Freud's Mistress Read Online Free Page B

grown gray and wispy, his beard matted on his chin. His appearance hit her like a stone, and stunned the rest of the family into silence. Martha recoiled when he drew near her, so he turned to Minna.
    â€œMy little
shana madel
,” he said, using the endearment he had called her since she was born, “my beautiful girl.” He threw out his arms and hugged her close, and she could feel his bones through his sweater.
    Later that evening, as they lit the Sabbath lights, the family was quiet, careful, but Minna’s mother’s voice assumed a tone of anger mixed with anxiety that, even years later, never went away. Her resentment increased when Minna’s father found a new position as a secretary to a well-known economist and moved the family to a modest house on the outskirts of the Jewish district of Vienna. There was a solid Jewish middle class there, he had argued, and many of his friends had grown wealthy and powerful under the Hapsburg monarchy. Hundreds of Jewish families like their own had streamed into the city in those days, escaping the growing movement of anti-Semitism in the countryside outside Hamburg, and seeking opportunity and culture unequaled in Europe. But his reasoning fell on deaf ears. Emmeline missed her native Germany and blamed Berman for their disgrace and economic hardship. After all, her family had been socially prominent, if not wealthy, and the calamity of his imprisonment had taken away their good name.
    â€œVienna oppresses me,” she said peevishly. “The noise from the street is unbearable. And all those ugly steeples!”
    â€œI like it here,” Minna would respond, cool and defiant, indirectly defending her father. “It’s so boring in the country. There’s nothing to do in Hamburg.”
    While her mother went on and on, listing her grievances about the city, “the jaded avant-garde, the damp weather, the shabby synagogue . . .” her father would retreat to his chair, smiling wanly. Later on, Minna would sit by his side, and they would play cards or read. She would often think of these moments, when it was just the two of them.
    The night before he died, Minna and her father went out for their usual evening stroll. There was always a burst of vitality and life on the streets of Vienna, and Minna loved to look at the handsomely clad men in silk top hats and the women in elaborate feathered hats, fashionable gowns, and glossy fur capes as they gathered in the grand entrance of the Hotel Imperial and the popular Café Central. She would watch sleek black carriages arrive at restaurants filled with people smoking and laughing and drinking bitter-brewed
Kaffee
mi
t Schlag
. The air was filled with mist and light and music. And, Minna thought, as much as my mother hates this city, this is how much I love it.
    She could remember the exact moment when she got the news. She was back at the dress shop, discussing which of Martha’s many suitors would fill up her dance card, when a white-faced Eli burst through the door. Berman had been crossing the Ringstrasse at a busy intersection when he collapsed in the middle of the street. According to passersby, he had stood still for a moment, clutching his arm, and then dropped in a heap on the cobblestones, a carriage swerving suddenly to miss him. He was just fifty-three years old. Dead from a massive heart attack.
    For the next few days, everything was focused on arranging the burial, which according to Jewish tradition, had to take place two days after the death. Emmeline was inconsolable and even more sharp-tongued than usual. She sat in the drawing room, alone at the end of the sofa, her needlework untouched on her lap. Curtains were drawn, mirrors covered with black crepe, and clocks stopped at the time of death.
    â€œWe are left with nothing, girls. Nothing.”
    Emmeline’s anger was matched by Minna’s unimaginable disappointment. She was astounded at the loss, at the