The Closed Window

Vienna, Mariahilf. October 1904.

October 28, 1904, 12:41 a.m.

Beneath the divan lay the man to whom Therese Wimmer had given her week’s wages three days earlier. She recognized Viktor Bernau by the dark inlay in his cuff link, even before she had pulled the coarse cloth back far enough to see his face. He had sat across from her counting the coins, sweeping that very sleeve across the table to keep any from falling to the floor. Now his hand lay on the parquet, its fingers half closed.

Therese let go of the blanket and backed toward the door. In the entryway her shoulder caught against the frame; she steadied herself and reached for the apartment door handle. The street was two floors below. The building caretaker lived downstairs. All she had to do was wake him and tell him what she had found.

Instead she looked toward her little room. On the bed lay the bag of fabric she had come to collect. Her sister was waiting for her to return; Therese’s young son was sleeping at her sister’s too. The Reisingers were away, and Therese had meant to use the opportunity to take the last of her sewing orders with her before finding somewhere else to live. She no longer wanted to live in an apartment where Viktor came and went. Now he lay dead in it, and once again she stood wondering what he had against her.

The letters were in his jacket. In them, her child’s father had promised money, a place to stay, and later only to send someone to check on her now and then. He was married. When the payments stopped, Viktor had offered to speak to him; he would need the letters for that. Therese had handed them over. She had received neither the papers back nor the money.

She told the women she sewed for that she was a widow. Viktor knew which households employed her and had threatened to go there and read the letters aloud if she did not pay. The last envelope also bore her sister’s address. While counting the coins, he had said that next time he would simply call there instead. Therese had told her sister none of this. Her sister still believed she was short of money because her customers were slow to pay.

Therese looked toward the door and imagined the police spreading the letters out beside the dead man. Her name was in them, she lived in this apartment, and she had paid this man to leave her alone. She would have to explain why she was here by herself tonight of all nights. Perhaps they would listen. Perhaps they would question her sister first, and then her customers. Her hand was already on the handle when she turned back toward the room.

Therese took the small scissors from her sewing kit and went back into the room. Her lamp stood on the table. Beyond it the window was closed, and the smell she had noticed on entering was now inseparable from the face beneath the cloth. She set the lamp on the floor and pulled the divan farther out. One end scraped across the parquet while the other caught on two blocks of wood. Startled by the noise, Therese waited until she was sure no one in the building had reacted.

Viktor had made her sew an extra pocket into the lining. It sat beneath the left armhole, flat against the body, invisible from the outside. Therese still remembered him standing beside the sewing machine, watching every movement she made. The pocket opening was trapped beneath his arm. Twice she drew back her hand before she managed to grip the lining underneath and put the scissors to it.

The scissors cut into the fabric. Therese felt paper and tugged, but the bundle caught. She had to widen the slit. When the bundle finally slid free, she recognized the familiar handwriting on the top envelope. She ran her thumb over her sister’s address. In the entryway a key slid into the lock.

Therese raised her head. The apartment door was across the entryway, beyond the open doorway of the room. She could not get out without moving toward whoever was coming in. As the key turned, she slipped the letters and their envelopes beneath her blouse, blew out the lamp, and picked the scissors up from the floor.

October 25, 1904, 11:34 p.m.

Mathilde Reisinger laid the three receipts on the dining table in front of Viktor Bernau. He sat in the chair beside the door. Her husband, Eduard, stood by the sideboard with his arms folded across his chest. Therese had been at her sister’s since that afternoon; apart from the three of them, the apartment was empty. Mathilde waited until Viktor had read the top receipt. “The customers have paid. You took the money. When are you giving it back?”

Viktor slid the receipt across the table toward Eduard. “And what does your husband have to say about it?” Eduard came over from the sideboard but did not pick up the sheet. His signature was visible even from where he stood. “You promised the money would be back in the till by the end of September,” he said. Viktor leaned back. “Then explain to the police why you signed it.”

Mathilde drew the receipt toward her. She had known that Eduard had let Viktor have money. He had spoken of a few days, of a temporary withdrawal that would not affect the business. Now bills were going unpaid, and people at the firm were waiting for their wages. Mathilde had tracked down the receipts so that her husband could no longer evade the matter. When Eduard reached for the sheet, she laid her hand on it. “This stays here.”

