, and now I had the experience of being the “Russian woman” in Austria after having been for so long the “Austrian woman” in Russia.
“Just be sure not to make pacifist speeches,” acquaintances in Davos warned me, and my father also wrote: “For God’s sake don’t talk about bomb-throwing, and don’t say that all governments should be hanged.”
Thus provided with good advice I entered “enemy territory.”
On the border the first “incident” occurred. Among other books I had brought a volume of Shakespeare and Plato’s Republic. The two books aroused the suspicion of the customs officers.
“That’s an Englishman,” said one of them eyeing the Shakespeare fiercely.
“You can’t take that over the border with you.”
I remarked demurely that the author had been dead for several hundred years.
“He is an Englishman all the same. You can’t take the book with you.”
Plato was examined from every angle; the officials were not sure about
him. Finally one of them discovered the publisher’s name: Georg Müller, Munich. He turned to his assistant: “The writer is a Bavarian. She can take that book with her.”
The volume of Shakespeare was left on the Swiss side of the frontier; the
“Bavarian” Plato was allowed to accompany me into Austria.
Shortly after we had passed the border a detective came into the compartment. “Which of you is the Russian woman?”
I revealed my identity. He made me a long but friendly speech about what my conduct should be and then explained comfortingly: “I shall keep an eye on you, Countess.” (Good-hearted, as Austrians can’t help being, they immediately gave me back my old title.)
At the next station a Turk got on the train. The detective immediately approached the “ally,” who, however, knew only Turkish and French, and so the two were unable to communicate. Then a brilliant idea came to the simple detective: the “Russian woman” certainly knew French. So the
“enemy woman” acted as interpreter for the two “allies,” while our fellow passengers eyed the Turk just as suspiciously as they did me.
Russian prisoners were working along the railway track. I gave them my cigarettes and spoke to them in their own language. It was moving to see the joy on their faces at hearing a few words of Russian. The friendly detective did not interfere. “I take it you’re not going to do any spying,”
he said in a relaxed tone. “The Russians are good people, they don’t give us any trouble. Did they really have to declare war on us?” The other passengers remained neutral, except for one German, a citizen of the Reich, who declared rudely: “I’ll have you know, Fräulein, that martial law is in effect here.”
There was a stirring of the old Austrian in me: “So what about it!”
From that moment on, the German punished me with his contempt. In Linz the train pulled out right under my nose; there would not be another for seven hours. The detective turned me over to an old police officer:
“You’ve got a Russian here, but she’s not dangerous.”
An uncle of mine was governor of the city; I asked the police officer if I might be allowed to go and spend the hours I had to wait with him.
“So,” he said good-humouredly, “Count Ch. is your uncle? Don’t you see that anyone could say that? You stay right here.”
“And if I go into town anyway?”
“Then we’ll shoot.”
“And will you also hit me?”
“What do you think? We have a reputation as good marksmen. You had better not put us to the test.”
“May I at least phone my uncle?”
“No.”
The old fellow was adamant; I had to stay at the station.
I had caught cold in the train and had exhausted my supply of handkerchiefs. I turned to the police officer for help. He called a porter:
“Go into town and buy the lady a dozen handkerchiefs, but bring them to me first.”
When the porter came back he took each one of the hideous, bright-bordered handkerchiefs separately and shook it. Not until this operation was completed did I finally get them. The old officer was a friendly man and a strong opponent of the war. “The whole thing is a piece of madness,”
he declared. With him I could comfortably “talk pacifism.” But when I said that I wanted to spend the night in Pilsen, he stiffened: “I imagine you would find the Skoda works interesting. No, you’ll go only as far as Budweis. And report at once to the station master there.”
I was dead tired when at about three o’clock in the morning I reached Budweis and knocked on the door of the officer on duty. A sleepy voice answered: “What is it now? Can’t one have any rest at all?”
“I have to report to the station master.”
“Why so?”
“I am a Russian citizen.”
“What did you say you are?”
“A Russian citizen.”
A very sleepy, half-dressed man came out of the door.
“What are you?”
“A Russian citizen,” I repeated patiently, and held out the document signed by the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“What are you doing here then, if you are a Russian citizen?”
I explained the object of my trip.
He grabbed the document.
“Well, why are you a Russian citizen?”
“Because I am married to a Russian.”
“So? But why did you marry a Russian?”
He studied the document. “I see, Berchtold. Well then, if you were formerly an Austrian citizen… It’s all right. You can go. But tomorrow you must report to the district prefect.” He heaved a deep sigh, “There’s not a
minute’s peace here. Now it’s a Russian woman coming in the middle of the night. You can go now. Have a pleasant journey.”
The porter I had blindly entrusted myself to in my weariness led me to a terrible inn where the wash-basins were chained to the wall and the people spoke only Czech. I wanted just one thing: a cup of tea, but the owners refused to understand me. I decided to speak Russian: either I will be arrested or I will get my tea. I had scarcely uttered the word tchai when the expression on the faces of the proprietor and his wife changed. I immediately became an honoured guest. I was given tea and cake and even a jug of hot water to wash with – something which certainly no other guest in that inn ever requested. The innkeeper and his wife could not do enough to show how well disposed they were towards me.
When I reported to the prefect he wrinkled his forehead: “You will have to stay here twenty-four hours, Countess. I must make inquiries at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
“Look, tomorrow is my father’s birthday, and I do so want to be there in time for it.”
He was an Austrian; and so he let me travel on without making inquiries.
*
I had been a little fearful of the patriotism of the Austrians, but in 1915 it had already faded away completely. I encountered only two patriots. One, a Frau H., the wife of the biggest candy manufacturer in Austria, came to see my mother about an “entertainment” that had been organized for the benefit of wounded soldiers. A pretty, very elegant young woman with a wonderful string of pearls about her neck. “We shall stick it out,” she said enthusiastically.
After her visit my mother asked me in astonishment: “You say you’re a socialist, so why were you so high and mighty with Frau H.? The poor woman was quite disconcerted.”
I said nothing; mother would not have understood my explanation.
The second was a woman of the aristocracy. From her came this beautiful phrase: “And when I think of all the dead whose names are in the Gotha* . . . !”
*
On the way back to Switzerland I got into a difficult situation. A hotel-keeper in Innsbruck – he must have been an excellent judge of people’s character – asked me to take a check made out to someone in Italy with
me to Switzerland and from there send it on to a bank. He had to make a payment to an Italian business associate; the war could not last forever; and he would lose a considerable sum of money if he did not make the payment now.
I had no interest in either the hotel-keeper or his business associate, but the adventure was tempting.
“I must tell you, Countess, that you will be interned if the check is found on you,” the honest hotel-keeper warned me.
“So be it. I’ll take it with me.” When our train reached the frontier only three people got out besides me. We had a two hour wait.
“This could turn out pretty interesting,” I thought. The dangerous check was in my handbag. “With all that time for customs’ examination the check is bound to be found.”
A great, shaggy sheep-dog lay on the station platform. I had always been passionately fond of dogs, and so even now I forgot the danger I was in and bent down to play with the dog. He saved me from an Austrian internment camp. The officer in charge identified himself as the owner of the dog; he had brought it from Serbia. A point of connection had been found, and so I talked and talked and talked for two hours, without stopping, about dogs, war, Serbia, Russia – until at long last the train came in and we four passengers were able to board, without ever having been examined.
The old Imperial Austria disappeared into the shadows of the night, and I never saw it again.