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The Sign Ace Of Base. Lazy Jay Azealia Banks. Carry On Wayward Son Kansas. Lost in It Eroc. Let It Whip The Treblemakers. Keep You Wild Belle. Don't Move Phantogram. Titanium feat. Cups Anna Kendrick. Before We Fall in Love Damato. Starships Nicki Minaj. Rome Yeasayer. Get You Off Stan Carrizosa. Eternal Flame The Bangles. Bulletproof La Roux.

Release Me Agnes. Right Round feat. Joey Galaxy] T-Pain. Party In the U. The Barden Bellas. Open Season High Highs. Chelsea Dagger The Fratellis. The Final Countdown Hullabahoos. There It Is Tag Team. Comments Ask. Movie Info Composer. Music Supervisors. External Links. And yet, as the years wash everything else away, Tyneford remains—a smooth pebble of a memory. As though if I say the name enough, I can go back again. Those summers were long and blue and hot. I remember it all, or think I do.

I have replayed each moment so often in my mind that I hear my own voice in every part. Now, as I write them, they appear fixed, absolute. On the page we live again, young and unknowing, everything yet to happen.

That morning I perched on my usual spot beside the draining board in the kitchen as Hildegard bustled around, flour up to her elbows and one eyebrow snowy white. I laughed and she flicked her tea towel at me, knocking the crust out of my hand and onto the floor.

I scowled and flicked crumbs onto the linoleum. I wished I could be more like my mother, Anna. Worry had made Anna even thinner. Her eyes were huge against her pale skin, so that she looked more than ever like the operatic heroines she played. When she married my father, Anna was already a star—a black-eyed beauty with a voice like cherries and chocolate. She was the real thing; when she opened her mouth and began to sing, time paused just a little and everyone listened, bathing in the sound, unsure if what they heard was real or some perfect imagining.

When the trouble began, letters started to arrive from Venice and Paris, from tenors and conductors. There was even one from a double bass. Of course she would not leave without my father. Or me. Or Margot. But no letters came for me. Not even a note from a second violin. So I ate bread rolls with butter, while Hildegard sewed little pieces of elastic into my waistbands.

What shall we make? Anna had picked it up at a secondhand bookstore and presented it to me with a flush of pride. This was to be my unglamorous fate. Chewing on my plait, I prodded the tome so that it fell open at the index. Mock Turtle Soup.

Eel Pie. I should know how to cook goose. I said I knew. My parents hoped to escape to New York, where the Metropolitan Opera would help them with a visa, if only Anna would sing. Anna picked up her pace. But we cannot get an American visa for you now. She stopped in the middle of the street and took my face in her hands. Anna had tiny feet and a massive appetite for shoes. Music may have been her first love, but shoes were definitely her second.

Her wardrobe was lined with row upon row of dainty high heels in pink, grey, patent leather, calfskin and suede. She made fun of herself to mollify me. Anna tried not to laugh. I had visions of refugees like myself, alternately fainting upon overstuffed sofas.

Full of indignation at her teasing, I made Anna wait outside the office while I sent the telegram:. Speaks fluid English. I will cook your goose. Elise Landau. Hildegard fixed me with a hard stare. I was about to choose Parrot Pie, purely to infuriate Hildegard, when Anna and Julian entered the kitchen. He held out a letter. My father, Julian, was a tall man, standing six feet in his socks, with thick black hair with only a splash of grey around his temples, and eyes as blue as a summer sea.

Yet somehow this couple had produced me. Twelve came and went. They held out for sixteen. Still no blossoming. By nineteen even Gabrielle, the most optimistic of the great-aunts, had given up hope. And character. Anna lurked behind Julian, blinking and running a pink tongue-tip across her bottom lip. I took it from him and with deliberate slowness, well aware they were all watching me, slid a butter knife under the seal.

I drew out a creamy sheet of watermarked paper, unfolded it and smoothed the creases. I read in slow silence. The others bore with me for a minute and then Julian interrupted. I fixed him with a glare. I glared a lot back then. He ignored me, and I read aloud. Rivers has instructed me to write to you and tell you that the position of house parlour maid at Tyneford House is yours if you want it.

