Rudi Krausmann

Travel Diary

THE INTERVIEW

It was by chance that I came to Altaussee, a beautiful but also a demonic village in the lake district of the province of Salzburg, called the Ausseerland. It was in Vienna that I had met an old schoolfriend again and it was he who had invited me and my Australian girlfriend to visit him there, whenever it suited us. We were travelling and living on a shoestring and nothing seemed more convenient than to have a rest in a village in Austria. It was in a literary cafe in Vienna, the Hawelka, famous for having been visited by writers like Kafka, Cocteau and Henry Miller where the arrangements were made.
"How long can we stay there?" I had asked.
"Please yourself."
"Do you have enough room?"
"Plenty. But the whole house is not yet finished. Only the first and third floor has been renovated so far."
"Do you live there?"
"Only on weekends, preferably on long weekends." He had smiled just as he had done forty years ago when we had travelled together on our bicycles in the streets of Salzburg.
"How can I contact you?"
"You give me a ring in my office in Vienna and I tell you when we are in Altaussee." He handed me two business cards, one from his office in Vienna, the other in a sophisticated print from his weekender.
"Is the house easy to find?"
"First drive through the village, the villa is in front of the lake just behind the cemetery."
We only had a cognac in the Cafe Hawelka, he seemed rather busy in Vienna. When I looked at his business card, I was surprised to find out that he was a general manager of a firm which had its head office in Switzerland. By profession my schoolfriend had been an architect and shortly after his promotion he had written a book about Alfred Loos, a well-known architect around the turn of the century which had been well received in the international press. Later he had designed an avant-garde candle shop beside the Konditorei Dehmel, a pastry shop from which the emperor Franz Joseph had his cakes delivered to the Hofburg, the residential palace of the Habsburgs. What is left of the charm of Vienna could be a mixture of both, the candle shop and the cake shop. In the Cafe Hawelka the major newspapers of Europe were still heaped on an imitation marble table and the walls are still covered with drawings and paintings of artists who once could not pay their bills.
The owner, by now a millionaire, still serves and chats with his favourite customers. I glanced once more at the business card of my schoolfriend and wondered what his professional activities involved him in. His company did not reveal anything, was it dealing in plastic or real estate? How did an architect of his aspirations end up managing it?

A few weeks passed before we thought of Altaussee again. Meanwhile we had travelled to Hungary and Czechoslovakia without anticipating which devastating events were soon to follow. Budapest and Prague for us were more attractive than Vienna if one discards the social and political situation from a visual point of view. Like the other tourists we looked more at the historical buildings than at the starving and despairing faces. After all, the purpose of travel is to see beauty instead of ugliness. One sculpture which fascinated me was a bust of Kafka which hung over life size in the crevice of an old building looking down on a square in Prague. The material was of black marble. How was it possible that a writer who was considered a decadent nihilist was honoured in a country that was still communist at the time. Simply by changing him into a victim of capitalist alienation.
Voyages can sometimes be nothing more than images of more or less significance. The voyages lead perhaps nowhere, but the images return.
One could ask which images?
In Bayreuth the villa in which Richard Wagner had lived and composed had become a museum in whose garden the cat of Richard Wagner and his wife Cosima is buried under a marble plate. The productions of his operas one can see in miniature inside, with photographs and documentations including Adolf Hitler. In walking distance is a baroque opera house where the music of the Marktgräfin, sister of Frederick the Great, can be heard from a music box. The history of Bayreuth is inclined to dissolve into sound. or into the air.
It was in a small pension in Salzburg, called Neuer Fuchs, which we had decided to visit Altaussee. The day before we had read international newspapers in well-known coffee houses like Bazaar, Tomaselli or Mozart and sunned themselves in the delicate winter sun on the banks of the river Salzach apart from climbing the mediaeval castle of Hohensalzburg. But despite of the overwhelming impression Salzburg makes at the first glance, we soon had an empty taste in our mouth. I asked a well-known writer who had lived there all his life.
"What is really happening here?" He laughed.
"Nothing."
"But there are a lot of cultural activities going on!"
"That is only rehash, there is no new art. Salzburg has become the prototype for simulated culture. As much as architecture is concerned, I wish the tourists could see the decay behind the renovations. If you want to know what is really happening all I can think of is that the shopkeepers are finally cashing in on Mozart."
"Why then are you still staying here?"
"It is only here that I can appreciate the nuances. I give you a quotation from our house poet Georg Trakl: the marble of our ancestors has turned grey. "

We arrived in Altaussee on a sunny winter afternoon. My schoolfriend and his wife were expecting us in front of their villa. In front of the house was the lake, clear but sombre at this time of the day and behind the villa one could see a mountain called Loser. In the distance behind the lake the glaciers and the snow covered peaks of the mountain-range Die Dachstein-Gruppe was clearly visible. The villa of my friend, a mansion consisting of more than twenty rooms furnished in period style could hold its ground with its magnificent surroundings. Like a castle it stood beside the lake and seemed to dominate the village.

