Karl understood and bowed his head.
Later, Victoria approached them and said, “Will you boys be going upstairs?”
“Alas, we’re no longer young,” said Martin.
“I’m the one who decides that.” The cognac spoke from her throat. She was so drunk that she forgot the two of them had converted and praised the Jews: “Jews,” she said, “are very dear to me. First of all, they’re mentschen. Lots of Jewish students have passed through here. What brilliant minds. Austria without the Jews would be an empty barrel. The Jews give Austria its balls! You can’t deny it. Do you hear?”
“We hear you, loud and clear,” Karl called out.
“In that case, do as Victoria says and go upstairs.”
“Not today, sweetie,” Martin said softly.
“As you please. I won’t get in your way. You’re big boys.”
Later, they sat for a long while without speaking. Karl suddenly saw his mother’s face. A year before her death, she had spoken often of her native village. Sometimes it seemed that she wasn’t so much drawn to it but, rather, that someone from there was tugging at her. Karl’s father promised that as soon as she got better, they would take their savings and go back. She had believed him at first, and even made preparations, but as her illness progressed, she realized she would never return home. Once she said to Karl, in passing, “It would be worth your while to go there, at least for the beautiful scenery.” But when he asked for details, she changed her mind and said, “No, it’s very old. Everything is crumbling there. You won’t like it.”
On their way home, Martin said, “Victoria is a very, very generous woman. I don’t say that to flatter her. It’s the truth.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Karl confirmed. “Very true.”
“In my youth she would sometimes take me upstairs for free.”
“Me too!”
“One doesn’t forget favors like that, my friend.”
“You don’t. That’s true.”
Thus they stumbled about drunk for a full hour, leaning on each other, and the friendship that had been somewhat strained in recent years was renewed. Near his front door, Karl hugged Martin and said, “It was a memorable evening. Thank you.”
CHAPTER
2
The next morning Karl woke up late and immediately got to his feet. In his sleep he had visited several forgotten regions of his past. He sat on his bed. The fine haze that had veiled his awakening gradually dispersed, but the feeling that he had been far away did not. In his sleep he was back at the gymnasium, or, to be precise, on the playing field behind the school building. In that expanse, all that had defined his youth became clear: his ability and his ambition. Unlike some, in him these qualities existed in harmony. On the playing field his body had performed wonders that could be measured with a stopwatch and a tape measure. Here he had spent many of his happiest hours. What came after was merely a tedious marching in place, and, worst of all, the feeling that life is a fierce struggle without purpose.
In the last year of her life, his mother lay in the room next to his, tormented by her illness. It was a long and cruel battle, another one of her organs destroyed every year. His father would sit by her bed, without looking at her or uttering a word. Whenever Karl sat alone with her, she would say, “If your career requires you to convert, do it. I won’t be angry with you. A person has to advance. Without advancement, there is no purpose or meaning to life.”
It was not her own voice speaking but clichés she had picked up in the store. All her life she had been self-reliant and hardworking, and the mistress of her own vocabulary. Now the tables seemed to have been turned: not a single word was her own. They all belonged to others. It was difficult for him to bear this change. He would work overtime, in order to avoid being at home. When he returned at night, everyone was already asleep.
Still, encounters were unavoidable. A week before her death, she had apologized in a tortured voice, “Forgive me for not sending you to Vienna. You know we didn’t have the money.” His mother’s illness completely defeated his father. If he had ever had any will of his own, now that was gone too. Finally they had to sell the store. They sold it for nothing, to the Jewish merchant who turned the place into a flourishing business within a year.
His mother’s illness had been the years of his rise in the public administration. During those years his ties to childhood friends weakened. He became totally immersed in his work. He would return home secretively, along back alleys, and immediately plunge into sleep. His sleep had become the other face of his diligence, not sleep so much as a mere gathering of strength for the next day. Thus it went, year after year, with greater and greater momentum, like an unstoppable locomotive. His superiors appreciated his efforts and kept promoting him. Now the top was in sight.
Karl stepped over to the sink and washed his face with cold water. Contact with the water brought his mother’s face to mind, when she would raise herself up in bed and say to him, “If your career requires you to convert, do it. I won’t be angry with you.” During her illness, lines were etched into her face indicating powerful faith. What sort of faith it was, he didn’t know. He was afraid to ask. Sometimes he would encounter her open eyes, and they seemed to him like two dry streams, in whose beds unseen waters still flowed.
When he entered the silent kitchen to make a cup of coffee, he clearly remembered the evening at Victoria’s, and Martin’s voice saying, “Don’t be envious of me.” Martin’s life had not gone smoothly: he had divorced twice. His first marriage had ended amicably, but the second had been difficult, even shameful. The case had gone through several appeals, and finally, to conclude the matter, he was forced to pay his ex-wife an enormous sum. Since his parents’ death, his life had drifted like a ship without an anchor. In business he had done well, but his wives had gone through most of his money.