Viktor stood. His chair struck the doorframe, partly blocking the doorway. “These papers belong at the office.” Mathilde gathered up the other two receipts as well. “Then we’ll go there together tomorrow. You tell us where the money is, or I’ll report it.” She stepped around the table, but Viktor caught her wrist and held it above the tabletop.

“Let her go,” Eduard said. Viktor looked at him and tightened his grip. Mathilde felt her fingers opening. The receipts fell onto the table. Only when she swung her free hand at Viktor’s face did Eduard come between them. He seized his business partner by the jacket and dragged him away from Mathilde. Viktor shoved the chair aside, hit Eduard in the face, and made for the door.

Eduard held on to him. The two men stumbled against the divan; Viktor tripped over its low end and fell backward onto the upholstery. Mathilde was still standing by the table, rubbing her wrist, when her husband bent over him. At first all she saw was Viktor’s shoes sliding on the parquet. Then she noticed Eduard’s hands around his neck.

“Eduard, stop.” Mathilde went to him and gripped his shoulder. Viktor struck the backrest with one arm, caught hold of Eduard’s sleeve, then let go again. Mathilde pulled harder. Her husband shook her off without taking his eyes from Viktor. When she called his name a second time, the scraping of the shoes stopped.

Eduard let go and straightened. Mathilde knelt beside the divan. Viktor lay half on the seat, his head turned to one side. She touched his cheek and waited for a breath. Behind her, Eduard asked whether she could hear anything. Mathilde did not answer. After a while she stood and went to the apartment door.

“Wait.” Eduard followed her into the entryway. He stood beside her, not in front of the door. “You held him too.” Mathilde looked at him. She had gripped Eduard’s shoulder, not Viktor. “I wanted you to stop.” Eduard wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His lip had split. “You can say that. And then they’ll ask about the receipts.”

Mathilde pressed the handle down. The door opened a crack, letting in cooler air from the stairwell. Someone coughed downstairs. She could have stepped outside and called for help; Eduard stood beside her and was not holding her back. “First we have to see what else he’s carrying,” he said. Mathilde stayed where she was until the footsteps on the floor below fell silent. Then she pulled the door shut again.

In Viktor’s pockets they found money, a watch, and several business documents. Mathilde took out only the papers and put them on the desk beneath the heavy brass paperweight. She did not want to take his jacket off; when Eduard asked her to, she went to the sideboard and turned her back on him. He gave in. Neither of them noticed the flat pocket in the lining.

Eduard lifted the lid of one of the two new sample crates standing in the entryway. He looked inside and put it back. Mathilde understood what he had been considering and turned away. A little later they dragged Viktor, wrapped in burlap, beneath the divan and put blocks of wood under one end to raise it. The blanket reached to the floor. Mathilde knelt in front of it, adjusting the hem, while Eduard explained that they could not cancel their trip to Brünn. They were expected there. He would come back early and take care of everything.

“You’re leaving me there alone?” Mathilde stood. Eduard pressed his hands against the high backrest and shoved the divan closer to the wall. “One night. You stay at the hotel and say I have another appointment.” Mathilde looked at the part of the blanket beneath which Viktor’s hand had disappeared. She did not ask what Eduard intended to do that night.

Before they left the room, Eduard opened the window. Mathilde stayed by the door, holding the lamp. The draft lifted the curtain, but the heavy blanket on the divan did not stir. Eduard checked the hem and straightened again. “No one will come in here,” he said. Mathilde looked past him toward the closed door of the little room where Therese had left her belongings.

October 27, 1904, 9:10 p.m.

The firm’s clerk pushed the apartment door open and called for Reisinger. His younger colleague held the lamp. They had opened the lock with a tool bent into shape after no one answered their knocking. At the firm they were waiting for a key Reisinger should have handed over before leaving. The message about his trip to Brünn was little help; without the missing documents, they could not pay out the money the next day.

