The Fourth Zoo Watch: Monday, 5 June 1967 @ 9.00 p.m.
THERE'S A NIGHTWATCHMAN, all right. But as far as I know, there's just one.
I waited an hour after dark, and I didn't see anyone. Nevertheless, I promised myself I wouldn't come out from behind the hedgerow until I knew the whereabouts of the guard. And a half-hour ago I saw a light I knew was inside the zoo. It was a glow, coming from the Small Mammal House. The light had probably been on since nightfall, but I hadn't noticed it as being actually inside the zoo - and not a reflection from Hietzing. At first I was frightened; I thought the Small Mammal House might be on fire. But the light didn't flicker. I went along my hedgerow to the corner of the fence line that gave me the best view. Trees in my way, a cage looming up here and there; I couldn't see the doorway, but I could see the eaves under the tiled roof, taking on a glow that had to come from the ground in front of the building. It had to be that; after all, there are no windows in the Small Mammal House.
I may have been sure of myself, but I was careful. Inching along stooped over - at times on all fours - against the cages and pens. I startled something. Something got up right next to me and thrashed into a gallop; snorted or whinnied or harumphed. I went down along the ponds of Various Aquatic Birds - all with fairly high pool curbs and signposts here and there: histories and bird legends. I had good cover round the ponds, and I found a spot with a clear view of the Small Mammal House's door. It was open; there was a light coming down the long hall and landing outside, thrown back up against the building. I think the light comes from an open room round the corner at the end of the hall. You remember the Small Mammal House - all those corridors winding round and round, in the fake night of infrared?
I did some thinking while I waited. It might not have been the nightwatchman's room at all; it might have been a light left on to give the nocturnal beasts a chance to sleep - in a daylight as illusory as their infrared night.
I nested in a shrub and leaned my arms on a pool curb. I read the nearest bird legend in the moonlight. It had to do with auks. The Hietzinger Zoo has only one member of the auk family. It is the least auklet, described as small and wizen-faced, and rather stupid; it has been known to wander down the paths, where it can easily get stepped on. In fact, the king of the auk family was such a stupid bird it became extinct. The great auk was last seen alive in 1844, and the last dead great auk, to be seen, was washed ashore at Trinity Bay, Ireland, in 1853. The great auk was both inquisitive and gullible, the legend says. If quietly approached, it would stand its ground. It was a favorite to provision fishing vessels; fishermen stalked the shorelines, approaching quietly and beating the auks with clubs.
Pretentious bird legend! Do they mean that the great auk was stupid - or that stupid men extinguished the great auk?
I looked about for the great auk's surviving kin, but I found no silly least auklet - not wandering down the paths, either, or dolting underfoot.
I was watched for a while. Something webfooted tottered down the pool curb to me, stopped a few feet away and garbled softly - wishing to know whom I came to see at such an odd hour. It flopped down in the water and paddled past below me, gurgling - perhaps complaining; I believe, from its backswept head, it was an eared grebe, and I'd like to think it was encouraging me.
I got a little stiff and damp among the ponds, but I got to see the guard. He came out in the hallway of light and squinted out the door. Uniformed, holstered, and although I couldn't really see - certainly armed; he took his flashlight for a walk down the dim hall and through the dark zoo - not as dark as I would wish it; there's too much moon.
But, oh, it's oh
so easy!--
Watching
Watchmen.
(CONTINUING:)
THE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIEGFRIED JAVOTNIK: PRE-HISTORY I
9 March 1938 - and every Wednesday teatime - my Grandmother Marter straightens fork tines. Grandfather Marter is impatient with the Pflaumenkuchen; the plum skins are blistered from the oven, and anyone can see the cake's too hot to eat. But my grandfather always burns his tongue. Then he paces in the kitchen; he sneaks more rum in his tea.
'I hate this waiting for the damn cake to cool,' he says. 'If the cake were started earlier, we'd have it ready with the tea.'
And Grandmother aims a fork at him. 'Then you'd want to have tea sooner,' she says. 'Then you'd start your waiting sooner, and move everything up so we'd be having our tea on top of lunch.'
Zahn keeps his teacup in his lap, so he's ready when Grandfather comes round the table, sneaking rum. Grandfather tilts the bottle from his hip.
'Watch out for my Hilke, Zahn,' he says. 'Watch out she's not a know-it-all like her Muttie.'
