Nagorski - Last Stop Vienna

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For my daughter Eva

I owe many people thanks for helping me with advice or information at various stages of writing this novel. I want to mention in particular Claire Gerus, Janusz Glowacki, David Satter, Agatha Dominik, Agnieszka Holland, Susan Szeliga and Robby Lantz. My apologies to those whom I left out for brevitys sake.

It is customary to thank agents and editors, but there is nothing routine about the debt of gratitude I owe to Marshall Klein, my agent, and Alice Mayhew, my editor. Marshalls enthusiasm for this project was infectious when I needed it the most. I, of course, knew about Alices legendary reputation as an editor, but I wasnt prepared for her to easily surpass my expectations, which she did from day one. I also want to thank her associate, Anja Schmidt, who performs the astonishing feat of keeping up with her.

My editors at Newsweek, especially the late Maynard Parker, made it possible for me to spend several years living and reporting from Germany, which allowed me to embark on the research for this book. Danke.

And then theres my family. They lived with my earliest ruminations about the premise for the book, and everyone contributed ideas, suggestions and, most of all, unfailing support. That includes my parents, Marie and Zygmunt; my children, Eva, Sonia, Adam and Alexander; and my wife, Christina. In Berlin and back in New York, Christinaor Krysia, as she is knownwas not only my in-house editor and critic but also, as always, the person who made me feel that everything was possible. With her remarkable gifts, it is. Eva took over the job of first reader, first morale booster, first promoter. When we were on opposite sides of the Atlantic, I sometimes felt that her e-mail responses were flashing back even before my latest draft of a chapter could have reached her. I couldnt have done this book without her constant input, humor and love.

N o one would have noticed anything unusual about the young man on the tram that morning in late September. He sat straight in his seat, looking intently out the smudged window, watching for his stop as the tram clattered its way from Viennas ring road past the Belvedere Palace and the factories and shops on the citys outskirts.

He was wearing rumpled dark pants, a white shirt, a thin tie and a worn poplin jacket. When he took off his hat, there was something about his facehazel eyes, straight, narrow nose and full lipsthat caught the eye of several young women who got on and off during his ride. His chin displayed a days worth of still boyish stubble, and his curly brown hair was tousled.

Not that the young man noticed. When the long, high brick wall of the Central Cemetery came into view, he rose abruptly and asked something of an old woman who was clutching a bunch of fading tulips. He remained standing until the next stop, where he got off, carrying a small bag.

The young man stood for a moment in front of the imposing gate flanked by two large pillars. As he stepped onto the cemetery grounds, he gazed at the administration building. A breeze stirred the cool morning air, and he drew his light jacket around him. He went inside for a couple of minutes and then quickly made for the cemetery chapel a few hundred yards away.

A thin, balding priest emerged from the chapel and headed for the main gate. The young man intercepted him, doffed his hat and spoke briefly. The priest pointed to the right of the entrance and continued on his way.

The young man stood still, then turned in the direction the priest had indicated and walked briskly down a path deeper into the cemetery, passing rows of old graves before reaching an area with several new ones. He stopped in front of one with a freshly carved headstone set on packed earth.

He dropped to one knee, his head bent. His lips moved. He lowered his other knee to the ground. At the same moment, there was a commotion at the main gate. An important person seemed to be arriving, with a bodyguard on either side. They set off on the same path the young man had traveled.

He stood up and saw them approaching. They were still far off and hadnt noticed him. He moved away, placing himself between the fresh and old graves, keeping his head down as he circled around the three men. He crouched behind a large headstone close to the path. His eyes were locked on the men as he reached into the bag he had placed at his feet. He drew out a gun, a Browning, and shoved it under his jacket, keeping a grip on it.

The focus of his attentionso intense that it seemed almost certain one of the men would feel itwas the least imposing of the trio, leading the way. The mans short black hair was slicked back and parted on the right side. His eyes radiated unfocused energy from beneath equally dark eyebrows. A bushy, odd mustache appeared to prop up his nose, barely spreading wider than his nostrils. He wore a trench coat fastened off center with a belt that accentuated his modest but unmistakable middle-aged paunch. He, too, appeared lost in his thoughts.

Particularly when he reached the grave that the young man had just left. As his bodyguards paced, the man stood with his back to them, almost perfectly still. But once or twice his head jerked back and forth, and another time his shoulders twitched as if an electric current had jolted his body.

The bodyguards tensed as the man finally turned away from the grave. He took a few halting steps and stumbled slightly. One of the burly men rushed up to help, but the man shook him off and issued a command. What happened next was a blur. The bodyguard shot out his right arm in a salute and conferred briefly with his colleague, who ran back toward the main gate. The other one followed at a slower pace, clearing the path ahead of an approaching elderly couple. The man with the mustache trailed at a distance. He drew even with the young man behind the headstone. The young man stepped onto the path to face him, looking as determined as the other looked surprised. He raised the Browning and pointed it at the mans chest.

Why have I been writing it all down, keeping this journal? Tomorrow when I walk out of prison after serving seven of the ten years the Austrians sentenced me to, Ill take it with me, but I doubt Ill ever show it to anyone. If someone does eventually read it, it will probably be long after Im gone. For now my only hope, if you can call it that, is to be left alone, to try to stop my deed from following me for the rest of my life. But even if I succeed, I will always be haunted by my memories of Geli.

I wrote simply because I had to write. Because during these seven years I could never stop thinking about her, seeing her, dreaming about her, longing for her. I couldnt stop wondering whether anything could have turned out differently, whether I made some horrible mistake. I dont know. I do know that even if I had managed to save Geli from him somehow, she probably wouldnt have wanted to stay with me. In this journal, at least, I have brought her back, and I have her all to myself. Some consolation, but better than none at all.

I can make a pretty good guess when it all began, when fate or whatever you want to call it began pushing me toward the path I took, toward the chain of events that would eventually lead me here to my small prison cell, where I have all the time in the world to remember and, presumably, reflect. Ive never been very good at that, at reflection. But I have thought enough about what happened to know that I cant just start with Geli, with our first meeting. I have to go back further, much further. To November 9, 1918, to be exact.