Free Restitution by Eliza Graham

1924
    The window shattered and glass cascaded to the ground a foot away from the table where Marie and Anton sat eating their lunch. A man rolled through the window.
    ‘God!’ Anton sprang up, napkin in hand. ‘Are you hurt, Marie?’
    ‘Perfectly fine.’ She put a hand to her new hat to check it hadn’t been sprayed.
    ‘My apologies. I believe I aimed myself so as to avoid any danger to you both.’ The man got to his feet and removed a handkerchief from his top pocket, wrapping it round a bleeding
knuckle.
    ‘Viktor?’ Marie couldn’t resist a smile. ‘What are you up to?’
    ‘Marie?’ His sleepy gaze swept her face and the length of her body, making her blush. ‘I didn’t recognize you in that very elegant but somewhat concealing hat. No
doubt essential for keeping your admirers at bay.’
    Shouts erupted on the street. ‘There he is!’ someone yelled.
    He gave a little bow. ‘Excuse me.’ She looked away, wanting to laugh but conscious of the cold draught of Anton’s disapproval. ‘I don’t think those hoodlums will
bother you if I’m gone.’ With a few strides of his long legs he’d already reached the kitchen doors, pushing a banknote into the waiter’s hand as he passed him.
    ‘Well.’ Anton blinked. Marie took a sip of her wine. The waiter bustled over and insisted on moving them to another table. Seeing a group of angry uniformed men staring in through
the hole in the window, he waved a silver tray at them and shouted something about his cousin’s husband who was something or other in the town hall and they shuffled away.
    ‘Political.’ Marie spread butter on a piece of bread. Rehearsals had started early and she’d only grabbed a quick breakfast before leaving for the Academy where she was
studying drama.
    ‘That was Viktor Vargá, wasn’t it?’ Anton poured her another glass of wine. ‘Have some more of this red. Eva’s friend? He’s the one with the missing
fingertip, isn’t he?’
    ‘A dog bit the tip off when he was a child.’ Marie sipped her soup, which had hardly cooled during the upheaval.
    ‘Isn’t he a Communist or something?’
    ‘Viktor?’ She laughed at the thought. ‘Not really. He just doesn’t like the Heimwehr, says they’re a bunch of over-patriotic thugs.’
    ‘Which makes him a Communist.’
    ‘Not necessarily.’ If Anton was going to dwell on the various militia groups and their ideologies she’d forgo pastries and coffee and make her excuses.
    ‘He’s probably Jewish,’ Anton went on. She looked up at the use of the word. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Nothing.’ She helped herself to another bread roll. ‘I just don’t remember people talking about who was Jewish and who wasn’t when we were growing up.’
    ‘Well there weren’t so many of them, were there? It was only after the war that they swarmed in from Russia and Poland. And they’ve done very well for themselves.’
    Marie blinked. ‘I suppose so. But there are lots of poor Jews. Some of the students at the Academy are Jewish and their families have lived here for generations. They don’t have
money to throw around.’
    He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘You’re probably right. I’m no Jew-basher. Remember that old baker back home? He used to give us the misshapen gingerbread at the end
of the day. Besides, this political stuff is no conversation for a day like this.’ He gave that quick smile of his, the one that had disarmed the nuns, and probably disarmed God himself, Lena
always said. Lena had followed her friend to Vienna, finding odd sewing jobs to keep herself afloat (she had a talent for running up imitations of the latest fashions) and using her spare time to
help Marie learn lines or alter costumes.
    Anton was watching her now. ‘So how does it feel?’
    ‘Terrifying.’ The coldness in Marie’s stomach returned and she sipped the wine to try and warm it away, wishing he hadn’t reminded her. Poor Anton, he meant so well. She
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