'Muttie's right,' says Hilke. 'You'd fuss around and burn yourself, no matter when the cake came out of the oven.'
'You see, Zahn?' says Grandfather.
'The forks are all straight,' Grandmother announces. 'Nobody's going to stab a lip now!' she crows. 'Real silver, you know, Zahn - it's so soft it bends easy.'
'Muttie,' says Hilke, 'Zahn's got a job now.'
'But you're in school, Zahn,' says Grandfather.
'He's driving a taxi,' Hilke says. 'He can drive me around.'
'It's just a part-time job,' says Zahn. 'I'm still in school.'
'I like riding in taxis,' Grandmother says.
'And just when do you do all your taxi-riding?' says Grandfather. 'You always take the trams when you're out with me.'
Grandmother prods the plum cake with one of her forks. 'It's cool enough now,' she announces.
'Know-it-alls,' says Grandfather. 'Everyone's a know-it-all today.' And before he draws a chair up to the kitchen table, he feels obliged - for Zahn's happiness - to jar the static out of the radio.
Zahn is pleased. Here's Radio Johannesgasse, clear for tea, and he anticipates the newstime signal blip. Time is that dependable on Wednesdays; when the forks are straight and the cake's cool, it's time for news.
Worldwide: Steenockerzeel Castle, Belgium, where the Hapsburg Pretender lives. Legitimist leader Freiherr von Wiesner calls on all Austrian monarchists to resist Nazi Germany's continued pressure to incorporate Austria into the Reich. Von Wiesner appealed to Chancellor Schuschnigg that a return of the monarchy would offer the best resistance to Germany.
Austria: Tyrolean-born Kurt von Schuschnigg, at a mass meeting in Innsbruck, announced to his native province, and to the world, that in four days' time, on Sunday, the country will hold a plebiscite. The voters may decide for themselves - an independent Austria, or the Anschluss with Germany. Chancellor Schuschnigg ended his speech by shouting in Tyrolean dialect to the twenty thousand assembled in the Maria-Theresien-Platz: 'Men, the time has come!' In Innsbruck this had special significance, of course, because one hundred and thirty years ago the peasant hero Andreas Hofer had with the same cry impassioned his countrymen to resist Napoleon.
Local: a young woman identified as Mara Madoff, daughter of clothier Sigismund Madoff, was found this morning hanging in her coat on a coat hook in the second-balcony wardrobe closet of the Vienna State Opera House. Opera custodian Odilo Linz, who discovered the body, says he's sure this particular closet is never used, and at least wasn't being used at last night's performance of Lohengrin. Odilo checked the closet some time during the Prelude; he says nothing was hanging there then. Authorities attribute the cause of death to a star-shaped series of fine-pointed stab wounds in the heart, and estimate the time of death as well toward the end of the opera. The authorities say that the young woman was in no way assaulted; however, her stockings were missing and her shoes had been put back on. Late last night, someone claims to have seen a group of young men at the Haarhof Keller; allegedly, one of them wore a pair of women's stockings for a scarf. But among the young men, these days, this is a common way of showing off.
Also local: spokesmen for several anti-Nazi groups have already pledged their endorsement of Schuschnigg's proposed plebiscite. Karl Mittler has promised th
e support of the underground Socialists; Colonel Wolff has spoken for the monarchists; Doktor Friedmann for the Jewish community; Cardinal Innitzer for the Catholics. Chancellor Schuschnigg will be taking the overnight train from the Alps and is scheduled to arrive in Vienna by early morning. Some welcome is expected for him.
'Some welcome, for sure!' says Zahn. 'He's done something, anyway, to show we're not just Hitler's backyard.'
'Know-it-all,' says Grandfather. 'Just who does he think he is? Another Andreas Hofer, standing up to Napoleon. Cheers in the Tyrol - that I believe. But what do they say about Schuschnigg in Berlin? We're not standing up to a Frenchman this time.'
'God,' says Zahn. 'Give him some credit. The vote's a sure thing. Nobody wants Germany in Austria.'
'You're thinking like a taxi driver now, all right,' Grandfather says. 'Nobody, you say - and what does it matter? - wants, you say. I'll tell you what I want, and how little it matters. I want a man who'll do what he says he'll do. And that was Dollfuss, and he got murdered by some of those nobodies you mention. And now we've got Schuschnigg, that's what we've got.'
