The Vienna Writers Circle
- eBook
- Audiobook
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
A gripping and powerful tale of resilience and courage set in Vienna on the brink of WWII, as two members of Freud’s Circle try to keep themselves and their loved ones safe as the SS closes in.
Spring, 1938: Café Mozart in the heart of Vienna is beloved by its clientele, including cousins Mathias Kraemer and Johannes Namal. The two writers are as close as brothers. They are also members of Freud’s Circle—a unique group of the famed psychiatrist’s friends and acquaintances who once gathered regularly at the bright and airy café to talk about books and ideas over coffee and pastries. But dark days are looming.
With Hitler’s annexation of Austria, Nazi edicts governing daily life become stricter and more punitive. Now Hitler has demanded that the “hidden Jews” of Vienna be tracked down, and Freud’s Circle has been targeted. The SS aims to use old group photos to identify Jewish intellectuals and subversives. With the vise tightening around them, Mathias and Johannes’s only option appears to be hiding in plain sight, using assumed names and identities to evade detection, aware that discovery would mean consignment to a camp or execution.
Faced with stark and desperate choices, Mathias, Johannes, their families and friends all find their loyalties and courage tested in unimaginable ways. But despite betrayal, heartache and imprisonment, hope remains, and with it, the determination to keep those they love alive, and Mathias and Johannes at the same time discovering that what originally condemned them—their writing—might also be their salvation.
Release date: February 14, 2023
Publisher: MIRA Books
Print pages: 400
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
The Vienna Writers Circle
J. C. Maetis
1
Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science.
—Sigmund Freud
Mathias
Vienna, Austria, March 1938
I, Mathias Kraemer, recall vividly the first real warning I took notice of. It was the moment an SS officer walked into the Café Mozart and asked if there were any Jews present, and which Jews they knew of who regularly frequented the café.
I was sitting with Johannes at a table about eight yards from the serving counter where the SS officer was making his inquiry with two waiters. Thankfully, there were two tables between us and the SS officer, otherwise his eyes might have automatically rested on us.
We should have paid more heed to Sigmund Freud at that last “Circle” meeting; he’d warned that with the advent of Anschluss, things might close in fast.
Among Vienna’s many splendid cafés, we preferred the Mozart because it was not too pretentious. Arguably, the Sperl or Landtmann were more opulent and had finer decor, but for us the Mozart’s overriding feature was its brightness and openness. From practically any seat in the Mozart, you were bathed in light and could watch the passing street activity. We’d in fact viewed the SS officer outside through its grand front windows in the final paces of his approach. But now as he spoke to the waiters, we might have preferred somewhere with more secluded corners.
We met at practically the same time every week, 6 p.m. every Tuesday. Office and shop staff at the end of their day, along with the first of the pre-opera, concert and theater crowd. And on many occasions our literary agent, Julian Reisner, would also join us and we’d talk about the progress with our latest books or the state of the book market and the world in general.
At forty-seven years old and with Johannes only celebrating his thirty-second birthday weeks ago, there was a reasonable age gap between us, but we felt as close as brothers rather than just cousins; that extra bond perhaps because of our shared profession. I’d been writing crime thrillers for sixteen years now and Johannes was in his fifth year of the same. I’d in fact initially introduced Johannes to Julian. It hadn’t been just a familial favor; after some initial guidance, I’d felt Johannes’s writing was strong. Julian had agreed. At forty-one, Julian not only bridged that age gap between us, but acted as mentor and guide to both of us.
“I wish Julian was with us now,” Johannes muttered under his breath. “He’d know just the right thing to say to keep us calm.”
“I think that’s exactly why he’s not with us now. Especially after that last Circle meeting. Anschluss was only three days ago, and he’s got a fair few others like us on his books.” Though my voice was little more than a hissed whisper, I didn’t want to openly say “Jews” with the SS officer only eight paces away. “Then on top he’s got a number of political writers and potential subversives. When I spoke to him, he said his phone has been busy trying to explain the current situation to a lot of people, not just myself.”
Anschluss, the takeover and annexing of Austria by Germany, had taken place with hardly a single bullet fired.
At the root of that acquiescence had been a shared vision and identity, not just the fact that Hitler was originally Austrian German. Anti-Jewish sentiment had therefore been brewing in Austria for some while; Anschluss, and the appearance of an SS officer in the Café Mozart, was simply the final visible rubber-stamping. It was official now.
The two young waiters looked vague, shrugging, saying they had no idea which of the café’s patrons were Jewish or not.
“Come now,” the SS officer pressed. “It beggars belief that you have no idea. How long have you both been working here?” He was no more than early thirties, but now he adopted a sternness beyond his years, sharp blue eyes scanning them intently. “It could go badly for you if you’re not honest with me.”
