Atzgersdorf, Vienna

I have returned to Vienna several times since I left it as a child. One of the most memorable visits was in 2010 when I took my husband Peter and our daughter Ella, then 14. We made our way by public transport to the place where I used to live. It is an outer suburb bordering the state of Lower Austria called Atzgersdorf.

When we arrived at the station, I still knew exactly which way to go. It had been 42 years since I had lived there but I could find my way home. To my surprise, the suburb hadn’t changed much at all. It was still a working-class suburb, down at heel and drab. When we arrived at my old address, Endresstrasse 5, I took an obligatory photo and was ready to keep walking. 

‘Don’t you want to go in?’ Peter asked. 

‘You can’t just go into a block of flats,’ I replied, ‘the front doors are always locked.’

‘Ring a bell to one of the flats and explain that you have come all the way from Australia,’ he said.

I shook my head. It was such an antipodean response. No one would do such a thing here, I thought. You don’t just barge in. Seeing that I was about to walk away, my husband went over to the large wooden door, pushed down on the handle, and found it open.

‘We’re going in,’ he announced.

As we entered the building, we saw how dilapidated it had become. Patches of mortar were missing, and curled layers of peeling paint drooped from the walls. I could just make out the year 1908 above the entrance. Nothing had been repaired in over forty years.

We made our way up the staircase to the first floor. The central toilet block servicing all the flats was still there.  So were the two antiquated taps on either side with marble sinks below them. I wondered whether people were still filling up buckets for cooking or whether there was at least running water in the apartments.

Then, as we rounded the corner, I saw the door to our old flat. It looked as if no-one had lived there for quite a while. Dozens of official envelopes as well as yellowed catalogues spilled out from under the door. It was as if the tenant had left one morning and forgot to return. I looked away. 

            Ella was the first to speak.

‘You lived here?’she asked in disbelief. 

I wish I could have answered her with more than a single syllable. Yes, I lived here and yes it was shabby even back then. But it was also home. It was where I discovered worlds within worlds through reading, where I began to write, where I made friends and lost some. It was where my mother tried to make the best of a broken marriage and where my father gave up on life.  I couldn’t understand these things as a child and maybe I will never fully understand them. But this place was so much more than a shabby building in need of renovation. Archived within its walls are the many years of memories. As a mark of respect, I reached for the smooth, wooden banister and imagined all those who had gone before.

We continued our walk through Atzgersdorf. We walked to the church where I had my first communion, but it was locked. I tried not to let my disappointment show. I love going into churches in Europe where even the small parish churches are richly ornate. I love the smell of frankincense and the candles with the honesty box next to them. I always light a candle for someone in need, for someone who could use positive intervention in their life. It felt wrong to have come all this way and not have a brief chat with God, considering that this was where I had first encountered him through the many rules and rituals that I internalised at Sunday mass.

Next to the parish church buildings we found a small bookshop. As no one in my family can resist an interesting looking bookshop, we found ourselves browsing through the shelves. A young man came to see if we needed assistance. I was interested in buying a book by a local author and he suggested a couple of names. As we began to chat, I confided that I had spent a part of my childhood just around the corner and that I had attended the local school. 

‘You really should go and see someone at the school. I am sure they would be very interested to meet you,’ he said.

I wasn’t so sure but thanked him for his book suggestion and bought a novel set in Vienna. 

When we left, Peter suggested we go across to the schoolhouse. I stood in front of the large wooden entrance and had my photo taken. 

‘Why don’t you go in and say hello?’

‘It would just be an awkward moment. I’d tell them that I used to be a student here and they would be obliged to feign interest.’ 

‘No, you need to tell them that you grew up here, went to Australia and have become a teacher yourself. They would love that story. The prodigal daughter so to speak.’  

I shook my head and wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t explain my reluctance to him or to myself for that matter. 

‘A photo in front of the building is good enough for me,’ I said. 

Peter took out the camera and suspended the moment in time. I wish I could adequately explain why I couldn’t go into the school that day. Or why I couldn’t bring myself ten years later to go into another school I had attended. When faced with the past, it feels as if I am in front of a window looking at a scene that no longer belongs to me. I am the outsider, the intruder, the one looking in and I can’t jump over my own shadow to claim the right to enter. The boundary is invisible to everyone but me. I stand on the threshold, usually on stairs, which can lead me in or out. I’m on the verge and then a strange paralysis takes hold. When my feet finally move, they go in the wrong direction.