He has agreed to sign the necessary visa application statements, providing that you stay at Tyneford for a minimum of a twelvemonth. If you wish to accept the post, please write or wire by return. W1, where ongoing travel arrangements to Tyneford will be made. But for now, you must go where it is safe. Julian tugged my plait in a gesture of playful affection. Anna only smiled. So it was true, then. I was to leave them. Until this moment it had not been real.

I had written the telegram, even sent the wire to London, but it had seemed a game. I knew things were bad for us in Vienna. I heard the stories of old women being pulled out of shops by their hair and forced to scrub the pavements. Frau Goldschmidt had been made to scrape dog feces from the gutter with her mink stole. It was a gift from Herman, and I wore it to please him. He never would learn. But to spoil it like that. Before she left, I saw Anna quietly stuff an arctic rabbit muffler inside her shopping bag.

The evidence of difficult times was all around our apartment. It was worth nearly two thousand schillings—a gift from one of the conductors at La Scala. Why a bloody great grand piano? There were gouges all along the parquet floor, and from a neighbouring apartment I could hear the painful clatter of a talentless beginner learning to play. Anna had sold her beloved piano to a woman across the hall, for a fraction of its value.

I loved the city. She was as much a part of my family as Anna or great-aunts Gretta, Gerda and Gabrielle. It was true, strange things kept happening, but at age nineteen nothing really terrible had ever happened to me before and, blessed with the outlook of the soul-deep optimist, I had truly believed that all would be well.

Anna thrust a glass in front of me while Julian slid a wooden chair behind me. Even Hildegard looked rattled. I stared at Anna with a shivering sense of time pivoting up and down like a seesaw. I memorised every detail: the tiny crease in the centre of her forehead that appeared when she was worried; Julian beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder; the grey silk of her blouse. The blue tiles behind the sink. Hildegard wringing the dishcloth.

That Elise, the girl I was then, would declare me old, but she is wrong. I am still she. I am still standing in the kitchen holding the letter, watching the others—and waiting—and knowing that everything must change. M emories do not exist along a timeline. In my mind everything happens at once. I am in Vienna as I wait for their letters to arrive in Dorset. The chronology laid out upon these pages is not without effort. I am young in my dreams. The face in the mirror always surprises me.

I observe the smart grey hair, nicely set, of course, and the tiredness beneath the eyes that never goes away. I know that it is my face, and yet the next time I glance in the mirror I am surprised all over again. Oh, I think, I forgot that this is me. They all indulged me, Margot, Julian and Anna most of all. I was their pet, their liebling , to be cosseted and adored.

Margot decided to love him back and they were married within six weeks. He never once laughed at any of my jokes—not even the one about the rabbi and the dining room chair and the walnut—so clearly he was deficient.

The possibility of a man ever being besotted with my musical gifts was highly improbable, but I did need him to laugh. I was plump while the others were slender. But they loved me anyway. Anna indulged my babyish ways, and I was allowed to sulk and storm off to my room and sob over fairy stories that I was far too old for. My never-ending childhood made Anna feel young. With a girl-child like me she did not admit her forty-five years, even to herself.

All that changed with the letter. I must go off into the world alone, and I must finally grow up. The others treated me just as before, but there was self-consciousness in their actions, as if they knew I was sick but were being meticulous in giving nothing away in their behaviour. Anna continued to smile benevolently upon my sullen moods and slip me the fattest slice of cake and run my bath with her best lavender-scented salts. Margot picked fights and borrowed books without asking, but I knew it was just for show.

Only Hildegard was different. She stopped chiding me, and even when it was probably most urgent, she no longer pressed Mrs. Beeton upon me. This sudden formality was not out of respect at some newfound dignity on my part. It was pity. I suspected Hildegard wanted to give me every mark of rank and social status during those last weeks, knowing how I must feel the humiliation in the months to come, but I wished she would call me Elise, box my ears and threaten to pour salt on my supper once more.

