“I was worried. Usually you’re home much earlier.”
“Foolish woman.”
“Where were you?”
“None of your business.”
Martin burst out laughing, took Karl’s arm, and said, “Freddy delights me this evening. He’s truly outdone himself.” At this, Karl raised his voice and shouted, “Leave this stinking province, Freddy. Go to the big city where there’s life and not degeneracy.”
They left Freddy on his doorstep and walked off. For a while, his voice could still be heard, jarring, furious, but gradually it faded.
“Why am I depressed?” Karl asked.
“What are you talking about?” Martin answered, grasping his arm. “You’re municipal secretary, the youngest secretary they’ve ever had here.”
“I’m not happy.”
“You have to be happy.”
“Why are you mocking me?”
“I don’t mock my friends. I’m speaking from my experience and faith. The world to come doesn’t interest me.”
Afterward, Martin spoke lucidly, and at some length, about the need to move on, to go somewhere else, because everything here was corrupt. Karl said nothing. He sank into himself, and only afterward did he speak about his secret desire to break into the municipal building and set it on fire. Martin, growing ever more cautious as he sobered up, silenced him and signaled that the walls have ears.
When they reached his house, Karl was surprised to find Gloria awake and standing at the door. He immediately announced, “We beat the daylights out of the goyim.”
“Where?”
“At Victoria’s. Martin, Freddy, and I. We smashed their heads.”
Gloria leaned over as if to bow and said, “Why don’t you two come in? There’s a meal ready.”
“Thank you,” said Martin, “but I’d better get home.”
“But Martin,” said Karl, holding on to the doorpost, “you have to eat something. You work so hard.”
“I have to get home. I have two cases to prepare,” he said, starting to walk. His legs didn’t carry him far. He stopped and leaned against a tree for a moment. But then he gathered his wits and, to Karl’s surprise, walked on, straight, without stumbling.
CHAPTER
12
The next morning Karl said, “Sorry. That was a wild evening.”
“In the village they say, ‘Childhood friendship is hardier than the love of women,’ ” said Gloria.
“Freddy surprised us. He was a different Freddy. Uninhibited.”
“A person has to forget himself sometimes.”
“Jews usually don’t drink.”
“That’s true. They don’t know how to drown their sorrows.”
“I drink, but it’s hard for me to get drunk.”
“It’s better that way. A drunk loses his humanity and comes home like a pig.”
Karl went to work without running into a single acquaintance. But on both sides of the street, ordinary people greeted him, and he responded with bows. On his desk he found a stack of papers, outgoing mail to be signed and letters that had just arrived. His schedule was full, but he didn’t rush to give instructions as he usually did. He sat in his chair, and images from the previous night passed before him, one after the other, like huge paintings.
Now it seemed to him that his parents had died many years ago, and that he and Gloria had been living together for a long time. Gloria had many faces then: young, as if she had just arrived from the village; but sometimes, on days of rest, a hidden thread of his parents stretched across her face. It was as if she were not herself then but a breathing reflection of their lives. “Gloria,” he would sometimes awaken and say, to see if his thoughts had deceived him.
But the charm, if that’s what it was, was hidden in her silences. She worked for hours in place, and when she rose, usually from the floor, her face was tranquil and pure. Thus did she arrange the logs in the woodshed, and organize the cellar and the closets.
Unnoticed, the High Holy Days came. On Rosh Hashanah she wore a white dress and placed slices of apple and a dish of honey on the table.
“What’s this, Gloria?” he asked in surprise.
“It’s Rosh Hashanah this evening,” she said.
“Are we obliged to observe it?” he asked.
“An apple and honey are always pretty.”
When he raised his eyes to look at her, he saw immediately: there was no embarrassment in her face. And it was clear, her early life in the village and her long years in this house had completely merged. Not only had Gloria become one with his parents’ lives, but she also knew forgotten details about the lives of his grandparents, his aunts, and his cousins. One evening she revealed to him that his mother had been determined to return to her native village. Had it not been for her illness, she would have.
“Did father agree?”
“He did, but by then it was too late.”
On the eve of Yom Kippur, Gloria prepared two memorial candles, which she planned to light in the synagogue, as Karl’s mother had done. For some reason she tried to conceal her plan from Karl. Unfortunately, he came home from work early and found her at the door, wrapped in a shawl.
“I’m going to the synagogue to light memorial candles,” she blurted.
Astonished, Karl did not know what to say.
“I’ll be back soon,” she apologized.
“I’ll take a walk meanwhile.”
“Be careful,” she said and slipped out of sight.
He walked until he reached the river and sat on the bank. Now he remembered the many Yom Kippurs he had spent with his father, walking to synagogue, and the synagogue itself. His mother would seclude herself in the women’s section from morning to dark, and when she came down, weak and pale, she would hug Karl hard, as if he had been found after a long search. His father was a skeptical person, and his faith, if it could be called that, was a skeptical faith. In the synagogue a smile constantly floated on his face, as if he were witness to what should not be done in a holy place. But he never protested. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy the contradiction. Karl liked to observe that smile.
