Ida Zweig had died alone on a summer night in 1938. Stefan had felt almost relieved when he’d heard the news. The Nazis had managed to ensure a son would feel relieved by his own mother’s death. At least she had been spared from suffering further abuses and unspeakable cruelties. A few months later, they had forced all the Jews in Vienna to vacate their flats, relocating them outside the Ring, cramming entire families into dilapidated houses. In the space of a year, Vienna had been cleansed of all its Jews.
Although he had given eulogies for so many of his loved ones, from Rilke to Freud, he hadn’t recited the Kaddish for his mother. But he didn’t know how to pray in Hebrew. His parents hadn’t wanted him to learn the language of his ancestors. Who cared about being Jewish in Vienna back then?
DECEMBER
THE SPIRIT OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT had loomed over the hills ever since Ernst Feder had arrived in Petrópolis. The man had been in charge of the Berliner Tageblatt, a distinguished newspaper. Prior to the advent of fascism, the neighbours had met one another numerous times in Berlin. Feder had been proud to list Stefan Zweig among his occasional columnists for his literary pages. Whom hadn’t he written for since his first review had been published in Herzl’s Neue Freie Presse in 1901? He had written for every paper and magazine Europe had to offer, praising renowned writers to the skies or introducing emerging talents. Stefan’s own critical reception had been far from welcoming. They had reproached him for his lifelessness and his flippant flights of fancy, only then to seek his support. That travelling circus seemed so shallow and far-removed today.
On some nights he had dined with Feder at the Café Élégant, a restaurant whose tables were arranged at the bottom of Rua Dias. It was a tiny greasy spoon with a frontage that was only a few feet wide, but they offered a variety of dishes besides black beans on their menu and their coffee was better than any he’d had in Vienna. Seated on that terrace in front of a friend who spoke his language, Stefan felt as though he’d stepped back in time.
He was very fond of Feder. He had missed his sense of humour, as well as his cool, detached way of looking at world events. He had the ability to make light of one’s worst fears. He was quintessentially German in that way and every inch a Jew. “I remain a natural optimist,” he would dare to say. “Considering the recent turn of events, the Reich is definitely not going to be around for a thousand years. I give them five hundred years at the most… Come on, I guarantee you that just as fervently as I once expressed it to Walter Benjamin: we have no reason to despair!” By what accident of history had the Austrian writer and the journalist from Berlin found themselves in the middle of that valley surrounded by the jungle? They talked about the past. They talked about literature. They evaluated the comparative merits of Heine and Schiller, chatted about Goethe and Nietzsche. They tallied the books they’d been able to take into exile with them. They argued over the “Young Vienna” school. They mused about whether writers like Schnitzler, Hofmannsthal, Rilke, Wassermann and Hesse were still worth reading. Yet they never broached the subject of which of these would be remembered by posterity. They never talked about the future. There was no future in this place. Even the present seemed a little unreal. There they were, just the two of them, like a decade earlier, except that creepers had entwined themselves around the café’s sign. The cries of monkeys emerged from the nearby jungle. No, it wasn’t Vienna. They were neither at the Café Central nor at the Café Museum. Petrópolis looked like a ghost city and they were the ghosts. It would have come as no surprise to Stefan had the trees and the mountains started to move and darkness engulfed the earth and the sky.