I left biscuit crumbs on my nightstand in clear contravention of her no-biscuits-in-the-bedroom policy, but she said nothing, only gave me a tiny curtsy how I crawled inside and retired into her kitchen with a wounded expression. The days slid by. I felt them pass faster and faster like painted horses on a carousel. I willed time to slow, concentrating on the tick-tick of the hall clock, trying to draw out the silence between the relentless beats of the second hand. Of course it did not work.

My visa arrived in the post. The clock ticked. Anna took me to receive my passport. Julian went to another office to pay my departure tax and on his return disappeared into his study without a word and with the burgundy decanter. I packed my travel trunks with wads of silk stockings, while Hildegard stitched hidden pockets into all of my dresses to secrete forbidden valuables and sewed fine gold chains along the seams.

I tried to stay awake all night so that morning would come slower and I would have more precious moments in Vienna. I fell asleep. Tick-tick-tick and another day gone. My bags lay in the hall. My last night in Vienna. He was at his desk scribbling away, pen clasped in his left hand. I wondered if he would write his next novel in American. Julian stopped writing and drew back his chair.

He pulled me onto his lap, as though I was nine rather than nineteen, and clutched me to him, burying his face in my hair. I could smell the clean scent of his shaving soap and the cigar smoke that always lingered on his skin. As I rested my chin on his shoulder, I saw that the burgundy decanter was on the desk, empty once again. He clutched me so tightly that my ribs creaked and then, with a small sigh, he released me.

I slid off his lap and watched as he crossed to the corner of the room where a viola case rested, propped against the far wall. He picked it up and set it down on the desk, opening it with a click. I had taken my first music lessons upon this rosewood viola, learning to play before Margot. She took lessons upon the grand piano in the drawing room while I stood in this room a treat to encourage me to practise and the viola squealed and scraped.

She drew the bow across the strings and it trembled into life. The rosewood sang for the first time, music rippling from the strings as effortlessly as the wind skimming the Danube. In a month all the best music masters in Vienna were summoned to teach my sister. I never played again. Julian shook his head. I was about to refuse, but there was something odd in his expression, so I picked up the instrument.

It felt heavy in my hands, a curious weight in the body. Watching my father, I placed it under my chin and, picking up the bow, drew it slowly across the strings. The sound was muffled and strange, as though I had attached a mute beneath the bridge. I lowered the viola and stared at Julian; a smile twitched upon his lips. I peered inside the f-holes carved into the body of the instrument and realised that it was stuffed full of yellow paper.

He steamed off the front, I placed the novel inside and he glued it shut. He spoke with pride, pleased to confide his secret, and then his face became serious once again. Julian always wrote in duplicate, writing out his work on carbon paper in his tiny curling hand, so that a shadow novel appeared upon the pages underneath.

The top layer on watermarked white paper was sent to his publisher, while the carbon copy on flimsy yellow tissue remained locked in his desk drawer. Julian was terrified of losing work and the mahogany desk held a word hoard. But I want you to keep this copy in England. Just in case. It was the first night of Passover and Anna had dictated that it was to be a celebration, a party with champagne and dancing like there used to be before the bad times.

Crying was absolutely forbidden. Anna filled the tub with rose petals and propped the dining room candlesticks beside the washbasin mirror, like she did on the evening of the Opera Ball. She lay back in the tub, her hair knotted on the top of her head, fingers trailing patterns in the water. Ask Hilde to bring a bottle of the Laurent-Perrier and three glasses. Margot did as she was bidden, and soon we sat sipping champagne, each pretending to be cheerful for the benefit of the others.

I took a gulp and felt the tears burn in my throat. No crying, I told myself and swallowed, the bubbles making me choke. I wondered how many bottles of wine or champagne were left. I knew Julian had sold the good ones. Anything expensive or valuable was liable to be confiscated; better to sell it first. Margot fanned herself with a magazine and, casting it aside, marched to the window, opening the sash to let in a cool breath of night air.