Had there been a telephone in his house, Karl would have called to say that he wasn’t coming into the office. Since there wasn’t, he decided to get dressed. As he did so, his room stared at him, lit as it was in every corner. From his earliest days this had been his room. From here he had left for grade school, gymnasium, and then to Vienna, where he had tried to enroll at the university. Here his hopes had blossomed, and here they had withered. Had he stayed in Vienna, surely his life would now be different, but fate had determined that he must dwell here, in this pitiful, charmless room. Every year had left a stain on the soul, and in the end all that remained was the feeling that life was gradually evaporating. After the death of his parents, that feeling had grown stronger. He would spend many long nights in the Green Eagle. Four or five glasses of cognac would dull his senses, and a kind of numbness would spread over his body. Many of his childhood friends visited the Green Eagle. Some had found success, though quite a few had not. Most had left their childhood nests and traveled off, some to the great metropolis, others to provincial cities. He alone, it seemed, remained attached to the umbilical cord, and not only to his parents’ house, but to the gloomy room where he had practiced his multiplication tables.
At those chance meetings he realized that he had to move on, otherwise new horizons would never open up for him. Several times he tried to sell the house, but the sale never went through, and he was somewhat to blame. A local merchant offered him a decent sum and in cash, but Karl was repelled by the man’s looks. He became stubborn and refused to go down even a penny. The merchant was astonished at his obstinacy. “This is unheard of,” he said, and stalked out.
Looking back on it, Karl was glad. This was his shelter in the city, after all. Eventually, he gave up the idea of selling. The house gradually came to look shabby. This bothered him, but to paint, to renovate, was beyond his strength.
Around this time, he would occasionally run into Father Merser. Karl had known him for many years, since grade school. At the beginning of religion lessons he would announce to the class, “Will the children of the Jewish creed kindly leave the classroom now? You may play in the playground while our pr
ayers are said.” The tone of Father Merser’s voice left no doubt that the world was divided into two, the higher beings who were permitted to hear the secrets of faith, and those to whom it was forbidden. At the gymnasium he occasionally substituted for the Latin teacher. Karl and Martin were both excellent students, and Father Merser would praise their knowledge. Still, it was never pleasant to meet him on the street.
Once he had come to the municipal offices to untangle his sister’s affairs. For several years she had not paid her taxes. Officials had informed her that her house would be confiscated if she didn’t pay them immediately. Father Merser’s appearance in the municipal building embarrassed many people. Everyone went out of his way to offer assistance. The deputy mayor said sheepishly, “We apologize for the nuisance. Everything will work out for the best.” Father Merser was in no hurry to leave. He greeted all the clerks and shook their hands. When Karl’s turn came, he said, “It’s good to see you. I sometimes think about you.”
After that meeting in the municipal offices, they occasionally met in the street and spoke about city business, taxes, or culture. One night, he met Father Merser on his way home. Karl had had several drinks and was in such an expansive mood that he began reciting poems by Hölderlin. “Let’s have a little walk,” proposed Father Merser, taking his arm. It turned out that Father Merser was also fond of Hölderlin, and was in fact a member of the well-known society “The Eternal Hölderlin,” which met once a year in Vienna. Stupidly, Karl asked him whether he might be permitted to attend the next meeting. Father Merser fell silent for a moment, then said, “Unfortunately, it is reserved for members only.”
“No matter, I’ll hold my own ceremony,” said Karl.
The priest chuckled out loud, as if Karl had told a racy joke.
Later, they strolled along the river, and Karl told him about an unfortunate affair in which the mayor had become involved. The priest listened without comment. A distance from Karl’s house, he stopped and said, “Now I’ll leave you, so that people won’t say that Father Merser is enticing Jews to convert.”
When Karl returned home he drank some coffee and sobered up. He regretted having told the whole story about the mayor to Father Merser. He had divulged a secret, and if this were ever revealed, he would have nowhere in the city to hide. The next day Karl saw the priest again. Father Merser was preoccupied with his sick cousin, who was in terrible pain and wanted to die. He spoke freely, like a man opening his heart to a friend.
The next time they ran into each other, Karl said, “Father Merser, I would like to speak with you about something.”
“Gladly. Let’s meet at my house on Tuesday. Tuesdays are my music days. We’ll listen and talk.”
Karl didn’t know why he had made the appointment. Then he remembered that the mayor seemed to be avoiding him lately.
On Tuesday, Father Merser and his sister Clara greeted Karl. The sister, who was wearing a tight black dress, resembled a certain well-known actress who had recently been found in bed with an under-age boy.
They sat in the salon as the maid served tea and cheese cakes. Then a young girl entered, introducing herself as Elsa Blauber, and asked permission to play Mozart. While she played, Father Merser reminisced about his childhood. It turned out that not only had he and his father studied in the gymnasium but also his grandfather and great-grandfather. The Mersers leaned toward science, and only a few of them had entered the priesthood. At home, sitting beside the blue stove, some of his splendor was gone, and he seemed like an ordinary person. At that meeting he told a few jokes, some of them rather risqué. His sister laughed and wildly threw her head about. “I can’t take it,” she cried out.
They parted pleasantly, like old friends, without the priest ever asking what Karl had wanted to discuss. From then on when they met they would exchange just a few words, but sometimes they stood and spoke for quite a while.
