GITTA HONEGGER
497
certainly did. Intentionally or not, Bernhard seemed destined to bring
out the worst in his fellow citizens, who continued his drama in the
streets and in the press. No doubt, Bernhard himself was also a masterful
public performer of the
Nestbeschmutzer
who, in his most ferocious
distortions, was no match for the real
Schmutz
in Waldheim's nest. But
there was always the other side to the mask. Some say that he was more
deeply wounded than ever by the reactions to
Heldenplatz.
The last time I saw Bernhard was during the summer before his
death, at the height of the Peymann scandaL Rehearsals for
Heldenplatz
were already under way (four months before the scheduled opening!),
but many of the one-hundred forty-four members of the Burgtheater's
company were angry and hurt by Peymann's condescending remarks.
In
solidarity with the ensemble, his lead actor had just resigned. There were
strong demands for Peymann's resignation, from within the theater, from
government circles, and from the public. Peymann, who already had
written some letters of apology, was expected to explain himself further
that evening on television, on the popular discussion program
Cafe Zen–
tral.
I met Bernhard at the Cafe Imperial, in the famous old Hotel
Im–
periaL Like Uncle Robert in
Heldenplatz ,
he was a self-confessed newspa–
per and tabloid junkie, who without them would "suffocate": "without
that Austrian newspaper crap! You save yourself huge amounts of costly
medication! if you expose yourself first thing in the morning to the
complete idiocy of the
Kronen zeitllng
and the
Kuri er!
that get your cir–
culation going in a rage first thing in the morning."
Like so many Viennese , he spent much time in cafes, reading inter–
national newspapers with his cup of coffee and glass of water, quietly re–
filled by unhurried waiters. The Imperial was a rath er odd choice, its
ambien ce a bit staid and perfunctory compared, say, to the nostalgi c
charm of the Sacher. As I think about it now, whether deliberate or
not, it was a shrewdly theatri ca l setting - in the midst of
Anschluss
preoccupations and Heldenplatz speculations. Hitler had waved to the
crowds from the hotel's central balcony facing the Ringstrasse. A Jewish
friend of mine, an elderly gentleman who recently had returned to Vi–
enna for the first time since the war, was told by a proud waiter that he
was sitting in the same chair Hitler had sat in . Children, particularly girls,
who grew up in Vienna ri ght after the war remember the hotel as the
headquarters of the occupying Soviet Army , with the uniformed guards
as the incarnations of the terror and the sins of war hinted at in hushed
stories and in whispered, euphemistic warnings.
Bernhard seemed restless , preoccupied, and fraiL In the years I had
known him, the tall, seemingly athletic build which belied his delicate