I watched the steam trickle outside and the gauze curtain flutter. Margot flopped into a wicker rocking chair and unfastened her robe to reveal a white lace corset and matching knickers. I wondered what Robert thought of such exciting underwear and was instantly filled with envy. No one had ever shown the slightest interest in seeing me in my underthings.

Robert could be quite dashing in the right sort of lighting, although he always got rather too animated when talking about his star projects at the university. Margot lit a cigarette and I saw her hand tremble, ever such a little. I took another gulp of champagne and stared at my mother and sister. They would make friends wherever they ended up. In any city in the world they could arrive, seek out the nearest cluster of musicians and, for as long as the sonata, symphony or minuet lasted, they were at home.

She sprawled in the wicker chair, robe dishevelled, sipping champagne and puffing on her cigarette with an air of studied decadence. A film of perspiration clung to her skin and she smiled at me with dreamy eyes. I hated being called Elsie. Margot laughed, a rich tinkling sound, and at that moment I hated her too and was glad I was going far, far away.

I retreated to the window, unable to breathe through all the mist. Despite the heat I clutched my robe around me, not wanting to take it off in front of them and display my big white knickers and schoolgirl brassiere or the small roll of baby fat oozing around my middle. Sensing a round of bickering about to start between Margot and me, Anna did the one thing she could to make us stop.

She began to sing. Later that night Anna performed before all the assembled guests, while the garnet choker around her neck trembled like drops of blood, but it is this moment I remember. When I think of Anna, I see her lying naked in the bathtub, singing.

The sound filled the small room, thicker than the steam, and the water in the bath began to vibrate. I felt her voice rather than heard it. I leaned against the window frame, feeling the cool air against my back, the notes falling on my skin like rain. I saw that the door was ajar and Julian lingered in the doorway, watching the three of us and listening.

He was crying. T he guests arrived for the party. A manservant had been hired for the evening, and he stood in the hallway, collecting coats from the gentlemen and assisting the ladies with their hats and furs. Robert was the first to arrive; he came before eight and I fixed him with a stare to display my disapproval.

According to Anna, extreme punctuality was a terrible habit in a guest, although, to my irritation, when I complained about Robert, she said that it was acceptable in family or lovers. Anna had issued thirty invitations the week before. But people had started to disappear, and those who remained decided it was best not to draw attention to oneself, to live quietly and not make eye contact in the street. Anna and Julian said nothing about the missing guests. The table was silently reset.

We all gathered in the drawing room. Those who had chosen to attend the party had apparently decided by unspoken accord to dazzle in their finest. If coming to the Landau party was dangerous, then they may as well be resplendent. The men were dashing in their white tie and tails. The ladies wore dark furs or dull raincoats down to the floor, but when they removed their chrysalis coats we saw that beneath them they sparkled like tropical butterflies. Even fat Frau Finkelstein wore a plum-coloured gown, her white, doughy arms puckered by tight gauze sleeves, her grey hair plaited into a crown and studded with cherry blossoms.

Lily Roth conjured a feathered fascinator from her bag like a magician and fastened it in her hair, so she resembled a bird of paradise. Every lady wore her jewels, and all of them at once. If in the past seeming garish or extravagant or petty bourgeois had troubled us, now, as we felt everything sliding away into blackness, we wondered how we could have worried about such things.

Tonight was for pleasure. I must find my double and shake his hand. Julian saw me and gestured for me to join them; I shook my head and edged away. I knew this was my last party as a guest. I studied the manservant in his black tie, and impassive face, and tried to imagine myself as one of them, refreshing glasses and pretending not to hear conversation. From my vantage point, I saw Margot and Robert whispering in the corner, hand in hand. I must write and remind her. Although, I mused, it was possible Americans had different rules, and I wondered if I ought to point this out to her.

At that moment, I was feeling charitable toward my sister. While at most parties I watched as the men swarmed around Margot and Anna, tonight I had caught little Jan Tibor surreptitiously glancing at my bosom, and I felt every bit as sophisticated as the others.

In the darkness of the hall I puffed out my chest and fluttered my eyelashes, imagining myself irresistible, a dark-haired Marlene Dietrich. I sighed and deflated. My pink sheath dress had once belonged to Anna, and although Hildegard had let out the material as much as she could, it still pinched.