One of the waiters looked uncertain, as if he was about to say something, when another voice came from behind.
“My staff are perfectly correct in saying they would have no idea.” Otto Karner, owner of the Café Mozart, boldly approached the SS officer. “Nor do I—and I’ve been running this establishment now for nine years.”
“Isn’t that somewhat remiss of you—not knowing who your patrons are?”
“It’s not our job to delve into our patrons’ background.” Karner smiled tightly. “Merely serve them the best coffee, pastries and cakes in town.”
The SS officer observed Karner with undisguised disdain, as if Karner himself might be Jewish. Karner had dark hair and incongruously a Chaplin-or Hitler-style moustache—they were very popular right now—but there the resemblance ended. Karner had a snub-nose and was far more portly, built like a butcher or opera singer. His bulk often pressing against silver-gray or white linen suits, as if he was running a café in Morocco or Panama rather than Vienna. A small black or navy blue bow tie was the only contrast in this ensemble.
“The proprietor at the Café Central said he had no problem with identifying his Jewish patrons for us.” The SS officer’s lips curled mordantly at one corner. “Why would you wish to make things more difficult for yourself by not complying?”
“That might be because the Central is Hitler’s favorite Vienna café.” Karner shrugged. “They might have simply been keen to assure that no Jews would be present if and when the Führer deigned to pay them another visit. They could have just been humoring you.”
I had to resist from smiling at Karner’s boldness, masking any trace by taking another sip of my coffee.
“Make no mind.” The rising flush in the officer’s face quickly covered by bluster, he pushed Karner aside with one hand and stood proudly a step beyond, as if he suddenly was in control at Café Mozart rather than Karner. “I have an announcement to make.”
He surveyed the café keenly as he called out, “Pay attention!” He waited a moment for the gentle murmur of conversation and tinkle of cutlery to subside. “My name is Scharführer Heinrich Schnabel of the Austrian SS. All Jews present here now should make themselves known to me—without fail!”
I felt my next swallow of coffee trap in my chest halfway down, fear gripping me as his eyes scoured the café. Could this Schnabel have already seen some Circle photos and so could pick us out?
We’d been members of Freud’s Circle—a unique collection of scientists, philosophers, psychiatrists, mathematicians and writers formed by Sigmund Freud, Moritz Schlick and Edgar Zilsel in the late 1920s—for five years now. Our entry to the Circle had been twofold: my uncle Samuel Namal, Johannes’s father, as a leading statistician and mathematical theorist, had been part of the original Vienna Circle, and Julian Reisner had also acted as literary agent for some of Freud’s books. At that last meeting four days ago, Freud talked about his own family’s safety and that of other Circle members—whether there would even be the option of any of them being able to leave Austria after Anschluss. But he’d also raised concerns about old Circle photos, worried that the Nazis might use them to identify and track down members.
I glanced across and saw that Johannes was seeking refuge at that moment in staring at the half-eaten chocolate cake on his plate, his fork toying with the next piece to lift up—perhaps afraid to do so in case he similarly had problems swallowing it.
Of the two of us, I looked more typically Jewish, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Whereas Johannes had light brown hair and hazel-green eyes. He could easily pass for Austrian Catholic or Lutheran. My uncle Samuel, Johannes’s father—who’d sadly died just four years ago—had married a blonde Catholic Austrian girl, and those genes had passed to Johannes. Because of that difference in our looks, few looking on in the café would guess that we were related.
The seconds ticked by, feeling like a lifetime.
A gentle murmur of conversation returned after a moment, but more stilted and unsettled now.
“What, nobody?” Schnabel exclaimed in exasperation. The Jewish population in Vienna was 190,000 now—over 10 percent of the population. It seemed inconceivable that in a café with over forty people, not a single Jew would be there. He took a fresh breath. “Perhaps I should remind that right now there’s an amnesty. Any Jews who make themselves known to me will be duly noted and nothing more will come of it. Whereas if they hold back and let things slip beyond the amnesty period, it will become more difficult for them.”
I felt my spirits sinking, almost wishing that my body would sink too through the floor and I’d become invisible. Would this Scharführer Schnabel perhaps later recognize me and hold it against me that I’d been obstructive?
“Nobody?” Schnabel’s penetrating gaze scoured the café, doubting, disbelieving.
And as the seconds ticked by, I wondered whether to offer myself up, a sort of sacrificial lamb to save the rest of the café from this unbearable tension. After all, he’d said that everything would be okay, Nothing more will come of it... But then the moment went.
“Okay. You have all had your chance.” Schnabel turned and strode away, turning back briefly as he was by the door. “If any of you have a change of heart, you should present yourselves at Karmelitermarkt before midnight tonight—that is when the amnesty runs out. After that, it will be too late.”