When their talk shifted to current events, the conversation quickly ran out of steam. They became as silent as though they’d been watching a funeral procession march by. After which they asked the café owner to bring them a chessboard. They began to play. Stefan was a mediocre player, even though he had recently picked up a little book that summarized the games played by the greatest grandmasters, a book he’d brought with him from New York without really knowing why. He had begun reading it on the boat that had brought them to Brazil and a new idea had come to him. He didn’t know what he would do with this story once he’d finished writing it. The plot had taken shape, at first in his head, then the words had come to him, almost effortlessly. He had never been prey to writer’s block. He would have certainly preferred to be better acquainted with the agonies of writing. He wrote like he thought. He sketched out the characters quickly, adventures would pop up in his mind and the plots, which were all alike, would begin to take shape. He would have loved to plumb the depths of souls a little longer and a little deeper, but after a few weeks he had always come to the conclusion that he’d exhausted all of his material. In the end, they were all invariably similar to one another: short stories about single-minded passions, irrepressible loves and macabre consequences. Everything was irremediably greedy and exuberant—in other words, the complete opposite of his own character. His work lit a succession of conflagrations in the hearts of his heroes, who would throw themselves head first into the flames while he burned on the inside. Indeed, when it came to the subjects of his stories, it was always the same old tune. The characters would attempt to resist their passions and once they relented and gave in to them, their guilty consciences prompted them either to turn their backs on life or to lapse into madness. As far as he was concerned, his work was governed by an overly simplistic mechanism: the fires of passion and the flames of hell. He reproached himself for never having scratched past the emotional surface of things, of never having struck the right tone, yes, that’s right, that was the reason he’d never been able to write anything but short stories. He’d never had the courage to plumb the depths of his characters. He had never accomplished the feat of narrating an entire life. He’d never written a masterpiece, a voluminous, heavy novel, something both dense and pacey, like Berlin Alexanderplatz and The Magic Mountain… Klaus Mann and Ernst Weiss had been right to mock him. He was nothing but a minor writer, a dilettante, a mundane chronicler, an inveterate bourgeois who hadn’t suffered for his art. As for his current heroes, the chess players, he still had no idea of what would happen to them, but Dr B. would undoubtedly discover the destinies of all the other characters would lead to either death or suicide.
One evening, Feder had confided in him: “Well, I’ve lost my house, my country, my newspaper and I don’t know whether most of my family has managed to find a safe haven, but I’ve got a good reason to be satisfied with my condition: imagine the book I’ll be able to write once all this is over. I picture it as a sort of Robinson Crusoe, but one that speaks to the German-Jewish experience and is told through the eyes of Friday. Yes, I’ll be Friday, and since the fate of Jews everywhere is hanging in the balance, I’ll call myself Saturday, yes, Sabbath will be my pseudonym, an illustrious, holy name. I will be Sabbath and I will live on an island alongside the great Crusozweig. My book will tell the story of this Crusozweig, alone in the middle of the jungle. Put your mind at ease, I’m not taking any notes. I’ve inscribed everything on my memory. I can see the title on the jacket cover: Five Years with Stefan Zweig—yes, I share your natural optimism, of course the war won’t be over until 1946 or 1947. I’ve already got the climax in mind, it will be a chapter called ‘The Day that Zweig Smiled’. But the chapter entitled ‘The Day Zweig Shed a Tear’ will also be good… We’ll hit the lecture circuit. You’ll stand beside me and all you’ll have to do is nod your head. My book will cast the spotlight on you. I will reveal that you are in fact quite a jolly man, always up for a laugh, easy to get on with, that you see life through rose-tinted glasses and that you want nothing out of life other than to smoke a fine cigar. Yes, I, Ernst Feder, will be the biographer of the man who will become the first Jewish Nobel laureate as soon as the war is over! Fine, I forgot about Bergson, but was Bergson really a writer?…”
Feder was being sarcastic of course. He was well acquainted with Stefan’s novels and his comments had always provided
welcome encouragement. With a trusted reader like Feder, he felt himself becoming a writer again, in short, he finally felt like himself again. He rediscovered his identity. He was able to escape the punishment of exile.