The bell was a tiny silver ornament, once belonging to my grandmother, and it tinkled a C sharp, according to Margot, who had perfect pitch. As a child, it had been a great treat to put on my party frock, stay up late and ring the bell for dinner.

I would stand beside the dining room door, solemnly allowing myself to be kissed good night by the guests as they filed in for dinner. Tonight as I rang the bell, I saw all those parties flickering before me, and an endless train of people walking past me, like a circular frieze going around and around the room, never stopping.

My family was not religious in the slightest. The Bible stories had the wild and unlikely plots of operas, and Margot and I devoured them with enthusiasm, mingling the genres seamlessly in our imaginations. If anyone had asked Anna to choose between God and music there would have been no contest, and I suspected that Julian was an atheist.

We never went to the handsome brick synagogue on Leopoldstadt; we ate schnitzel in nonkosher restaurants, celebrated Christmas rather than Chanukah and were proud to be among the new class of bourgeois Austrians. We were Viennese Jews but, up till now, the Viennese part always came first. The long dining table was covered with a white monogrammed cloth, the plates were gold-edged Meissen and Hildegard had polished the remaining family silver to a gleam.

Anna insisted that the large electric lamp be left off and candles provide the only light. I knew that it was only partly for the atmosphere of enchantment that candle glow casts, and more practically to hide the gaps on the dining room walls where the good paintings used to hang.

The family portraits remained: the one of me aged eleven in my flimsy muslin dress, hair close-cropped, and the images of the sour-faced, thin-lipped great-grandparents with their lace caps, as well as Great-great-aunt Sophie oddly pictured among green fields and a wide blue sky—Sophie had been agoraphobic, infamously refusing to leave her rancid apartment for forty years, but the portrait lied, recasting her as some sort of nature-loving cloud spotter.

I used to hide beneath the dining room table to escape her gaze, but when I emerged after an hour or more, she was always waiting, reproaching me. The other paintings had gone, but they left reminders—the sun-bleached wallpaper marked with rectangular stains. But when leaving home one always likes to think of it as it ought to be, and as it was before, perfect and unchanging.

Now when I think of our apartment, I restore each picture to its proper place: Violetta opposite the painting of breakfast on the balcony purchased by Julian as a present for Anna on their honeymoon. I have to remind myself that the pictures had vanished before that last night, and then, with a blink, the walls are empty once again. The chairs scraped on the parquet floor as the men helped the ladies into their places, gowns catching on chair legs and under feet, so that the hum of chatter rippled with apologies.

We all peered around the table with interest, hoping that ours would be the amusing end of the party and the others did not have better dinner companions. Herr Finkelstein adjusted his yarmulke so it neatly covered the bald disk on his head. Anna and Julian sat at opposite heads of the table. They exchanged a look and Anna rang the silver bell once more. Instantly the diners fell silent and Julian rose to his feet.

This night is indeed different from all other nights. In the morning my younger daughter, Elise, leaves for England. And in another few weeks, Margot and her husband, Robert, depart for America. The guests smiled at Margot and then at me, with envy or pity I could not tell. Julian held up his hand and the hum of conversation dulled once again. He was pale, and even in the half-light I could see beads of perspiration on his brow. We are no longer citizens in our own country.

And it is better to be exiled among strangers than at home. Julian stared at her for a second and then, recollecting himself, stood up once more and opened the Haggadah. It was strange—until this year we had always hurried through the Passover Seder.

This night we paused and, by tacit agreement, read every word. Perhaps the God-fearing among us believed in the prayers and hoped that, due to their diligence, He would take pity. He gazed heavenward, oblivious to the dribble of schmaltz wobbling at the side of his wet lips, and I wanted him to stop, never to stop. Why tonight do we eat only matzos? Margot snorted. Not even a loaf of bread?

Seems unlikely to me. I kicked her under the table, hard enough to bruise her shin, and I felt a small pulse of satisfaction as she winced.

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