The Last Days

by Laurent Seksik

  *

  Lotte woke up bright and early that morning. It had been a month since she’d recovered her health. Her asthma didn’t disrupt her sleep any more and her heart rate had adopted a slower rhythm. She was once more the young woman he’d laid eyes on seven years earlier. The whole house was under a spell. The illness had been scared off. The Devil no longer darkened their door.

  It was sometime around noon when Lotte came home. She had accompanied Rosaria to the market. They had walked along the Rua da Imperatriz and stopped in front of the cathedral, which was swarming with a crowd of worshippers; they had then gone down Avenida Koeler, admired the Palacio Rio Negro and crossed the canal to reach Praça Rui Barbosa.

  “Rosaria thinks my accent has improved, and to think of all the trouble I had with English!… We stopped by a stall close to the Casa do Barão—the guava juice was delicious!”

  Her voice no longer quivered. Her face no longer bore the signs of fear. Her melancholy had lifted entirely. She had come back to life.

  “Today,” she carried on, “Rosaria taught me a number of things. Soon I’ll have learnt as much Portuguese as you and I’ll finally be able to go to Rio on my own, seeing as how you don’t enjoy going there and would prefer to stay here, which I can of course understand, you have to write, and you can finally get to down to work in total tranquillity. I would really love to stroll down the Avenida Rio Branco, go to the Praça Floriano theatre, walk on the beach… To ask ‘Where is the bus stop?’ you say: ‘Onde é o ponto de ônibus?’; ‘a ticket for’ is ‘uma passagem para’; ‘I want to go’ is ‘Quero ir para’; ‘to go shopping’ is ‘fazer compras’; ‘it’s too expensive’ is ‘muito caro’.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I want that dress: muito caro!”

  He told her she could go to Rio by herself; they would book her a taxi and Koogan’s nephews could take her around the city.

  “What about you?” she asked. “You’re the one I want by my side. I know it’s not a good time for you. You’ve finally started writing again. I shouldn’t distract you. Did you work well last night?”

  He nodded. He had gradually recovered his focus. He had begun researching Montaigne at the public library in Petrópolis and, much to his surprise, had found quite a few books on the French writer on its shelves. Fate had given him another push in the right direction: Fortunat Strowski, the renowned authority on Montaigne, was now living in Rio. Koogan had offered to arrange a meeting.

  “You see,” she said, “the tide is turning. The bad times are already behind us.”

  She was right. The best was yet to come.

  “It’s such a beautiful day outside. Come and take the air with me, you’ll go back to writing later feeling invigorated.”

  They went to a little square by Avenida Koeler and sat down on the terrace of a café, where a number of wealthy cariocas were also seated, no doubt enjoying their summer holiday in the resort.

  They ordered. Soon enough, one of the ladies left her group, walked in their direction, stood in front of Stefan and launched into the following in a heavily accented English:

  “Excuse me, you’re… Stefan Zweig, aren’t you? The newspapers have reported your presence in Petrópolis. My name is Consuela Burgos, my husband is Professor Burgos, the best surgeon in Rio… I’ve read all your books: Beware of Pity, Fear and Downfall of the Heart, and the one I’ve been rereading nonstop, Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman. I have always asked myself how a man could possibly penetrate the female psyche to such an extent. What’s your secret, does it come down to research, do you interview women? Where do you dig up all of these truths? I tend to use an expression whenever I speak about you, I call you a soul searcher… Through you, I was able to visit Monte Carlo with Mrs C., the heroine of your book, and I must admit that I too fell madly in love with that young man and his beautiful hands… and, if I may confide in you, since you’ve become something of a friend, a friend whose words warm the heart, that I too once experienced such passions, unfortunately the affair was short-lived, but he stole my heart regardless, one should never trust men… Well, let’s forget about the past. I have another confession to make: I have written some novellas, a little like yours, in which I describe women who have been ravaged by their passions, but my heroines are different from yours, they never think of putting their lives to an end, no, they’re too keen on living for that, and don’t you think that in a way they’re right? Isn’t life worth living in a place like this, which has been blessed by the gods? No, these ladies always wind up going back to their cherished husbands, who forgive their wives for having strayed, after all, it’s only an affair. If you would be so kind, I will leave my manuscripts at the bar tomorrow and you’ll get back to me about them, won’t you? Don’t make me wait too long, my calm appearance belies a tormented soul… Before I take my leave, I would like to thank you on behalf of the Brazilian people for your book Brazil, Land of the Future. My husband said that it was as if you’d anatomized our continent… But above all else, don’t you listen to any of those criticisms launched against you, we know that this book wasn’t commissioned by the government, that our president didn’t pay you to sing this country’s praises. You’re an honest man, Mr Zweig, and even if your book regrettably paints a folkloristic portrait of Brazil, let me ask you, what else could one expect from a foreigner? And as I’ve said to those who criticized you: you specialize in the hearts of women, not the hearts of countries. It’s as if someone asked my husband to treat tuberculosis, why he would just go ahead and remove the patient’s lungs… You described Brazil exactly as you saw it, and as I’m standing right in front of you, I can confirm that your gaze is far more intense than photographs of you would suggest. You have an honest look in your eyes, and if your wife would allow me, because presumably this is your wife, delighted to meet you, madam, it’s an honour, I expect you are fully aware of how privileged you are to be married to such a man, married to a man who probes the hearts of women, you better believe it, married to the man who pierces through men’s bodies, you’re really lucky… I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so, before taking my leave, could you sign my handkerchief, there you are, it’s cut from the nicest cloth, heartfelt thanks, Mr Zweig, and above all follow my advice, forget about all the articles that accused you of betraying your host country. Don’t believe a word they say: ‘Zweig sold his pen for a visa’, or those who maintain that Brazil, Land of the Future was commissioned by the government. No, you’re not a propagandist working for our great President Vargas—may God watch over his soul—all those who speak about you like that are nothing but malicious gossips. You’re goodness personified.”

  She grabbed the autographed handkerchief and returned to her table.

  He had grown sombre and was staring into space. Lotte waved a hand in front of his eyes.

  “You see? It’s wonderful, you’re just as famous here as in Vienna!”

  He suggested they go back home.

  *

  The doorbell echoed in the silent dusk. He heard the housekeeper’s footsteps in the corridor. He overheard a commotion and turned his head.

  “Happy birthday, Stefan!”

  They had all gathered in the entrance to the lounge: Abrahão Koogan and his wife, Cláudio de Souza, the chair of Brazilian PEN, as well as Ernst Feder and wife—Feder was the former editor-in-chief of the Berliner Tageblatt and had recently moved into the house next door. Stefan stood up and embraced his friends one after the other as Lotte looked on from a corner of the room, slightly removed from the commotion. This little party to celebrate Stefan’s sixtieth birthday had been her idea, which she’d hatched in secret over a long period of time. She had hesitated and had even abandoned her plans on a number of occasions. She recalled his words on the matter: “We don’t have the right to be happy in times like this, neither as men nor as Jews. We’re neither better nor more precious than those of us still being hunted down in Europe.” Throughout the week leading up to
the party, she had employed a number of ruses in order to make the necessary arrangements. She feared how he might react—he didn’t like surprises and he loathed being feted. On top of that, he abhorred the idea of celebrating his sixtieth birthday. The contrast between his fiftieth and sixtieth birthdays was startling. That decade had seen him transported from a realm of light into one of darkness. On his fiftieth, Stefan had received tons of letters from friends and readers from across the world at his home in Kapuzinerberg. Whereas today he had no fixed address and all his books had gone up in smoke. The 28th of November 1941 terrorized him. He was sixty. He felt he was getting old. A few more months and he would have outlived his father. His friends Ernst Weiss, Erwin Rieger and Ernst Toller had decided to put an end to their lives, while others had either been murdered or were rotting away in Dachau. Happy birthday? He hadn’t wanted to spend the day at home. He had accepted Lotte’s suggestion that he visit Teresópolis, fifty kilometres north of Rio. They had strolled along the pavements of the city, which was nestled on a mountainside. They had seen the peaks and valleys of the Serra dos Órgãos stretching out as far as the eye could see from every street corner. They had stopped at a restaurant on the Avenida Feliciano-Sodré. It had been a pleasant day. They’d had no reason be to be afraid. On their return, towards the end of the afternoon, he had found a present on top of the table in the lounge, a present that had thrilled him. How on earth had she found Balzac’s collected works at the antiquarian bookseller’s on Rua São José? Although the edition was several decades old, it was complete. He had seen this as a good omen. Balzac had found his way to him. Perhaps all the notes he had collected on the Frenchman in London would also be in his hands soon enough. He had reasons to hope.