Martin he saw frequently. Martin let him know that he thought that the position of municipal secretary would be offered to him only if a certain obstacle were removed. Karl knew what he meant, but sometimes it’s difficult to discuss private matters even with childhood friends. They drank and drank some more, yet avoided that sensitive subject.
Nonetheless, it had begun. Sometimes Karl would find himself immersed in conversation with the priest, mainly about poetry, but sometimes also about matters of faith. The priest did not conceal his opinion that only the church was capable of binding together faith and art. That was its power and its uniqueness.
In fairness to Father Merser it must be said: he never pressured or coaxed, and once he even said to Karl, “You must consider this very carefully. One doesn’t convert frivolously.”
Karl went to the priest’s house on several Tuesdays. The ceremony always followed the same pattern: the sister, afternoon tea and cakes, and finally, the same girl, always introducing herself as Elsa Blauber, and requesting permission to play Mozart sonatas.
Eventually, Karl took the initiative and read the New Testament. At first it seemed that the gates of light had opened before him. But the more he read, the more repelled he was by all the miracles repeated over and over. He made no attempt to conceal this from Father Merser. “This is the task of faith,” the priest said.
The struggle was decided elsewhere. Night after night his mother would appear in his dreams and tell him, as she had in her lifetime, “If your career requires you to convert, do it.” Now it was clear to him that her words had not been spontaneous but rather well considered. “I won’t be angry with you.” That sentence was especially important to him now, for it meant: there are unpleasant things that we must do, and the sooner we do them, the better it is for all of us.
His father made no pronouncements, neither in life nor after his death. As in life, now, too, his father sat squinting ironically. When all was said and done, he had hated both practicality, and religion. On the holidays he used to go to synagogue, but not with joy. The church revolted him. He sometimes said as much with a word or two. Those isolated words had stuck in Karl’s mind like stakes.
The nights were dark and teeming with years and places. In gymnasium, principle had been more important to him than practice. Principle above all. Life without principles was degenerate, he and Martin would tell themselves again and again.
I will resign and travel to a small town and live there as a free man, Karl whispered to himself. But another voice, stronger, or perhaps coarser, said to him: A man doesn’t abandon a secure position that he’s worked at for twenty years. In his dreams, school friends appeared, Jews who used to visit his house, relatives who came from far off, his Aunt Franzi and her friends. Like him, they too had been forced to make difficult decisions. Finally, a voice shouting from within him decided, shouting like the master sergeant who used to drill his soldiers not far from the gymnasium: “Don’t think—march!”
One evening he saw Father Merser walking down Lilac Lane. For a moment he wanted to ignore him, but he couldn’t. He ran to catch up with the priest.
“I’ve decided,” he said, panting from his run.
“I’m pleased,” said the priest, in his fatherly voice. For some reason that night he didn’t look like a clergyman, but a surgeon whose patient had finally decided to undergo a risky operation.
“I was in doubt,” said Karl.
“Naturally.”
“And now I’m relieved.”
“I’m pleased.”
Father Merser grasped him with both hands and said, “We’ll see each other on Tuesday. Music is a good foundation for new thought.”
That same night he informed Martin of his decision. Martin didn’t appear to be especially pleased. He was immersed in his work and the news didn’t seem to penetrate. “That’s good,” he told Karl distractedly.
“It wasn’t easy for me,” Karl confessed.
“I did it with a stroke of my hand.”
Later, they drank. The cognac raised Karl’s spirits, and he spoke at length about the vivid dream
s that had tormented him in recent nights. Martin was lost within himself and made only a few inconsequential comments.
Martin continued to drink, and the back of his neck turned red. That night, for the first time, Karl noticed a tic in Martin’s face. He was about to speak to him, to implore him to stop drinking, when Martin, apparently sensing this, spoke first. “Why don’t you convert to Christianity?” he asked.
“I’ve decided to. I told you that I decided to,” Karl answered impatiently.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“You always change your mind.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken. I know you very well.”
“Why argue about this? I tell you, I’ve made up my mind.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Karl knew that Martin was drunk and that his insults were just symptoms of his own troubles. Still, it was hard for him to bear.
“I’m going home.” Karl rose to his feet.
“I won’t conceal the truth from you,” Martin shouted.
“What truth is that?” Karl said without moving.
“You know very well.”
“I’ve had enough,” said Karl, fleeing.
Karl never discussed that evening with Martin again, but his friend’s drunken face would not fade from his mind. That dear, generous Martin, who had been bound to him for years, and whom he would always love, had appeared that evening as a frightening incarnation of himself.
A full month passed between the decision and the conversion. It was a long month. In the office, people knew of his decision, but no one spoke openly of it. Still, his ear caught a whisper: “Jews are willing to do anything, even to convert.” That was one of the typists, a bitter, unfortunate woman for whom the Jews were thorns in her flesh. But this time she was merely parroting the words of her boss, an official at Karl’s level who was also vying for the secretaryship.
For years, Karl had had his eye on that post. But now that he was close to achieving it, he felt anxious. Perhaps because his parents were dead. Who was there to be proud of him? Only parents felt such pride. Others felt only envy or resentment.
The Conversion Page 2