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.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Vienna Writers Circle by J.C. Maetis, which is out now!
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.
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.