In the larger room the draft lifted the curtain. The clerk walked between the table and the divan to the open window and pulled it shut. “You can’t leave this open for days on end.” He checked the latch and brushed dust off his cuff. Behind him his colleague stood beside two new sample crates. A dark blanket covered the divan, its hem almost touching the floor. Neither man lifted it.

They did not find the key. The clerk glanced into the little room where, according to Mrs. Reisinger, a seamstress lived. The bed was empty; fabric lay on the chair. When his colleague asked whether they should come back later, he said they would probably have to. Then both men went out. The clerk locked the door behind them, remembering a smell of damp cloth that he had thought nothing of in the cold apartment.

October 28, 1904, 12:49 a.m.

Therese made it across the entryway into her little room before the apartment door opened. She pulled the small door shut behind her and held the handle. The scissors were still in her right hand. Through the wood she heard someone enter the apartment, stop, and slowly close the outer door.

The footsteps came into the entryway. Therese waited for them to draw closer, but the man went into the larger room. A match was struck, and a thin strip of light appeared beneath her door. She heard the man handling something by the divan; then all was quiet. He called neither for the occupants nor for help. Therese held her breath. Whoever was standing there did not seem surprised by what he had found.

The window latch rattled. The casement struck the wall, and cold air slipped beneath Therese’s door. She had found the window closed. Now it was open again, and the man in the other room moved about as though he were looking not for an explanation but for something he was missing.

“Mrs. Wimmer?” She recognized Eduard Reisinger’s voice. He had gone to Brünn. Mathilde had said they would not be back until the weekend. Therese adjusted the letters beneath her blouse as his footsteps left the room and stopped immediately outside her door. He pressed the handle down. Therese held it back.

“Open up. I know you’re in there.” Therese did not release the handle. Eduard waited a moment and tried again, harder this time. The door shifted against her shoulder. “You’ve cut into his jacket,” he said. “What did you take out?” Therese closed her eyes. The letters crackled as she pressed her arm against them.

“They’re mine.” Her voice sounded strange through the wood. Reisinger stopped pushing. “Then show them to me.” She heard him take a step back. Therese stared at the door she was holding with her whole weight. There was no longer a key for its lock; it had been that way when she moved in. Reisinger needed only to push harder once more.

“I want to leave,” she said. “I’ve collected my things.” He said she could, as soon as he had seen the papers. Therese asked where Mathilde was. “At the hotel. What has that got to do with it?” He sounded impatient now, almost as he had on the evenings when he complained about the noise of her sewing machine. Back then she would never have believed him capable of hiding a man beneath a piece of furniture.

“Step away from the door.” Therese waited until his footsteps receded. Then she opened it a crack. The entryway was empty. Reisinger stood in the doorway of the larger room, a few steps to her left; she would have to pass him to reach the apartment door. The lamp behind him lit half his face. On the other side she could make out a swollen lip.

Therese took her bag from the bed. Her son’s shirt, which she had meant to mend, lay on top. She slipped the scissors beneath it and left her little room. Reisinger looked at the bag. As she tried to pass, he caught her upper arm and stopped her. “The papers,” he said. “I only want to know if there’s anything from the business among them.”

“They’re letters.” Therese held the bag in front of her. He pushed it aside and looked at the bulge beneath her blouse. She understood that she could not get past as long as he stood in the doorway. “I won’t tell anyone I was here.” Reisinger did not let go of her arm. “This isn’t your apartment. You’re not taking anything out of here that doesn’t belong to you.”

She had heard Viktor say almost the same words. Therese took out one of the letters with its envelope. “My name is on it.” Reisinger caught hold of the envelope and read the address. “Is that where you’re staying now? With your sister?” She snatched it from him and tucked it back beneath her blouse. His grip on her arm tightened. “I can come there too,” he said. “But first you’ll show me what you took from his jacket.”

Therese thrust the bag against his hand. For a moment his grip loosened, and she tore herself free. The way to the apartment door was still blocked. She retreated into the larger room, between the table and the divan, until she felt the open window behind her. Cold air lay against the back of her neck. In the wing across the courtyard, a light burned behind a curtain.