“What I really like about you,” Feder explained, “is your Freudian undertone. Exactly, Freudian. You’re not a storyteller. You use a narrator to give an account and this narrator interacts with an outsider, who in turns hears the narrator’s confession. You have taken the technique of the embedded narrative to unparalleled heights. You have invented the literary psychoanalytical novel. You are Freud’s alter ego, not Schnitzler. As far as I’m concerned, what’s really interesting about your books is the relationship between the narrator and the interlocutor. I’m fascinated more by this confessor than by your heroes, this being who remains in the shadows and who never passes judgement. Unlike most writers, you’re never the hero of your own books. Your ‘I’ is like a ghost inside this being who is the repository of all the world’s miseries… Your novels won’t be remembered for the way they evoke the world of yesterday, that dear forgotten world of yours, but as the chronicle of a carnage. You’re fooling yourself if you hope to be remembered as the master storyteller of the old gilt days or the great bard of nostalgia. The characters in your books are a testament to the destruction of the world… and please forgive my bluntness here but your heroes only ever talk about your own wound and they chronicle every stage of your long downward spiral. You shy away from activism, refuse to sign our petitions or fight with the exile organizations, you once even placed your hopes in Chamberlain, which goes to show, doesn’t it? But your fight lies elsewhere, you’re engaged in documenting the destruction of the world. You had so assimilated yourself into that Viennese world, that dear departed Mitteleuropean culture, that when the Nazis destroyed it, you got torn apart in the process. What you describe, as though you’d foreseen it, and what your books express, through the madness of your heroes, is the story of your own annihilation—and this story is so intense and candid, your writing is so painstaking and crisp, that your work and your personality have blended seamlessly into one. Your characters never stood a chance. They were doomed as soon as they opened their mouths or exchanged a first glance with someone. You lead them to the place where you have spent the entirety of your life… under the rubble. I don’t know whether this is a divine gift or a hellish curse. The Nazis are the embodiment of evil, while you’re catastrophe personified. You’re the writer of disaster… All right, now where was I? You moved your bishop to d6, didn’t you?… So I’ll move my queen to c7. I’ve got one word for you: checkmate!”
*
Lotte was running down Avenida Koeler, blue in the face. Whenever she found herself gasping for air, she would put down her basket loaded with fruit and vegetables at the foot of a tree. Let the children help themselves to it! Let them throw a street party in the city square! Let the women wear their jewels and the men crack open bottles of champagne! This day was a great day. This day would be remembered for ever as the most celebrated day in the history of mankind. Light had come back to earth. God had broken through the silence. America was entering the war! She had just heard the news. The historic event was on the front pages of all the dailies featured in the news-stand on the market square. She had read and reread all the headlines to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. The news-stand owner had assured her she wasn’t dreaming: Roosevelt had declared war on Germany and Japan. Tremble with fear Hitler, your days are numbered!
In a month’s time, the Flying Fortresses she had seen on the newsreels would descend on Europe. Armadas of ships would unleash millions of GIs on the beaches of the Atlantic coast. The soldiers of Liberty would have the German butchers for breakfast! The forces of Good would vanquish the demons. They were saved! Jews would be celebrating this day in Katowice, Frankfurt and Vienna, singing hymns to the Lord! Their ordeal had come to an end. America had reached out its hand to the damned. Quick, she had to give Stefan the news! He wouldn’t have heard it. He had recently decided to stop reading newspapers and listening to the radio. He could no longer put up with the bulletins of tragedies and catastrophes getting in the way of his work. He had sequestered himself. But he had started writing again. He had finished his Montaigne, had just put the finishing touches on his story about chess players and had begun a novel whose heroine was called Clarissa—Clarissa, what an odd idea! He had come to terms with the madness of men. But today the tide had finally turned. A new era had been ushered in. The time of solitude and chaos was a thing of the past. Tomorrow, Brazil would rally around the United States and men throughout the Americas would enlist and board ships destined for Europe. Victories would come thick and fast and entire populations would rise up and rebel against the German butchers. The troops of the Reich would desert en masse. It was 1941 and the war was over! In two months’ time, soldiers would cross the Rhine. In three, they would lay siege to Vienna and Frankfurt. Berlin would fall into the hands of the Allies. Yes, by July 1942 crowds of ecstatic Jews would dance the old Jewish dances around the soldiers and sing hymns to the Lord and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, may God bless that saintly man. They were saved! Next year in Vienna! Yes, she would walk along the Ring arm in arm with her husband. They would be welcomed at the Central Station in Vienna by a horde of journalists. A flurry of camera flashes. “Mr and Mrs Zweig have arrived in Vienna,” the photo captions would read. “Above, Mrs Lotte Zweig joins her husband at the Beethoven Café.” For the first time, they would walk side by side down the pathways of the Schönbrunn garden. Make their rounds through the Prater’s park. She would walk up the steps of the Burgtheater leaning on his arm. In order to celebrate the return of the city’s prodigal son, the mayor would decide to schedule a new performance of Jeremiah. During the premiere, the audience would give him a standing ovation, applauding the author as he walked onto the stage… alongside his young wife. They would sleep in the royal suite at the Hotel Continental. They would dine at Sluka. Then they would treat themselves to Sachertorte at Demel. Walking past the bookshops on the Burggasse, they would spot Stefan Zweig’s books in prominent places on all the shelves. Men would tip their hats in the street. They would express delight at their return. They had waited too long to do so—and why had they even left in the first place? Had Vienna ever stopped being the city of lights?