"This place must have cost you a fortune," I said to my schoolfriend as we entered.
"It was rather run down when we bought it."
"Who owned it before you?"
"An art dealer, a friend of Hermann Goering."
"Did Goering come here?"
"Yes, to shoot mountain goats!"
Next morning, after breakfast, we explored the village. In the cemetery, behind a stone wall, which bordered on the park of the villa, were the well-kept graves of the burghers and the local nobility. Through the entrance gate one could see vaults and large gravestones. Even on the outside wall of the cemetery were inscriptions for the beloved dead. The dead had a privileged view in Altaussee.
"Let's go in," I said to M.
"What for?"
"I like to see the grave of Jakob Wassermann, a well-known writer before the second world war. His novels became bestsellers but he didn't write trash."
"Why do you want to see his grave?"
"He had committed suicide in the very house you had slept last night."
"Not in the room I slept in, I hope," replied M a little shocked.
"This I don't know."
But we walked on, passed the Hotel am See, which was being renovated, family houses, two inns and several banks. Except for a supermarket, Altaussee had few new buildings, it seemed intent to keep it's prewar appearance when it was a summer resort for the intellectual elite of Vienna. Hugo von Hoffmansthal, Austrians most illustrious playwright who in his later years wrote the lyrics for the operas of Richard Strauß stayed here every summer in a little cottage. He had said that only in Altaussee he felt distinctly himself. On the Brahms Weg, a promenade where the composer had once lived, even today the masses or international celebrities would pass during a walk around the lake. But the distinguished aura, which Altaussee had before the second world war belonged to the past. Today only one star, a famous actor in film and on stage, who occasionally can be seen reciting his lines when walking along the lake has been born and kept his domicile here. When he has time and is in a good mood he drinks a beer and plays cards at the Stammtisch in one of the pubs. But mostly he is surrounded by his entourage who arrive in BMW's or Mercedes sports cars, talk about projects involving millions of dollars, in short are a different breed of men or women than the locals or visitors in the past. At least the chain of important people coming to Altaussee is not broken and there is always new material for gossip and slander. The new star has been honoured at a relatively early age by a promenade, the Klaus Maria Brandauer Weg.
After we come home in the evening from our excursions my schoolfriend and his wife served us traditional Austrian meals in their dining room, furnished in 'Jugendstil'. Only the kitchen is modern and is decorated with contemporary prints from their artist friends in Vienna.
"Do you like living in Vienna?" I asked my old friend.
"Not at all, we only like it here."
"Even when this house is a bit haunted," his wife commented.
"Why is it haunted?" asked M.
"The suicide of Jakob Wassermann must have left its mark on the walls. Renovations don't erase it, they only cover it up."
"Why did he commit suicide?"
"Nobody knows. Perhaps he was burned out or had a premonition that the Nazis were coming?"
"What's wrong with Vienna?"
"Everything, in particular the corruption."
"One of our friends is involved in a major scandal; he is in prison now. He wanted to pull off an insurance trick, but when he had a ship sunk in the far east, a few of the crew went with it. The insurance company did not want to pay. But as some federal ministers were involved in this scandal, it took a long time to arrest him."
"All that matters is that we have a scandal" my friend's wife said. "Otherwise we would have no more Vienna. I remember the night he came to our apartment with a new girl friend -- he always had a new girl friend -- and was carrying a revolver. From the balcony he wanted to shoot blindly into the crowd, imitating a surrealist act. I am a post-surrealist he shouted."
"He wanted to be famous at all cost, either via art or business."
"Now he is a famous prisoner." She laughed. "Glad you stopped him shooting from our balcony, darling."