“You don’t need to be afraid.” Reisinger came toward her from the doorway. Behind him Therese heard the blanket brush over the parquet. His shoe had shifted it, and Viktor’s hand lay exposed again. Reisinger stepped over it without looking down.

Therese turned her head toward the courtyard. Before she could call out, Reisinger was beside her. He seized her arm and pulled her back from the window. With his other hand he grabbed the casement. The wood struck the frame, trapping the curtain between them. Reisinger kept pressing until the latch clicked shut.

Therese managed to brace her bag against the table and reach inside. Her fingers found the shirt, and beneath it the scissors. As Reisinger reached for the letter at her chest, she pulled out the scissors and stabbed at his forearm. The point went through his sleeve. Therese drew her hand back and dropped the scissors. Reisinger cried out, jerked his arm away, and struck the edge of the table. His hand went to the injured spot. Therese squeezed between him and the divan toward the door.

He caught up with her in the entryway and grabbed the handle of her bag. The jerk spun her halfway around toward him, and part of the handle’s stitching gave way. Therese saw his face close to hers and let go. The bag stayed in his hand. She flung the apartment door open and ran down the stairs, one hand against the wall, the other holding the letters beneath her blouse.

On the first landing she looked back. Reisinger stood in the doorway above. He held the bag against him and pressed his free hand to his injured forearm. A door opened on the floor below her; someone sleepily asked what was going on. Reisinger stepped back into the apartment. Therese passed the open door without stopping and heard the question a second time behind her.

She did not stop until she reached the street. Her coat was still in her little room. She pulled the collar of her blouse together and looked back at the entrance to the building. No one came out. Upstairs Reisinger had closed the window; the curtain had caught in the frame as he slammed it shut.

October 28, 1904, 1:36 a.m.

Her sister did not open the door until the second knock. Therese pushed past her into the kitchen and wanted her to lock it at once. Then she stood in front of the table, unable to get a sentence out. Her sister pulled up a chair, sat her down, and fetched a damp cloth. Through the partly open bedroom door, Therese could see her son asleep. One hand lay beside his face; the other held the edge of the blanket.

“Where’s your bag?” Her sister wiped her cheek. Therese shook her head and laid the letters on the table. The top envelope was crumpled. When she took her hand away, her sister saw the marks on her arm. “Who did that?” Therese pulled her sleeve down, but her sister held her hand and waited for an answer.

Therese told her about Reisinger first. He had come back, refused to let her go, and slammed the window shut when she tried to call out. As she spoke, she pressed the damp cloth to her mouth. Only when her sister asked why Reisinger had held her there in the first place did she tell her about the man beneath the divan. Her sister stopped stroking her back.

“Bernau?” She knew the name. Therese had told her about him when he offered to collect the money from the child’s father. Now she told her about the payments that had gone in the other direction. Her sister looked at the letters and picked up the top one after Therese pushed it toward her.

The sheet read: You will get the money as soon as you and the boy are at your sister’s. My wife must not find out about him. Her sister read the lines and looked at Therese. “They should have seen these.” Therese rubbed her fingers. “They would have found them on him. In my apartment. And I was already standing beside him.” She knew her sister expected more from her, but the thought of Viktor’s hand on the parquet left her struggling for breath again. “I only wanted them back.”

Her sister put the letter down. “And that’s why you touched the dead man?” Therese nodded. When her sister stood and said she was going for help, Therese caught her wrist. “Please don’t. Not now.” Her sister remained standing in front of her. “He attacked you. You’re sitting here barely able to lift your arm. Am I supposed to wait until he turns up at our door?”

Therese pointed to the envelope. “He read the address. He said he could come here too.” Now her sister picked up the envelope herself. She smoothed its crumpled corner and looked at her address. Then she glanced into the next room, where the boy had stirred. She closed the door, leaving only a narrow gap.

For a while all Therese heard was the water her sister poured into a bowl. Her sister helped her out of the torn blouse and draped a clean cloth around her shoulders. Therese told her about the scissors, the injured arm, and the bag Reisinger had taken from her. It still held the finished sewing and the boy’s shirt. At the mention of the shirt she began to cry. Her sister brought the bowl closer and told her to wash her face first.

