Time No Longer

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Through the mathematical magic of biology we shall get rid of the rabble-curse which produces Communism,” continued Kurt with ferocity. Karl still gazed at his brother sadly. In Kurt’s eyes he saw again the somber shadow of the schloss, and he hated, with sudden passion, the thing that caused the shadow. It was this schloss that stood in the swamp that was quenching Kurt’s genius.

  “It should have been destroyed, centuries ago,” he thought, and was startled to discover that he had spoken aloud. Kurt regarded him with pleased surprise, and struck him on the arm.

  “Well!” he beamed. “I am delighted to hear you say this, for you have always been so gentle about the mobs. We’ll make a good National Socialist out of you in time!” But Maria glanced at Karl slyly, and smiled.

  Karl was silent. He began to wonder desperately if he was to go away without seeing Eric, and without inspecting the wondrous box from Africa which his adopted brother had brought back during his explorations on his last holiday. But just when his despair was becoming unbearable, and Kurt’s voice was a drone in his ears, he heard a whistle, a snatch of lieder, and rapid almost running footsteps on the stairway. A moment later a young man in his early thirties literally burst into the room. He was tall and lithe and dark, with brilliant white teeth and hazel eyes glittering with laughter and vivacity. He seemed much younger than he was, for everything crackled and sparkled about him; his energy was visible in his quick expressions, his rapid words, his vehement gestures. He was apt to fatigue much slower natures; but his friends loved him, felt stimulated by his constantly changing face and moving hands and vivid laughter. But only those who truly loved him, as Karl and Gerda did, ever saw him under the blaze and rush of his vitality. They were quite familiar with his melancholy and his dark depressions; when all the light had gone from him, he wore the face of his people, grave and brooding and sorrowful. Strangers found this handsome young man with the crisp black curling hair rather unnerving and somewhat frivolous, for there were so few for whom he cared sufficiently to let them see him as he truly was.

  He had seen Karl only a day or two ago, and had talked to him only that morning on the telephone, but his cry of pleasure and enthusiasm, his quick hug, his delighted eyes, were those of a man seeing a beloved friend for the first time in many years. The air sparkled and fumed about him as he shouted: “Karl! My God, it’s good to see you again!”

  Karl smiled at him fondly. His slower, gentler nature felt as though confronted with a warm and delicious fire. He was different from Eric as though from a different world; yet, curiously, the two men understood each other more deeply, more truly, than they had ever understood any one else.

  “I’m flattered,” he answered. “But how you have changed in these long years since we last saw each other!”

  Eric laughed loudly, glancing at Kurt and Maria for mutual enjoyment of this gentle pleasantry. But Maria was watching her husband maliciously. Kurt’s face had darkened and hardened, and his eyes gleamed like polished stone.

  “Well,” said Eric, “it was only this morning that I talked to you and asked you to come tonight. What is the matter?” he asked, diverted, for Karl’s cool fair cheeks had flushed suddenly.

  “Nothing at all. What should be the matter?” stammered poor Karl. To himself he said: This is ridiculous. I am becoming too sensitive and imagining things that do not exist. I wish Therese had not said what she did last night. But he felt miserable just the same. Everything, these days, was so confused and annoying; events broke in upon a man’s quiet and peace like vulgar voices. No wonder a man became super-sensitive and saw specters.

  But Eric had already forgotten the question. He could think of nothing but his remarkable box which had just arrived. “I haven’t opened it yet!” he cried. “I couldn’t open it until you came. Kurt has been so inquisitive, haven’t you, Kurt?”

  But Kurt appeared anything but inquisitive; he was staring at the floor. The hand that held his cigar trembled slightly. What is the matter with him? thought Karl despairingly, and with unusual irritability. However, Eric had also forgotten about Kurt, and seized Karl by the arm. “Come on!” he said impatiently. “It is so late, and I have papers to correct. I can do nothing until you see the box. It is amazing! You will not believe what I shall tell you! You will thank me; there is material here for a thousand novels. I shall say, when your next novel appears: ‘I gave him that magnificent idea!’” He tugged at Karl’s thin arm again. Karl looked into his eyes; he and Eric often communicated like this, with just a look, just a flicker of an eyelid. Eric understood immediately. He glanced over his shoulder at Kurt. “But Kurt, you are coming, also?”

