The Strong Heart of Vienna

Stephansdom, or St. Stephen's cathedral, Vienna

At dusk, the blue sky above Vienna glowed with a tinge of gold, marking the transition from daytime to dream time. St. Stephan's Cathedral, a survivor of World War II, cast its Gothic towers' long shadows over the Roman domes and classical roofs nearby. In the labyrinth of alleyways and winding streets around it, aproned waiters were busy setting up silverware and table lamps. Here and there, clusters of alpine roses and hyacinths added splashes of pink and purple to the gray cobbled streets, still wet from a shower earlier. A few yards away from the cathedral's gate, a carousel with lights and ribbons spun to a regal Waltz.

It was the beginning of Steffl Kirtag, St. Stephen's Fair. In rows of wooden booths, local craft makers, artists, and confectioners flanked the cathedral square. Once in a while, a horse-drawn carriage would pass, carrying the fading memories of Bavarian kings. The whiffs of horse dung, scented candles, pine cones, and potpourris harkened back to the past, to the times of Celtic traders and pagan dances. Only the twinkles of electric light marred this ancient spell.

As I walked up, I was greeted by a young man in a wig and a long silk coat, embroidered and laced in the 18th century fashion. But the denims beneath and the suede shoes betrayed his Renaissance garb as an illusion. He, and a few others dressed similarly, roamed the plaza to talk visitors into purchasing concert tickets, for the recital that would take place inside the cathedral. He opened up his binder to begin the pitch.

"It starts at 8 PM, with Mozart. Then ve move on to some Beethoven, some Schubert and Strauss. Then ve finish at 10. Tickets begin at €25. Are you a student? No, that's OK. From now on, ve say you're a student, yes? So this gives you discount. You pay €20 only."

I took a pass on Mozart's Requiem and Beethoven's Turkish March. I continued through a maze of
Hampelmännchens (dancing wooden toys), crystal angels, and Stiegl beer stands. Eventually I found myself before the booth ran by Enna and her friend, under a wood-carved sign that read "Lukasjof - Genussmanufaktur."

The roof of St. Stephen's cathedral.

Standing behind bottles of pumpkin seed oil, apple vinegar, chutneys, and pear jams, Enna stood in a bluish gray pullover with her back to St. Stephen's. She was small and slender, a petite figure rising against a classical giant made of rock and stone. She invited me to inspect the display table with the wave of one hand. Her short-sleeved sweater also invited me to see the other arm, which was amputated right below the elbow.

I tried to avert my eyes from her missing arm, but periodically they fell on it. And my overactive imagination began speculating. A motorcycle accident? An unfortunate fall? But the story was hers, not mine. And I didn't feel right asking about her personal history without first establishing a bond. 

 "What is that?" I asked her, pointing at a bowl of red juice with floating chunks of strawberries.
"It's kind of like sangria," she said.
"So it's alcoholic," I said. "Is it strong?"
"Is it strong? Hmm, I can't drink a lot of it," she said. "It goes into your blood very fast."
"I'll try it," I said. "But you'd better give me just a little. I get drunk easily."

Her friend began to pour the drink into a paper cup. Enna turned to her and said something. My ears caught the word "wasser" (water), which I picked up from the Lufthansa stewardess offering me beverages during my incoming flight. I could tell she was saying, "You'd better mix it with lots of water for this guy."

I paid for my drink, and I said, "So if you later hear about a tourist drunk and passed out around here ..."
"Then I'll know it's you," she said with a giggle.

A vendor's booth at the fair

Somewhere beyond the booths, in the concert stage by the beer garden, a crooner with a guitar slung over his shoulder faced the mic. Perhaps he'd sing "Edelweiss," I thought. Sure, it was a Rodgers and Hammerstein show tune, a Hollywood invention that was both an homage and an exploit. The singer might as well capitalize on its international appeal to win over the tourists and (more importantly) their tip money. But no, the singer had better plans. To my chagrin, but to the delight of a visiting family from Wisconsin, he began singing John Denver's "Country Road," followed by "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?"

At that point, as if on cue, a shower fell on Vienna. The glistening raindrops--small and white, clean and bright--hit me with icy fingers. This was perhaps the Norse gods' playful intervention, to further dilute the heady mixture in my cup with the breath of the Alps. And I was glad I stopped at Enna's booth, because that drink, whatever it was, kept me warm as I fumbled with my map to find my way back to the hotel.

The following afternoon, with three hours to spare before my airport shuttle's pickup time, I headed back to the cathedral. For some reason, I felt the urge to do something for Enna. She didn't strike me as a damsel in distress. Quite the opposite. She came across as the spirit of the city that had withstood two major sieges by the Ottoman Turks.

But there would be days, like the time bombs began raining down on the city during World War II. Sooner or later, there'd be someone who viewed her truncated arm not as a sign of character but as a defect. On some melancholy day, someone's tactless remark was bound to wound her. When that day came, I wanted her to remember that, at least to one person, she'd always be special.

I stopped by a flower shop to pick up a few roses and tulips. I found Enna and the same friend, both surprised at my return.

"These are for you," I said, as I handed over a bouquet of red and pink, wrapped in a polka-dotted yellow waxed paper.
"Really? That's so nice! But why?" Enna asked.
"For keeping me warm last night with that drink," I replied.
"Yes, it was rather cold," she said.
"In three hours, I go home," I said. "I just want to come and say goodbye."
"Where are you from?" she asked.
"From California," I said.

As I walked away, I saw her waving at me. I imagined her waving me with both hands, with her loose sweater fluttering in the wind. The little stump that she never bothered to hide must have a proud history of its own. Maybe the next time we meet, she'd tell me how she lost her arm. Maybe that's my excuse to come back to Vienna.

Hers must be a story of survival and transformation, like how the Danube, once the natural arm of a river, had been remade into an inner-city canal; like how St. Stephen's Cathedral escaped air raids, looters, and fire through an inexplicable mix of luck and wisdom; like how Vienna endured Suleiman's invading armies, a killer plague, and Napoleon, only to emerge with a stronger, faster heartbeat.

Somewhere in the clouds over the Atlantic, I noticed the little sparkles of snow clinging to the outside of the airplane window. "Blossoms of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever," I hummed. When the bright-eyed Lufthansa stewardess asked me if I'd like some wine, I declined. I just knew it wouldn't measure up to the strawberry-infused punch Enna made. The secret to staying warm when traveling in Europe, I've learned, is to remember the throbbing heart of Vienna.

Notes and acknowledgements: I'm grateful to my German friend Andrea, who identified the wooden toys from my online photos with the proper term, as "Hampelmännchens." The tittle "The Strong Heart of Vienna) was inspired by a line from the Austrian anthem: "Liegst dem Erdteil du inmitten Einem starken Herzen gleich" (You lie in the middle of the continent, like a strong heart).

Slideshow of my Flickr album from Vienna