  Once he’d embraced all his guests, it was time to open his presents. Ernst Feder was the first up, with a leather-bound volume of Montaigne’s works.

  “Here you are, my dear Stefan, may his wisdom dispel all your dark thoughts…”

  Then came Abrahão Koogan’s turn. A little dog jumped out of the half-open knapsack he was holding in his hand. The fox terrier triggered a wave of laughter when he licked the legs of the assembled guests. De Souza presented him with a paperback edition of Brazil, Land of the Future inscribed with birthday greetings from Soarès, the foreign minister.

  Next the housekeeper handed him the dozen telegrams that had arrived at the house during the day. Lotte slipped away when her husband started reading a telex his ex-wife had sent him from New York. She returned a moment later bearing what she knew was the most wonderful present of them all: a parcel from Jules Romains, which had arrived the previous day. From his base in New York, his French friend had put together a Festschrift, a celebratory book assembled in the traditional German manner—a glorious gift with which to commemorate a birthday. It was a limited edition of the texts given at the conference that the French author had convened in Paris in 1939 entitled “Stefan Zweig: A Great European”. Its fifty pages sketched a laudatory portrait of the Viennese humanist and came in two volumes, one of which was leather-bound and in French, printed by Éditions de la Maison Française, and the other of which was in English. Jules Romains’s book moved Stefan to tears. Friderike was forgotten!

  Feder leafed through the book. “Now you can die in peace,” he said. “They’ve already printed your obituary.”

  They dined on a roast served with potatoes on the side, which had been prepared according to a European recipe that Lotte had taught Rosaria, although it had come out a little too spicy and undercooked. When it was time for dessert, Lotte was briefly tempted to open the bottle of champagne that Feder had brought. Yet she remembered her husband’s words: “Jews have nothing to celebrate these days, surviving is the best they can hope for.” No, champagne would be over the top.

  When the meal was over, he stood up and went to his desk to pick up a slightly rumpled sheet of paper that had been scribbled on. He then returned to the table and tinkled his glass with a spoon to obtain everyone’s silence. He reassured his audience that his speech would not be overly long. He began by thanking everyone present. He unfolded the sheet of paper and explained that he’d composed a poem to mark his birthday and he asked his audience to indulge him. He hadn’t written any poetry for a long time, and this would undoubtedly be his last. The poem’s only real merit was that it voiced his current state of being as faithfully as possible. Stefan put his spectacles on and began to read. His voice trembled, but his eyes were dry—that was the most important thing.

  ‘A MAN OF SIXTY GIVES THANKS’

  The hours dance more gently now

  That years to come are few.

  For only when the wine runs low

  The golden glass shows through.

  Presentiments of closing day,

  When our desires are gone,

  Soothe us far more than they dismay

  Now, in the setting sun.

  We do not ask what we did right

  Or what was not done well.

  And growing old is but the light

  Prelude to our farewell.

  The world before us never lay

  So fair, or life so true,

  As in the glow of parting day,

  When shadows dim the view.