  “I thought you did not care about extending the invitation,” said Kurt stiffly. But he came forward, still apparently gloomy and dark, but with a slight softening. He looked at his brother Karl as he answered Eric.

  “You are always imagining slights where none exist,” said Karl. He was surprised that his voice had an edge on it. I must control myself, he thought. He smiled at his brother, took his arm. “It will not be so enjoyable without you,” he added, feeling sheepish. But as usual, the most blatant sentimentality was seized upon eagerly by Kurt. At his brother’s words his whole face, his whole stiff body, seemed to melt, to fuse together. He glowed and colored. Karl felt ashamed at these evidences of immeasurable attachment, to which he was accustomed, but which never failed to embarrass and disconcert him. As Kurt took his arm, Karl was filled with mingled annoyance and pity to see how his brother glanced with triumph at Eric, though Eric, had he caught that look, would have been completely bewildered and quite frankly curious.

  They went up the stairway. They passed Frau Reiner’s room, and Karl had to look in and exchange genial remarks with her. He was the old lady’s favorite, and she never failed to express her candid disappointment that he was not her son-in-law instead of Kurt. She was malicious, like her daughter, but she was also intelligent and cunning and very subtle. A terrible old woman, with thin chuckling laughter and an eye. Once Maria had called Karl an innocent, and the old woman had chuckled and shook her head, replying: “Ah, but it is innocence like this which makes us cover our nakedness!” She was a Bavarian, very dark and with black eyes, and a Catholic, all of which made her detest Kurt, who was fair and tall and a Prussian and a Protestant. But none of these identical things made her detest Karl. Last Christmas he had given her a beautiful crucifix, though Kurt had frequently declared that no crucifix should ever enter his house. It was pure gold and ivory and exquisite enamel. Maria had affected to believe that malice had prompted Karl’s gift, but both Kurt and Frau Reiner knew differently. It was his innocence. The crucifix remained, in full view, and on a sort of altar. Kurt’s expression always became gloomy at the sight of it, but still it stayed. He would have died to defend it.

  She asked about Gerda, just to keep Karl in her doorway; she liked to look at him, and listen to his quiet and gentle voice. She had had a lover like him, when she had been young. He made her feel sweet and kind again, for all her knowledge and her years frequently fatigued her, and made her feel dusty and Webbed and somehow dirty. He refreshed her, made her believe she was virtuous and simple once more, instead of a terrible old woman with many sins. “Come often!” she cried, as he said good night.

  Karl had to stop at the rooms of the boys, too, for both of them, even stiff Alfred, so like his father, loved him more than they loved Kurt. They swarmed about him, looking impatiently at each other. It might have been years since they had seen him. He had infinite patience, and his laughter was not assumed. He was genuinely fond of them and interested in them, and he always saw below the surface, with understanding and compassion. Young Wilhelm had a large ugly bruise on his cheek, and seeing that bruise Karl’s lips tightened and paled. He put his arm about the lad’s shoulder, and spoke to him with especial attention. The boys were fond of Eric, also; they treated him like a youth, and they all chaffed each other unmercifully.

  The third floor was already under p
reparation. Painters’ and carpenters’ equipment were neatly lined against the walls. Eric had been moved into two rooms, his bedroom and a sitting room. The sitting room was comfortable and untidy and warm, full of books, heaped tables, sturdy cushioned chairs, lamps and fire and piled papers. Gerda had warned him affectionately that when she was his wife she would see that his private sitting room was well-tidied. She had meant this in fun, but he had taken her seriously, with considerable apprehension. He had gone to the length of installing a thick brass lock on the door, with just one key, which he kept in his pocket.