'But he's called for an open vote,' Zahn says.
'And it's four days away,' says Grandfather, scornfully - and notices the cake crumbs he's sprayed about the table. He grows a bit muttery, and his ears blush. 'I'm telling you, student or taxi driver or whatnot,' he says, careful of cake, 'it's a good thing the world's not flat, or Schuschnigg would have backed off long ago.'
'You're such an old pessimist,' Hilke says.
'Yes you are,' says Grandmother, herding crumbs off the tablecloth with one of her forks, 'and you're the biggest know-it-all there is, too. And got the worst eating manners I've seen, for someone of your colossal age.'
'Of my what?' shouts Grandfather, and showers cake. 'Where'd you ever learn to say a thing like that?'
And Grandmother, haughtily, moistens a fingertip, dabs at a cake crumb on Grandfather's tie. 'I read it in a book you brought home,' she says proudly, 'and I thought it was very poetical. And you're always telling me I don't read enough, you know-it-all.'
'Just show me the book,' says Grandfather, 'so I won't make the mistake of reading it.'
Zahn makes faces at Grandfather, to show his tea is weak on rum. 'Well, there's going to be some celebrating tomorrow,' he says. 'I could make a pile of fares, all right.'
And Hilke is deciding what she'll wear. The one-piece, red wool jersey with the big roll collar. If it doesn't snow.
The Fifth Zoo Watch: Monday, 5 June 1967 @ 11.45 p.m.
THE WATCHMAN STARTS his first round at a quarter to nine and returns to the Small Mammal House at a quarter past. He made another round from quarter to eleven till quarter past. It was just the same.
The second time, I stayed behind the hedgerow and let him pass by close to me. I can tell you what he looks like from the waist down. A military snap-flap holster on a skinny ammunition belt that only holds twelve rounds; I don't know how many rounds his snubnose revolver holds. The keyring loops through the ammunition belt; it would be too heavy for a belt loop. The flashlight has a wrist thong and is cased in metal: it may make up for the fact that he doesn't carry a truncheon. Gray twill uniform pants, wide at the ankle, and cuffless. The socks are funny; they have a squiggly design, and one of them keeps slipping into the heel of his shoe; he's always stopping to tug it up. The shoes are just black shoes, sort of everyday shoes. He doesn't take his uniform very seriously.
I was in no danger of being spotted. He shone his light along the hedges, but they're too thick to penetrate. Maybe if he'd been down on all fours, shining at root level - and if his eyesight had been very keen to begin with - he might have seen through to me. But you can tell what a good place to hide I've got.
This watchman doesn't seem so bad. He's sometimes inconsiderate as to where he shines his flashlight. He just flashes it around to every little cough or stir, and you'd think by now he'd know the dreaming prattle of his charges, and wouldn't have to be checking up on every little snore. Still, he doesn't seem to be malicious about it. He may be nervous, or bored - and trying to find as much to look at as he can.
He even seems to have his favorites. I watched him call a zebra over to the fence line. 'Fancy horse,' he said. 'Come here, fancy horse.' And one of the zebras, who must have been awake and waiting, came alongside him, shoving its muzzle over the fence. The watchman fed it something - certainly, against the rules - and gave its ears a tug or two. Now, any man who likes zebras can't be all bad.
He also has an interesting relationship with one of the lesser kangaroos. I think it's the wallaby, or perhaps the wallaroo; they're rather similar, at the distance I was from them. It wasn't the great gray boomer, certainly; I could have noted the size of that monster, the whole length of the path. Anyway, the watchman called somebody over. 'Hey, you Australian,' he said. 'Hey you dandy, come over here and box.' And somebody thumped; a long, sharp ear sprang up - a stiff tail thwacked the ground. Maybe the guard's tone was a little taunting, and it may have been rude of him to be waking up the Australian's neighbors. But this watchman is a pretty gentle type, I feel. If it turns out that he's the guard we have to nab and stash, I'd want to do the job as politely as possible.
Something strange just happened. A little bell rang in the Small Mammal House; very clearly, I heard it ring. The animals heard it too. There was a tossing, a general turnover - coughs, grunts, startled snorts; a lot of short, wary breathing. There are a number of those noises things make when they're trying to keep quiet; joints snap, stomachs rumble, swallowing is loud.