  A silence fell over the room. The audience seemed perplexed. Stefan folded the sheet, put it in his pocket and sat down. Lotte rose abruptly and hurried off to her bedroom, her eyes wet with tears. Feder quipped:

  “You might be well advised to stick to prose… considering the effect your poems have on your loved ones.”

  Stefan excused himself, took his leave and went to join his wife. He sat on the bed, beside the weeping Lotte. He whispered a few soothing words, pulled out a handkerchief and dried her cheeks and forehead. In a choked voice, she looked right into his eyes and said:

  “I don’t want to live in this world without you. I would follow you into the afterlife, don’t leave me alone!”

  He replied that he’d never leave her behind. She could follow him wherever he went.

  Those words assuaged Lotte’s distress. Her sobs dried up and he told her he would be rejoining their guests, suggesting she might like to follow him soon. She concurred, kissed him on the lips, grasped his hand and held him tightly in her arms. He had to go back to the lounge. He walked past the mirror on his way out and smoothed a loose lock of hair into place. He wondered whether his hair would soon fall out, just like his teeth had. He was an old man. He straightened his jacket and left the bedroom. Once back with his guests, he adopted the fixed, slightly vapid smile he usually wore during social occasions, which he thought made him look light-hearted and laid back.

  Before retiring, he went to the bathroom to pick up his sleeping pills, as he did every night. He emptied three capsules out of the bottle and swallowed them with a little water, replaced the lid, changed his mind, and then doubled the dose.

  That night, his mother appeared to him in his sleep. She was pacing up and down the long corridors of the apartment at 17 Rathausstrasse. She was fanning herself gracefully. She wore a long, dark velvet dress. As usual, her high heels didn’t impede her walking and gave the impression she was far taller than her actual height, which was five foot two. She drew nearer, looking radiant, an array of jewels around her neck and bracelets jingling on her wrists. Stefan, a child, was sitting on the floor wearing navy shorts and a striped shirt that she’d picked out for him. He watched her walk by, at a loss as to what to say to make her linger. He ate alone with his brother that evening, like they did every evening. Once she’d walked past, Stefan couldn’t refrain from getting up and running after her to offer up his cheek for a kiss. She pretended to ignore him and kept on walking, without looking back. Once she had reached the end of the corridor, she ordered him back to his room. What was he doing sitting on the floor? That was no way for a Zweig to behave! He started running after her, running until he was out of breath, and when his fingers grazed the fabric of her dress, his world would suddenly fill with
a bright light. His mother was stretched out on her bed, her hair had gone white and her skin had lost its former lustre. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Her eyes were glum and weary. She had lost her hearing. Her cheeks were sunken and her face was pale. He drew near to caress her arm and his hand wandered in the void. He puckered his lips and his mouth kissed the void.

  He woke up with a start, drenched in sweat.

  He hadn’t been able to close his mother’s eyes when she’d died. He hadn’t recited the Kaddish. He hadn’t fulfilled the most important commandment that all Jewish children were bound by. By the time Ida Zweig breathed her last in August 1938, he had long since fled Austria and had been denied permission to return and be by his mother’s bedside. German troops had entered Vienna on 13th March 1938. It had taken only six months for barbarism to be unleashed on the Jews. His mother, an eighty-four-year-old invalid who was hard of hearing, had suffered the worst humiliations. During the early days of the Anschluss, she had witnessed her son’s books burning on the pyres that had been erected on Viennese squares. If that old lady had been able to muster the requisite strengths to stroll through the Prater’s gardens, she would have been forbidden, under penalty of death, to sit on one of the park benches. It hadn’t taken long for her to fall ill. Cousin Egon was granted permission to visit her, but only once a day. Despite costing an arm and a leg, an Aryan nurse had been engaged and given the adjacent room to sleep in. Yet since an Aryan couldn’t sleep under the same roof as a Jew, Egon had been forbidden to remain by Ida’s side during those final nights, when her end had loomed in sight.