rocking on his boot heels. Helena cast a glance at her wristwatch.
'I'm afraid I cannot stay here long, Herr Brockhard. My shift…'
'No, of course. I understand. Let me come to the point.'
From inside the stable they heard fierce whinnying and the sound of hooves clattering on wooden boards.
'Your father and I used to do a fair amount of business together. Before the sad bankruptcy, of course.’
‘I know.'
'Yes, and you probably also know that your father was in a lot of debt. Indirectly, that was why things happened as they did. I mean this unfortunate…' He searched for the right word. And found it.'… affinity with the Jewish loan sharks was of course very damaging for him.'
'You mean Joseph Bernstein?' I can't remember the names of these people.’
‘You should do, he went to your Christmas party’
‘Joseph Bernstein?' Andr6 Brockhard smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. 'That must have been many years ago.’
‘Christmas 1938. Before the war.'
Brockhard nodded and darted an impatient glance towards the stable door.
'You have a good memory, Helena. That's good. Christopher could do with a good head. Since he occasionally loses his own, I mean. Apart from that, he's a good boy, you'll see that.'
Helena could feel her heart beginning to pound. Had something gone wrong after all? Brockhard Snr was talking to her as if she were his future daughter-in-law. Instead of feeling terror, she felt anger gaining the upper hand. When she spoke again, she meant to sound friendly, but anger had her larynx in a stranglehold and made her voice sound hard and metallic.
'I hope there has not been a misunderstanding, Herr Brockhard.'
Brockhard must have noticed the timbre in her voice; at any rate there was not much left of the warmth he had greeted her with when he said:
'In that case let us clear up these misunderstandings. I would like you to look at this.'
He pulled a sheet from the inside pocket of his red jacket, straightened it and passed it to her.
Burgschaft, it said at the head of what appeared to be a contract. Her eyes ran across the dense text. She didn't understand much of what was written there except that the house in the Vienna Woods was mentioned and that her father's and Andre Brockhard's names were at the bottom with their respective signatures. She sent him a quizzical look. 'This appears to be a surety.'
'It is a surety,' he acknowledged. 'When your father thought that the Jews' loans were going to be called in, and thereby his own, he approached me and asked me if I would stand security for quite a large refinancing loan in Germany. Which, unfortunately, I was soft-hearted enough to do. Your father was a proud man, and to ensure that the security did not appear as pure charity, he insisted that the summer house you and your mother live in now should be used as a surety against the security.'
'Why against the security and not against the loan?'
Brockhard was taken aback.
'Good question. The answer is that the value of the house was not enough as a guarantee against the loan that your father needed.'
'But Andr6 Brockhard's signature was enough?'
He smiled and ran his hand down his powerful bull neck which, in the heat, was now covered in a shiny layer of sweat.
'I own the odd property in Vienna.'
A massive understatement. Everyone knew that Andre Brockhard had large holdings of shares in two of the largest Austrian industrial companies. After the Anschluss-Hitler's 'occupation' in 1938-the companies had transferred their production of toys and machines to production of weapons for the axis powers, and Brockhard had become a multi-millionaire. And now Helena knew that he also owned the house she was living in. She felt a large lump growing in her stomach.
'Don't look so worried, my dear Helena,' Brockhard exclaimed, and the warmth was suddenly back in his voice. 'I wasn't considering taking the house from your mother, you understand.'
But the lump in Helena's stomach continued to grow and grow. He might as well have added: 'Or from my own daughter-in-law.'
'Venezia!' he shouted.
Helena turned towards the stable door where the groom emerged from the shadows, leading a shining white horse. Even though a storm of ideas was raging through her mind, the sight made Helena forget for a moment. It was the most beautiful horse she had ever seen; it was like a supernatural creature standing in front of her.
'A Lipizzaner,' Brockhard said. 'The world's best-trained breed of horse. Imported from Spain in 1562 by Maximilian II. You and your mother must have seen them performing at the Spanische Reitschule in town, haven't you?'
'Yes, of course.'
'It's like watching ballet, isn't it?'
Helena nodded. She couldn't take her eyes off the animal.
'They take their summer holiday here in the Lainzer Tiergarten until the end of August. Unfortunately, no one else apart from the riders at the Spanish Riding School is allowed to ride them. Untrained riders could inculcate bad habits. Years of punctilious dressage would go to waste.'
The horse was saddled. Brockhard grabbed the halter and the groom moved away. The animal stood stock still.
'Some consider it cruel to teach horses dance steps. They say the animals suffer from having to do things which are contrary to their nature. People who say this kind of thing haven't seen these horses in training, but I have. And, believe me, horses love it. Do you know why?'
He stroked the horse's muzzle.
'Because that is the order of nature. In His wisdom God so ordained it that an inferior creature is never happier than when serving and obeying a superior creature. You only have to look at children and adults. At women and men. Even in so-called democratic countries the weak willingly concede power to an elite which is stronger and wiser than they. That is just the way it is. And because we're all God's creatures it is the responsibility of superior beings to ensure that inferior beings submit.'
'To make them happy?'
'Precisely, Helena. You understand a lot for… such a young woman.'
She couldn't determine which of the two words he gave greater stress.
'To know your place is important, both for high and low. If you resist it, in the long term you will never become happy.'
He patted the horse on the neck and looked into Venezia's large brown eyes.
'You're not the type to resist, are you?'
Helena knew that the question was directed at her and closed her eyes while she tried to breathe deeply and calmly. She was aware that what she said now or what she didn't say could be crucial for the rest of her life; she couldn't afford to let the anger of the moment be the deciding factor.
'Are you?'
Suddenly Venezia whinnied and shook her head to the side, causing Brockhard to slip and lose balance. He hung on to the halter under the horse's neck. The groom dashed to his aid, but before he could get there, Brockhard, his face red and sweat-stained, had struggled to his feet and angrily waved him away. Helena could not stifle a smile, and perhaps Brockhard saw it. In any event, he raised his whip to the horse, then came to his senses and let it fall again. He articulated a few words with his heart-shaped mouth, which amused Helena even more. Then he went over to Helena, placing his hand lightly but imperiously against the small of her back again:
'We've seen enough, and you have important work awaiting you, Helena. Allow me to accompany you to the car.'
They stood by the steps to the house while the chauffeur got into the car and drove forward.
'I hope and assume we will see each other again soon, Helena,' he said, taking her hand. 'Incidentally, my wife asked me to pass on her regards to your mother. Indeed, I believe she said she would invite you over one