  Eric had brushed books and papers and cigarettes off the large center table. On this table stood a huge wooden box with a hammer beside it. Eric seized the hammer and began to pound at the box excitedly, until Kurt took the hammer from him with a grunt of amused disgust and opened the box dexterously with a few neat blows. Then they all peered in. Kurt gave another grunt of disgust, larger this time; he was disappointed. He had expected, perhaps, to see fabulous treasures of carved ivory, several uncut and unpolished diamonds, weird woven stuffs with gold threads, idols of beautiful woods, and beads and bracelets of crudely fashioned gold. The first thing that came rudely to his attention was an exceedingly bad smell. He recoiled and said: “Feh!” He wrinkled his nose. But Karl and Eric bent over the box with excitement, regardless of the smell.

  Eric suddenly thrust in his hand and triumphantly dragged out what appeared to be a tiny human head made of brown and wrinkled wood with staring glass eyes. It was perfectly carved, and astoundingly lifelike, with real African human hair, all black wool and friz. The little face was evil, and it smiled wickedly, as though imagining the wildest and maddest thoughts, full of obscenity. The glass eyes had a strange glaring expression, fixed and terrible, as though they were seeing awful things beyond the narrow borders of a safe reality.

  Eric held it up so that his adopted brothers could view it. The lamplight glittered in the glass eyes. For one moment those eyes seemed like Eric’s own, when he was off-guard, and confused. He looked at the little head and beamed affectionately. Kurt was more and more revolted. “Feh!” he said again. But Karl studied it intently.

  “I see. It is a real head. I thought the headhunters had been driven away from the Coast.”

  “Yes, they have been driven away. But this was given to me as a great present from the chief of a tribe. His favorite wife was ill, dying of typhoid. I saved her life. So, he gave me his most treasured possession. The head of his grandfather, who was a witch doctor.” Eric laughed with enjoyment. “One witch doctor to another!” He regarded the head with pride.

  “A real head!” exclaimed Kurt with horror. “Mein Gott, never let Maria know of this! The horrible thing! I must ask you to hide it, preferably in your cabinet at the university.”

  Eric and Karl looked at him with intense amusement. “The heroic and strong-souled German!” said the young Jew mockingly but with affection. “Ah, Kurt, you are all alike! Sentimentalists. Full of fire and blood-lust, but horrified at a brutal reality.” He put the head down very tenderly beside the box. “I imagine you were a better man than I am, Gilu,” he addressed the relic. “You probably used the same hocus-pocus, with possibly better effect. Your patients believed in you. Then, too, you knew a great deal more about the mind and the dark human soul than all the Freuds in the world. What a pair you and Adolph Hitler would have made!”

  Kurt uttered a strangled and animal-like sound. Eric and Karl gazed at him in astonishment. His face had turned purple; the veins had swollen in his head. His fists were clenched, and his forehead glistened with water. He was regarding Eric with hatred and fury.

  “How dare you speak of the German Chancellor like this! How dare you sully the name of Adolph Hitler by speaking his name! It is sacrilege for your mouth to hold his name; it is blasphemy!”

  Eric stared; his mouth fell open. He was covered with amazement. There had never been the rapprochement between him and Kurt as with Karl. He had always teased Kurt, amused at his lack of humor and his heaviness and sentimental gloom; he had even condescended, affectionately. But he had never considered Kurt to be especially intelligent, in spite of the laborious and exquisitely exact scientific research. Eric despised the non-subtle, the humorless, and the ultra-somber. They seemed faintly ridiculous to him, big bears lumbering about with tiny choleric eyes, never seeing the forest nor the flowers nor the clouds. He had also pitied Kurt, and had argued with him endlessly and with patronizing impatience. He had always criticised Kurt, and had made open and good-humored fun of him at times. But he had never dreamed that he had really hurt his adopted brother, for whom he had a mild fondness.

  But as he looked at Kurt now, he was thunderstruck. He realized for the first time that his adopted brother hated him, and that the hatred was not new, but a festering thing of many years, only breaking through the surface now, like an abscess. This is what astounded and made him turn as cold as ice with distress and fear. For the first time in his life he was speechless.

  “Kurt!” gasped Karl, paling. “This is Eric you are speaking to!” He was leaning on the table with the palms of his hands. Now his arms shook so that they could barely support him. He, too, had seen the hatred.

  Kurt swung on him. His face was distorted with grief and bitterness as he looked at his beloved brother. There was a wild and accusing reproach in his eye, which blazed.