First the bell rang, then the watchman came out of the Small Mammal House. I saw his flashlight nodding. Then I saw this flashing down one of the paths; I think it came from the main zoo gate, and I think the watchman flashed back to it.
Along the fence line, behind my hedgerow, the Assorted Antelopes are shuffling their hooves. Something's up, all right. I mean it; it's midnight and this zoo is wide-awake.
(CONTINUING:)
THE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIEGFRIED JAVOTNIK: PRE-HISTORY I
10 March 1938: a warm, unsnowy Thursday, perfect for Hilke's one-piece, red wool jersey with the big roll collar.
In the early morning, about the time Chancellor Schuschnigg's train from Innsbruck is arriving at the Westbahnhof - and just after Zahn Glanz had chalked JA! SCHUSCHNIGG! on the black hood of his taxi - a chicken farmer in the outskirting countryside of Hacking begins getting dressed for the celebrations anticipated in the city. Ernst Watzek-Trummer has neglected the eggs this morning and collected the feathers instead. Which is no less strange than the work that kept him up all night - puncturing and wiring together tin pieplates to make a suit of mock chainmail, and then larding the suit to make the surface sticky enough to hold the chicken feathers he now rolls in. Anyone watching Ernst Watzek-Trummer getting dressed would never buy a single egg from him again. But no one sees, except the chickens who squabble out of his way as he rolls back and forth through his feather pile on the hen-house floor. And, moreover, no one could accuse Ernst Watzek-Trummer of being extravagant; this costume hasn't cost him a thing. The pieplates he had plenty of, and they can still be used for selling eggs in; and this is more use than he's ever got out of the feathers before. Why, even the head of his costume is pieplates, a helmet of pieplates, two for the ear-flaps, one for the top, and one bent to fit his face - with eyeholes, and a breathing hole, and two tiny punctured holes for the wire which fastens on the hammered tin of his beak. A beak sharp enough to lance a man through. And between the eyeholes is a decal of the Austrian eagle, steamed off the bumper of Ernst Watzek-Trummer's truck and reaffixed with lard. So that hasn't cost him either. And it is undeniably an eagle-suit of frightening authenticity - or if not authentic, at least strong. The feathered chainmail hangs to his knees, and the pieplate sleeves are made loose enough for flapping. He leaves the head unfeathered, but lards it anyway - not only to make the decal stick, but to make his whole dome gleam. Ernst Watzek-Trummer
, for this day an eagle - and the Austrian eagle in particular - finishes dressing in his hen-house, and clanks fiercely toward the outlying district of the city, hoping he will be permitted to ride on the tram.
And Zahn Glanz, en route to my mother's street, has stopped once, just to let a little air out of his tires to make them squeal, and is now practicing the noise of his cornering in the rotary between the technical high school and Karl's Church.
And Grandfather Marter has decided not to go to work this morning, because no one will be reading in the foreign-language reading room of the International Student House anyway, and so the head librarian won't be missed. Grandfather watches for Zahn's taxi because he can at least indulge the young their optimism, Grandmother has said, and he can certainly indulge himself whatever drink is due a day of celebration.
And Zahn, on his fourth trip around the rotary, sees an early Mass letting out of Karl's Church. Only slightly money-minded, Zahn thinks an early fare would nicely preface his arrival at my mother's. He idles his taxi at the curb in front of Karl's Church, and reads his Telegraph spread over the wheel. Lennhoff's editorial praises Schuschnigg's plebiscite, expresses snide curiosity concerning Germany's reaction.
While at the Hutteldorf-Hacking Station for Strassenbahn Line 49, a sour tram driver refuses a ride to a man in an eagle-suit. Ernst Watzek-Trummer adjusts his beak, thumps his breast feathers and struts on.
And on the Ballhausplatz, Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg peers from a Chancellery window and spots a banner stretched from the balustrade of St Michael's, across the Michaelerplatz, to a balustrade of the Hofburg showrooms. The banner is bed sheets stitched together, the lettering is neat and enormous: SCHUSCHNIGG, FOR A FREE AUSTRIA. And the Chancellor guesses that, in order for him to be able to see it at this distance, the comma must be the size of a man's head. It warms him to the tip of his Tyrolean, to know that beyond the banner, down Augustinerstrasse, to the Albertinaplatz and still beyond - throughout the Inner City - the throng is toasting him.