They had to be patient, hold on for another six or seven months. After all, she was only thirty years old. If she looked ten years older, it was because of her illness and the pressures of life in exile. In Vienna, she would recover her youth and be known as the stylish Mrs Zweig. Who knows, perhaps some men might even decide to pay her court? Yes, the idea of being seduced delighted her. Glory to the Lord and glory to America which had given beauty back to the exiles! A reception would be given in Zweig’s honour in the great hall of the Opera. Theirs would be the first dance of the ball. They would dance, solemnly, as if they were the only couple in the world, ignoring the others as they looked on. Perhaps as other couples began to join in and as euphoria filled the room, Stefan might lean over and whisper, “I love you, Lotte… I love you,” into her ear. It would be the first time she’d ever heard him utter that phrase, and those words would be meant solely for her, Elizabeth Charlotte Zweig, and nobody else. Maybe she would pretend not to hear him? She would make him repeat it and Zweig’s lips would part again to mouth those words. She would heap blessings upon the Lord, the king of the universe, who in his great clemency had finally allowed that moment to come. Amen.
She climbed the slope that led to the house, so cheerful that she was oblivious to her panting. She was drenched in sweat and gasping for air, thanks to all that crazy running under the midday sun. What did she care? They were saved. Hallelujah! They were going to live! The 8th of December 1941. They weren’t alone any more.
She caught her breath before going in. To curb her enthusiasm. She felt feverish. She was in such a hurry to see a smile light her beloved’s face. As soon as she gave him the news, he would no
doubt embrace her and plant a kiss on her lips. Perhaps—though she preferred not to get her hopes up—he might lead her into the bedroom and they would make love right there and then, in that place, on that day, and yes, she would give birth to a child nine months later while on a ship back to Europe. She bit her lips so as not to scream with joy. She was going to be a mother!
She opened the door and took a few steps down the corridor. Her husband’s shadow loomed over the veranda. He was sitting in his armchair and appeared to be dozing. Or maybe he was in the midst of daydreaming about Clarissa, or his impossibly difficult Balzac. “You’ll be able to resume work on your masterpiece. The oceans will soon be safe to cross. Your precious research will leave London, cross the oceans and reach safety. You’ll have finished your Balzac before V-Day. The war is over, over!”
She walked on her tiptoes until she was right in front of him. No, he wasn’t sleeping. On seeing her, he smiled, using the same forced smile that no longer fooled her. At the exact moment when she’d opened her mouth to give him the news, her eyes had fallen on that day’s newspaper spread out over his knees, with its jubilant banner headline. Her eyes drifted back to her husband. The man remained impassive. Something shattered inside her. She was assailed by a feeling of great distress and confusion. How could he cling to that sad expression when the end of the nightmare had been announced? What more could he possibly want? The Resurrection of the Dead?
In a voice that still betrayed some of its former excitement, she asked:
The Last Days Page 8