In the morning the lake was covered in a blanket of mist, which disappeared just before noon. The nights were extremely cold and for weeks now the population was waiting for snow, which eventually came, like a gift, on Christmas Eve. As we had stayed on in the villa when my old schoolfriend and his wife had already returned to the capital city we got to know also some other villages and some of the locals who would meet at one of the three inns which had stayed open out of the main season. These would meet regularly before lunch at the Stammtisch, others would only come occasionally, when the stress or boredom of everyday life became unbearable. But for the regulars the Stammtisch had become the centre and meaning in their life. They received their income from the government, from wives or mistresses, relatives or perhaps from an inheritance or any kind of fortune which had fallen into their hands. One of them, who now inhabited a small room in a large house which had once belonged to him by an inheritance, was called Hans.
"How long will you lead this kind of life?" I asked him one morning at the Stammtisch.
"Until I die."
"And then?"
"They can bury me." He laughed.
"By the way, do you know the famous actor?"
"Do you mean Klaus?"
"Yes."
"Sure I do. We play cards sometimes. Schnapsen. "
"Do you think he will give an interview?" Hans looked at me suspiciously.
"Do you work for a newspaper?"
"No."
"I arrange it for you if you give me your sloppy jumper."
"Why?"
"I like the emblem on it. What is it?"
"The Sydney to Hobart race."
"If you arrange me an interview with Klaus, you can have it."
"I want it now." Hans said.
"No, after the interview."
In the following week I myself became more or less a regular at the Stammtisch. To a degree I felt honoured sitting amongst the locals and listening to their gossip but also at times hilarious or revealing conversations. The saying 'Only the drunks tell the truth' seemed to apply in particular here. Altaussee had been called by a notorious contemporary Austrian writer a nest of Nazis. And had in the recent past produced such men as Eichmann and Kaltenbrunner, the head of the Gestapo.
"Do you know how Kaltenbrunner was caught?" Hans said to me.
"No idea."
"In his underpants." He made a painful giggle.
"How was that possible?" Kalti was hiding after the war in a little hut up the Loser mountain. He released his grip from his beer glass and threw both hands up in the air. "Can you imagine two American G.I.s taking him by surprise in his underpants?"
"How did it happen?"
"Some locals had betrayed him to the occupying forces for nothing more than a few packages of Camel cigarettes. Seven American soldiers went off with the locals with machine guns in search of him. Five of the Americans gave up on the way. Finally there were only two G.I.s left approaching the hut. The locals were hiding in the bushes with the mountain goats. Imagine two soldiers arresting the head of the Gestapo?"
"Have you approached Klaus about the interview?"
"Yes, but he is no longer here. Klaus flew to Los Angeles to prepare another movie. Don't worry, he always comes back, he likes it in Altaussee. America is no place to live, only to make money." Then Hans stared at my sloppy jumper, with the patch of the Sydney-Hobart race in the left corner.

In the vicinity of Altaussee two other attractive townships can be visited. Bad Aussee and Grundlsee. I walked to Grundlsee one morning on foot and hitchhiked back. To Bad Aussee I went with M by bus and we had a Sachertorte and coffee in a Konditorei. Another twenty kilometres is the fabulous spa Bad Ischl, where the Austrian Emperor, Franz Joseph, had his summer residence. Even the king of the waltz, Johann Strauß, used to compose there. Bad Ischl is still so full of the charm of the Habsburgs that some Austrian visitors become so nostalgic that they want to reinstate the royal dynasty after they return home to their mundane environment. Nevertheless the democratic coalition government at present is doing its best to preserve Bad Ischl for old-fashioned tourists from the homeland or abroad. The cakes from the Cafe Zauner are as good as during the reign of Franz Joseph and hot baths can be obtained in renovated old style hotels. On a postcard the Archduke Johann rows his beloved Anna Plochl, the daughter of the postmaster, who later became the Countess of Meran, across the lake dressed in the local costume. On another postcard a poem by Franz Renisch is reprinted and starts: (in my translation)

'I don't dream of nord light
of Mexico, Hawaii
not even of Moscow
Angola and Shanghai
my dream fulfils itself close by
in Bad Aussee in Altaussee
in Gössl and in Grundlsee'

and the poem continues in the middle:

'God has left us
as a model of paradise
the fairyland Ausseerland
a work of art made by
the hand of the creator'

The archduke Johann is supposed to have composed a popular song (Jodler) which is available in record shops. The text starts:

'Wo i geh und steh, sieg i nix als Schnee'
(Wherever I walk or stand I see nothing but snow)

After these excursions in the neighbouring townships my nostalgia grew for the wooden tables in the three inns in Altaussee, with a little flag with the word Stammtisch written upon it. Sometimes this flag would swing a little caused not by a breeze but by the smoky cough of a gloomy or enlightened drinker. Alcohol and smoking go together like love and marriage, one of the locals told me. Out of season, only one of the inns is open for the Frühschoppen, between 10 and 12 a.m. Any move from there to another inn is wisely done on foot. These walks from pub to pub become in the course of the day more and more difficult for some of the regular customers and there is always free transport available if required.
Having difficulty myself one evening to get back home I saw after I had passed the wall of the cemetery a flickering light on the third floor of the villa where M was sleeping. As I supported myself by the wall I noticed that the light had gone off and on several times. At last having reached the house M rushed towards me as I pulled myself up the circular stairway.
"There must still be ghosts in this villa," she said frightened.
"Why?"
"Someone turned the light on and off several times while I was reading."
"A ghost?"
"Who else? I hope there is nobody else living here!"
"Perhaps the electricity supply had broken down, this does happen in the mountains."
"I also heard steps!"
"Sure?"
"As sure as I stand here, something you seem no longer capable of. I want to leave!" M shouted.
"What about the interview with our Mephisto, Colonel Redl, Hanussen?"
"You don't want to make an interview, all you want to do is to get drunk."
Before we settled down in the kitchen for a cup of tea I had to check every room for a possible intruder. In my state a nearly impossible task.
"What were you reading when the lights went out?" I asked M later.
"A novel."
"By whom?"
"Jakob Wassermann."
"This is the writer who had committed suicide in this house."
"It was him?"
"I had told you so. Where did you get the book from?"
"It was lying on the table in the foyer. An English translation."

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