After his bar mitzvah, he never again set foot in the synagogue. His father didn’t insist on it, and his mother didn’t dare request it. Youngsters have more important demands, people would say at the door of the synagogue, and thus the matter was closed. Later it became clear that practically everyone who studied at the local gymnasium would convert when he completed his studies. Only the children of craftsmen followed a different path.
He reflected that Gloria was now sitting at home, clinging to the gloom that had pervaded it every Yom Kippur in his parents’ day, and that thought disturbed him. It was as if something of his had been stolen. He had to admit to himself: Gloria’s life was lived according to belief. There were things she openly observed, like going outside at the end of the Sabbath, counting the stars, and announcing that the Sabbath was over. Then she would walk to the stove to prepare a cup of coffee.
He liked to sit and observe her actions. In every one of her gestures he found a hidden meaning that captivated his heart.
Once he said to her, “There’s a contradiction here.”
“What?” she asked, alarmed.
“Is that what they did in the village?” he asked.
“No,” she answered self-consciously, as if realizing a mistake.
“My mother wasn’t scrupulous about observance.”
“Your mother was a believing woman.”
“How is that? She encouraged me to convert.”
“Really?”
“It seems to me that she repeatedly asked me to convert. Am I mistaken?”
“I don’t know.”
It was difficult for her to explain. Maybe because within herself there was no confusion. She was careful to separate meat and milk. If she made a mistake, she would grasp her forehead and say:
“Stupid head, a goy’s head.”
“I’m a goy too.”
&nb
sp; “No you’re not.”
“But I’ve converted.”
“Ah—I’m wrong again.”
Later, if he embarrassed her once more, she would say to him, “Excuse me. As your father used to say, I’m an ignoramus.”
When he returned home, the table was already set. Gloria was wearing the white dress she had worn on Rosh Hashanah. At first he had thought of asking her how the candle lighting had gone and whom she had met on the way. In the end all he said was, “How was it?” Upon hearing his question, Gloria opened her eyes wide and said, “I lit the candles and they burned nicely. May God let your parents rest in peace. Their life on earth was not easy.” Karl was stunned by the straightforwardness of her reply, which rendered him speechless. The dinner Gloria had prepared was like the one traditionally eaten before the fast, and with every bite he sensed that his life was utterly destroyed, but that if he had an anchor in these stormy waters, it was Gloria. After dinner he thanked her, kissed her forehead, and went into his room.
CHAPTER
13
The next morning he woke up on time. Gloria made him a cup of coffee and he took his time over it, so that when he left for the office he was in a rush. For quite a while he walked without noticing the way, but as he approached the center of town, he saw the locked stores and the heavy darkness in the side streets. For a moment he didn’t understand, but then he remembered: Yom Kippur. Walking faster, he circled the customs warehouse and slipped down the narrow lane leading to the municipal building. On the way, he was assailed by visions from his youth: the Holy Ark open, and the Torah scrolls, adorned with silver crowns, as if ready to go forth to the worshipers.
The morning in the office passed as usual. Letters awaited his signature, appointments were kept, and, but for one unexpected meeting, he would have left the office at the usual hour.
At about three o’clock, the deputy mayor appeared at his door along with Hochhut the industrialist. Karl was taken aback but immediately regained his composure when the deputy mayor reminded his two colleagues, both recent apostates, that it was Yom Kippur. It was hard to know if he was serious or joking. Hochhut blushed but instantly recovered, saying, Thank God we’re done with all that. Those were oppressive days. Life without the High Holy Days is much better.”
“In other words, in the future we’ll be done with other things as well?” continued the deputy mayor in the same provocative tone.
“Perhaps.”
“It’s funny—early this morning I saw some Jews walking to synagogue, and I said to myself, had it not been for my grandfather, who converted, I too would be walking with them.”
“When did he convert?” asked Hochhut with cold practicality.
“Ages ago, but I still remember him well. He lived with us for many years. A sworn anti-Semite, if I may say so.”
“I remember him. He dressed in hunting clothes, if I’m not mistaken,” said Karl, covering his mouth with his right hand.
“That’s right,” the deputy mayor confirmed.
“I’m glad I converted,” remarked Hochhut, as if starting the discussion anew. “I did it deliberately and of my own free will. All those observances and rituals weary the soul. I prefer listening to good music. It’s crowded in the synagogue, and everybody is sweating.”
In response, the deputy mayor raised his right hand in a vague, swirling fashion and said, “I don’t remember much, but I do remember Grandpa Heinrich well. He was a sad and slightly ridiculous old fellow. He wore a shabby leather coat and weird riding breeches. He was proud of his military service and claimed that if they conscripted Jews into the army, they would forget their Judaism, and that that would be as good for them as for society.”
“There’s some truth in that,” Hochhut commented.
“So you think so too?” The deputy mayor was surprised.
“The army would certainly improve their appearance.”
“True, but it also creates stupid habits.”
“In the army you learn order.”
“Yes, but military order is mindless order,” countered the deputy mayor, chuckling.