A moment after Schnabel had left, Otto Karner ambled over to our table. He grimaced. “I fear he’ll return.”
I nodded somberly. “I fear so too. Given that, do you think this amnesty he mentions might be a good idea?”
“No, I don’t. You can check it out if you want, but I think it’s most likely a trick. Look at what happened with Hitler. Only a couple of years ago he makes a speech announcing that Germany has no intentions of interfering with Austria’s internal affairs, let alone annexing it. And now this!” Otto held a hand out helplessly.
Johannes commented, “With the likelihood of him returning, are you saying that it might become more awkward for us, and for you? That perhaps we shouldn’t return?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all.” Otto appeared irked by the suggestion. “You know that if he returns, I’ll say the same thing, keep protecting you.” He smiled crookedly. “So you’re far better off here than how he paints things at the Café Central, where they’ll give you up like a shot to keep the Führer happy. So unless it’s your intention never to go out for coffee or cake again, you’re safer with me than...” Otto’s voice trailed off as he became aware of a waiter close by nodding at him.
Otto Karner followed the waiter’s gaze and turned to see Scharführer Schnabel, having talked briefly with a couple at a table outside, looking back through the front window toward us.
2
Jews and Gypsies are no longer considered German Reich citizens and do not have the right to vote in either Reichstag elections or the Anschluss.
Johannes
I checked my watch as I ate the last of the dinner Hannah had prepared.
“Is it alright?” she asked.
I suddenly realized that I’d been gulping it down without really concentrating on what I was eating. I paid more attention, savoring the current mouthful: lamb goulash with sweet paprika and potatoes. “Very nice—as it always is.” Hannah was a good cook, but her repertoire extended to no more than eight or nine dishes, which she’d regularly rotate.
“Good, Momma,” our youngest, Elena, just four years old, agreed with a big smile. Hannah had spent a few minutes dicing her lamb into smaller pieces as we’d sat down while Elena protested, “I’m not a baby anymore—you don’t need to.”
Our eldest, Stefan, now nine, simply smiled and nodded, not wanting anything to interrupt his racehorse eating—though his was more through enjoyment than eagerness to be somewhere else.
My mind was already half on the plans I’d discussed earlier with Mathias.
It was decided that one of us should check out the “amnesty” that this SS officer, Schnabel, had mentioned. It was decided it should be me because I looked the least Jewish; in fact, strictly speaking, I wasn’t Jewish at all. My father had been Jewish, but my mother Catholic, and in Judaism the religion runs through the mother. But the problem was my father had been a very prominent figure in Austria, one of its leading statisticians and also a proud and outspoken member of the Social Democratic Party, the main opposition to the Nazis. So, in many ways my father’s son, I’d be seen as a “token” Jew and agitator.
I’d asked my father one day whether marrying outside of his religion had anything to do with his equally outspoken atheism—my father never did anything by half measures—but he’d just gently smiled. “No, your mother just happened to be the prettiest girl I met at college. It was as simple as that.”
Well, if I was my father’s son in any way, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that, I’d followed exactly the same path when I first met Hannah. So beautiful, hair the color of sun-bleached wheat, eyes a limpid green, I could hardly resist her.
But I wondered if subconsciously there was something else going on—the question I hadn’t been brazen enough to ask my father at the time: that his partly burying his lineage to his children was to shake off the Jewish stigma seen increasingly in Austria since the 1920s. And I was doing the same in marrying Hannah, to further shake off that stigma, make my family safer.
I looked across the table at my perfect Austrian family: Elena with her hair almost as blonde as her mother’s, Stefan with his light brown hair and hazel eyes taking more after me. It seemed only yesterday that my father was nestling them on his lap or holding them up proudly and gently kissing their foreheads—though it was in fact over four years ago when, at the age of sixty-four, he’d finally succumbed to the cancer eating him away.
This now was the only possible silver lining I could see to his death. This madness with Anschluss and rampant Nazism—it would have killed him to see it. I smiled inwardly at the oxymoron.
We’d even had one of those classic family portraits taken in sepia a year ago to permanently enshrine it in time, which now had pride of place on our sideboard: the perfect Austrian family. Even the staunchest Aryan Nazi viewing it would no doubt remark, “Ah, what a lovely family!”
Halfway through Hannah settling the children down in bed, the phone rang. Mathias.
“You haven’t left yet?”
“No. I’m heading out in a moment. I wanted it to be dark, but not too late. Why?”
Slow exhalation from Mathias on the other end. “I wondered whether you should go. Otto might be right—it’s all a trick.”
“We won’t know unless one of us checks it out. And I’ll be fine—I’ll just hang back in the shadows observing.” I eased into a lighter tone. “Besides, I look more Aryan than...than Hitler.”