  “I am well aware that I am speaking to Eric, Karl! And I am even more well aware of what Eric is! That is why I will not have him mention that Name in my house!” He panted; he seemed to struggle for breath. But his eyes, while still infuriated and full of reproach, seemed to plead with his brother also, with a sort of bitter desperation.

  Karl regarded him steadfastly, growing still paler. “What Name, Kurt?” he asked quietly. “The name of a plebeian sign-painter, an Austrian, who is not even a German? Have you gone entirely mad?”

  Kurt’s bitter desperation and pathetic rage seemed to mount. His face grew even more dusky. His lips shook. He looked like a man about to have a cerebral hemorrhage. “Take care, Karl!” he exclaimed huskily. “Take care! I am your brother, and a member of the Party, but Germany comes before blood, these days. There is nothing but the soul of Germany! There is nothing but the blood and destiny of Germany! There is nothing but Hitler!” And to Karl’s utter stupefaction, he raised his arm in a stiff and wooden gesture and cried: “Heil Hitler!”

  At this Eric burst out into long and uproarious laughter. He laughed and laughed. Kurt still held up his arm, but all at once he appeared a foolish figure to Karl, who felt his anger evaporating. He was even pathetic, and Karl experienced a quick annoyance at Eric, for his laughter, which made poor Kurt appear so absurd. He was about to reprimand his adopted brother when he caught an undernote in that laughter, and he knew immediately that there was no real mirth in it, but a sort of hysteria and wildness and bitterness.

  He knew, too, that something was happening in this room tonight that was momentous and awful, full of prophecy and destiny. Kurt and Eric were symbols of what was happening in Germany, and perhaps in all the world. Karl felt as though he were caught in a dreadful dream, full of monstrous and unbelievable things. He could not speak. He sat down, very slowly and heavily.

  Kurt was still beside himself and surging with violence. And then, as he stood there, trying to restrain himself from attacking Eric, he saw his brother’s face. Karl had put up his hand as if to shield his eyes from the sight of something unbearable. Kurt could see his pale cheek, his chin, his mouth. He could see his trembling hand, so slender and white.

  “Karl,” he said impulsively, and there was a cry in his voice.

  But Karl did not move. It was as though he were hearing nothing but his own thoughts. Eric had stopped laughing, and was silent. His dark face had a curious pallor on it, and his eyes were fixed on Kurt.

  Then Kurt made a gesture that was oddly defenseless and despairing. He turned and went out of the room. He closed the door silently behind
him, which was in itself unusual.

  There was a long silence after his footsteps had died away. Then Eric began to speak, softly and meditatively, as though to himself.

  “I have begun to smell this, this virus, everywhere. I smelt it in my classroom, today, among my pupils. They looked at me so oddly, and once one even laughed, derisively. The others silenced him, but I saw their faces! I smell it in the streets, in the theaters, the rathskellers, the beer-gardens. Strange! I have never thought of myself as a Jew, but only as a German. Other Germans of Jewish blood have felt so, also. And yet, now we smell the virus. There is poison in the air, an effluvia, the breath of pestilence. But where is the serum that can immunize a whole nation? The serum of reason and sanity? It has never been discovered. But until it is discovered, no one in all this world is safe.”

  Karl dropped his hand. He looked ill and haggard. “Let us not talk of—this, just tonight,” he said in a stifled voice. “I’m a fool. I’m just a futile man of letters. I’ve lived in a cloister. I never knew what was happening. I—I must orient myself. You must forgive me, Eric, but I must have time to think, and understand. You must forgive me for being such an imbecile.” He indicated the box. “Please. Eric, let us look at these things.”

  Eric hesitated, and sighed. Then his irrepressible gaiety came back, partly naturally, partly for regard for Karl. He laughed a little. He picked up the head of the savage witchdoctor and put it on the mantelpiece in a position of honor. Then he raised his arm in Kurt’s own stiff salute and cried “Heil Hitler!” Karl watched him. He smiled involuntarily, like a man momentarily diverted from pain. Eric came back to the table and in a changed voice began to talk about the weird things he pulled from the box.