Karl noted the Jewish expression in the deputy mayor’s face and wanted to laugh. Meanwhile, Hochhut went on obsessively, “I am not the least sentimental about the old tribal nest. It’s crawling with bugs, and I hate bugs.”
“I intend to travel to the East to meet real Jews,” said the deputy mayor to their surprise.
“Real Jews?” Hochhut asked.
“That’s what they say, at any rate.”
“I,” Hochhut announced, “find no beauty in the Jewish way of life. The Jew is a busybody by nature,” he declared, his face turning sour.
Karl broke out the cognac, and in this way the strange discussion was brought to an end. Hochhut told of a new factory he was building on the shores of the Danube. Hearing the news, the deputy mayor raised his glass and said, “Lechayim, boys, lechayim.”
“What’s the matter with you today, Kurt?” Hochhut was stunned.
“Nothing at all. I just remembered that’s what the Jews say. Isn’t that what the Jews say when they’re celebrating?”
“Kurt, my dear, your memory is bottomless. But don’t we say that some things are better forgotten?”
“Why?” asked the deputy mayor mischievously.
“I don’t deny that I was once a Jew, but I can find no reason to boast about it.”
“It amuses me.”
“Why?”
“The Jews amuse me. They’ve always amused me.”
Now Karl noticed their faces. Hochhut’s face seemed rounder, flushed, with a bitter twist to his lips. The deputy mayor was merry as if he had finally come out with a joke that he had been trying to tell for years.
The meeting concluded in the doorway of Karl’s office. Hochhut walked off as if reprimanded. Karl sat in his empty office and worked till his desk was clear. Then he went out.
The evening lights glowed dense and cold. Again he circled around the center of town, and then took a shortcut that brought him to the lawn that was called the “Green Corner.” The smell of freshly mowed grass filled the air. Years ago he had taken a walk with his father and wound up here. Suddenly his father’s heart had opened, and he spoke about his life and about Neufeld. He had never spoken so candidly to Karl as he did that evening. Karl, who had never really respected his father, suddenly realized that not only petit-bourgeois commercial thoughts raced about in his father’s mind, but also a few thoughts about himself, about his tribe and its fate. Indeed, his father’s words astonished him. Among other things, he spoke about his generation’s inability to perceive the light in their ancestor’s faith, and from this came bitterness and cynicism. When Karl asked him if he had ever considered converting, he replied, “Christianity is a clumsy faith and has always repelled me. But I wouldn’t condemn a young man for converting.”
Karl remembered how, year by year, skepticism had taken hold of his face, until no Jewish act seemed honest to him anymore. He often said, “The Jews try to outsmart life, but in the end a ruse undoes its inventor.” At the time, that skepticism had the sound of false cleverness to Karl. Only later did he discover that his father had sharp insights. But Karl’s prejudice was too strong. He was convinced that a man who had never studied Latin and trigonometry could not have true insights.
Darkness fell from on high, and Karl got moving and headed home. Gloria was sitting at the table, her face gathered inward, and a soft shadow hovered over her jaws.
“How are you?” he asked her gently.
“Everything is fine,” she said and rose from her seat.
“There was a lot of work in the office. No end to it.” He spoke from habit and weariness.
Gloria leaned against the table, her eyes wide open. He saw the weakness fluttering in them.
“Today Hochhut came to my office. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the shadow passed from her face for a moment, and evidence of the fast was visible on her fac
e.
“Forgive me,” he said, alarmed.
“Why?”
“You fasted.”
“It went easily.”
Gloria set the table and served chicken soup. The smell evoked past years and people as if by magic. He looked for the light that kindled those moments but found only bitterness and fatigue. After the meal his father would sit at the table, smoke cigarette after cigarette, his face closed, as if a decree he could not bear had been imposed upon him.
Later, sitting in his room, Karl realized that Gloria was adhering scrupulously to every act of religious observance that his mother had been accustomed to doing, not omitting a thing. The thought frightened him, and for a moment he wanted to go to her and say, “You aren’t obliged to observe all the commandments and customs. The dead are separate from us. You mustn’t assume their fate.” But those words slipped from his mind, and to his surprise he saw again the long corridor of the synagogue, in whose darkness they used to light memorial candles. Once in his youth he had stood at the door of that corridor and the thought occurred to him then that there is no more fitting image for the yearning of the soul than a burning candle.
CHAPTER
14
The autumn nights were dark, and Karl came home early. The evening hours in Gloria’s company would pass in the blink of an eye, and not because many things were said. Gloria would serve him a hot meal and sit by his side. She didn’t speak much, but if asked a question, she would answer. Mostly, Karl told her the things that bothered him. She never took him lightly, or soothed him with false comfort.
On Saturday night she would take a bottle of cognac from the cupboard. Sitting together, they would sip two or three drinks. She would tell him about her village, about her mother and father, about her eldest sister, who had tormented her. She had planned several times to return there, but finally she hadn’t dared. “One day I’ll get drunk and go back. If I am sober I’ll never do it,” she said, chuckling.
“Do you miss your village?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want to go back?”
The Conversion Page 8