At the other end, Mathias chuckled. That was all that was left to us now: trying to make light of this new dark and threatening storm. “Take care,” he said. “Don’t take any risks. Hitler and the Nazis aren’t worth it.”
As I was putting on my jacket and hat in the hallway, Hannah asked, “Everything alright?”
“Yes, fine. That was just Mathias then.” I didn’t think Hannah had heard any of our conversation, she’d still been busy with the kids. Besides, there was no point in worrying her unnecessarily when it was all probably nothing. “He was reminding me of a new writers group I’d promised to check out. I won’t be long—no more than an hour or so.” I smiled reassuringly.
“Okay. See you later.”
But as Hannah smiled back and leaned in to kiss me just before I went out the door, I sensed an uncertainty beneath. I began to wonder whether she had overheard part of my conversation with Mathias.
The Karmeliter area of Vienna was strongly Jewish, with its market very much a centerpiece. An expansive cobblestone courtyard a hundred square yards, it was open to all traders throughout the week, with the Jewish trading days predominantly Wednesdays and Sundays. A profusion of bright vegetables and fruit from surrounding farms with live poultry in small cages and sometimes a whole tethered lamb. The only difference with the Jewish days was there’d be stronger displays of pickled fish, olives and sweet treats such as baklava and halva.
My father used to live on the edge of the district, but now I lived over a kilometer southwest. As if I’d been moving away from my Jewish background not just with marriage choices, but geographically too.
I’d decided to walk. Best I avoided trams or buses where my identity papers might be asked for. While I wasn’t strictly Jewish, Namal was a common Austrian Jewish name, and someone might remember my father, Ah, the son of Samuel Namal, the outspoken Jewish socialist and anti-Nazi. I have someone who’d like to ask you a few questions. Come with me.
I became increasingly uneasy as I got closer to the Karmeliter area. At least three shops boarded up so far that I’d passed—which I hadn’t noticed when I’d last been here two weeks ago—another two in the street ahead. Had they been Jewish-owned stores? The name MARX on the farthest shop sign with two yellow lines through it leading to a Star of David in the same yellow paint gave me my answer. I swallowed. Things were moving far faster than I thought.
As I turned into the next street, two more shops boarded up, then another one twenty yards opposite with part of its boarding ripped away and the window behind smashed.
More noise from the end of the street, a murmur and rumble of voices—the main market square was only fifty yards away. Sounded like a reasonable gathering. A middle-aged couple walked toward me, shoulders hunched. They kept their eyes stolidly ahead, didn’t make eye contact. Not far behind them were two men in their early twenties, who did look at me before passing.
I looked back briefly. Were they following the couple perhaps? Sudden scuffling and movement made me jump, my heart in my throat. Two cats who’d been pulling at a rubbish bag scampered off only a foot ahead of me. I closed my eyes for a second as my pounding heart eased back. I shouldn’t have come. Maybe I should just head back before it was too late.
But I found the rumble of voices ahead, with a now stronger light visible, drawing me on. Curiosity killed the cat.
On the wall to my side, an anti-fascist and -Nazi slogan had been hastily painted over, but it looked like they’d used the same yellow paint, now watered down—so that traces of the slogan still showed through. Then on top in bolder black paint were the words: Amnestie Sammeln—Amnesty Gathering...and an arrow pointing toward the square twenty yards away.
As the square opened out before me, I saw the source of the stronger light. Two sets of arc lamps on tripods each end of a long trestle table with the same Amnestie Sammeln banner along its side.
As I’d promised Mathias, I shuffled to one side and hung back in the shadows at the back of the square observing. No market stalls or fruit and vegetables today, no olives, baklava, halva or poultry in cages—just that long well-lit trestle table and some German soldiers one side and a small line of what was probably Jews the other. All looked very orderly.
A couple of German soldiers behind the table appeared to be taking details, nodding at intervals as they made notes, then they would stamp a paper and the next in line would approach. I saw that those who’d had their papers stamped were standing in small huddles at the far end. Some other soldiers were there, but they seemed to be talking amiably with the Jews—no sign of discomfort or the situation being forced, let alone arrest. Maybe Schnabel had been telling the truth after all.
But then I noticed something more disturbing to one side. In a corner of the square a group of people had lit a small bonfire. At first, I thought it was just to keep them warm. But then I spotted a Nazi flag being waved by one of them and saw what they were throwing on the fire: not just firewood, cardboard or papers, but books!
I moved closer to see the books being thrown onto the fire: Bernstein, Freud, Schnitzler, Remarque, Werfel, Zweig... All Jewish or dissident authors!
The closest German soldier shouted toward them, ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...