Then she fetched a needle and thread. Therese laid the blouse on the table and looked at the tear at the neckline. Her sister had already lit a candle so she could see better. As Therese made the first stitch, the other woman put on her coat. Its hem had come loose on one side; she ran her hand over it before buttoning the coat.

“Where are you going?” Therese held the needle in midair. Her sister took the apartment key from its hook. “Go and sit with the little one. I’ll be back soon.” Therese thought she was going for help after all. She wanted to ask once more that she leave it alone, but could not bring herself to do it.

When the footsteps on the stairs had faded, she pulled the thread too tight. The fabric puckered. Therese unpicked the last stitch, finished the seam, and put the blouse on. Then she went to her son. She sat on the edge of the bed. The boy half woke, felt for her hand, and went back to sleep as soon as he found it. Therese stayed with him until there was a knock at the apartment door.

October 28, 1904, 2:52 a.m.

Her sister stood in the hallway holding the lost bag. Therese first saw the light-colored shirt protruding from the opening, then the torn handle. She had expected the footsteps of several people, someone she would have to tell everything to again. Her sister pushed past her and pulled the door shut. She set the key on the little shelf in the entryway.

In the kitchen she put the bag on the table. “Everything was scattered about. Check whether anything’s missing.” Therese touched the handle but took nothing out. Her sister had buttoned her coat wrong. The fabric was torn at one shoulder, and there was a dark mark on the collar. Her right hand stayed curled around the edge of the table, though she could have sat down by now.

“You went to see him.” Therese said it softly so the boy would not wake. Her sister nodded and pulled the little shirt from the bag. She folded it, failed to line up the sleeves, and tried again. Therese took it from her. “Did he just give you this?” Her sister lowered her hands. “No.”

Therese pulled up a chair, but her sister did not sit down. She opened her coat, and now Therese could see how far the tear at the shoulder extended. “What happened?” Her sister turned toward the closed door and answered only when Therese repeated the question.

“He’s lying beside the table,” her sister said. “Reisinger. He’s dead.” She slipped out of one sleeve, caught in the other, and had to lift the coat again. Therese did not help her. On the kitchen table stood the bag she had let go of as she fled; she recognized every hole in its fabric and still could not grasp that it was here again.

Her sister laid the coat over the back of the chair. She had told Reisinger she had come about Therese and the letters. He had let her in. He wanted to know whether she had brought the papers. The bag stood in the entryway, with some of the sewing lying beside it. When her sister bent down to gather it up, Reisinger seized her by the coat and dragged her into the larger room.

“He’d bandaged his arm,” she said. “With a piece of the fabric from your bag.” She rubbed the shoulder where the seam had torn. He had not believed that she had come without the letters. Then he had said that unless Therese came back herself, he would come to their apartment. He would not let her leave. Her sister looked at the floor between the table and the stove and told her about the heavy paperweight that had been on Reisinger’s desk.

“You hit him with it?” Therese knew the brass object. She had moved it several times while wiping down the desktop. Her sister nodded. Reisinger had fallen, and she had fetched the bag from the entryway. She had stood at the open apartment door and needed only to step outside.

Therese waited. Her sister drew the chair toward her and finally sat down. Her hands lay flat on her knees. “He was still lying there. I could see him from the entryway.” She looked toward the bedroom door. “I imagined him getting up again.” Therese took her hands off the bag’s handle. “Did he try to?” Her sister shook her head and looked at her now. “No. I went back. Then I hit him again.”

Her sister took the coat from the chair back and laid it across her knees. Therese looked at the torn fabric at the shoulder and the loose stitching at the hem that had already been undone before her sister left. “You know why I went there,” her sister said. Therese did not nod. She drew the coat toward her across the table and checked how far the tear ran beside the seam. Then she took the needle she had used to mend her blouse.

Her sister held the lining out of the way as Therese brought the edges of the fabric together. On the first stitch, Therese pricked her finger and briefly pressed it against the cloth on the table. “If someone comes,” her sister began. Therese did not let her finish. She drew the thread through, looked up at her, and said, “You’ve been here all night.” Then she bent over the coat again.