Copenhagen Tales

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Copenhagen Tales Page 18

by Helen Constantine


  and sit and stare at the ceiling. It needs painting. And then

  what when it’s painted? Why were you so scared of me,

  you poor little sod, I only wanted the best by you. Oh shut

  up, better to stop thinking altogether.

  There was a sort of jetty right down by the water, like a

  drawer pulled out. I went down the stone steps and tried to

  stop thinking. The water lapped right over. I shuffled back

  and forth for a time and was about to go back up the steps

  when suddenly one of my shoes took a powerful gulp, got a

  terrific wetting, but never mind, it was a fair while since I’d

  given my feet a wash, so I stayed put and let the water

  splash over my shoelaces. Just stop bothering your head

  about anything. You’ve stopped so many things, why not

  stop that too, why not stop altogether—take a holiday, hop

  off—hand on heart, would any one miss you? I stood there

  freezing, with my hands in my pockets, found my lighter

  there, and away with it. It didn’t even make a plop, at any

  rate you couldn’t make it out among the other plops and

  sounds. One plop among many. A little foretaste. My pipe

  was in the left-hand pocket, away with that too, so now

  we’ve stopped smoking as well. And off with my coat. It

  floated a while with outstretched sleeves like trying to hold

  onto the waves, comfort them a bit. One coat-tail sank, but

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  212 n Benny Andersen

  it still kept afloat, there must have been a bit of air left in

  the pockets. That annoyed me. My shoes were already wet

  anyhow. I couldn’t undo the laces, so I tore them off. One

  went too far out, the other landed right on top of the coat,

  so finally it began to sink. Now I stood there freezing for

  real, but that didn’t matter, it was one more thing

  I intended to give up. I bent my knees and put my arms

  out, but that was too much like the starting position in

  swimming races, and here the whole point was to quit

  swimming. Probably it was best to step over the edge and

  just let myself sink. Then it occurred to me I’ve never been

  able to stand getting water in my ears. I went through my

  jacket pockets, there was all sorts there, only not cotton

  wool. But my tobacco was sitting in the inside pocket, and

  I stuck a good plug of it in each ear. So then I was just

  about ready. But which leg goes first? I tried to remember

  which leg I normally start with, but that’s one of those

  things you never manage to quite sort out, and so when the

  time comes you’re left just standing there. You’re simply

  not trained for the situation. I could go out sideways, or

  backwards, or I could lie down and let myself roll over the

  edge. The longer I stood there the more muddled I got by

  the many possibilities. The trouser bottoms were mean-

  time soaked right through and stuck to my shins, the

  trousers should have been able to give me a tip, after all

  they started it. I looked down at them, and then my knees

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  The Trousers n 213

  started knocking together, but it wasn’t with cold now. It

  was the trousers that had wanted to come down here, it

  was the trousers that had me doing knee bends at the

  water’s edge, for even though I’ve never claimed existence

  is marvellous, quite the contrary, life’s a headache, though

  it does have certain advantages such as stout, no, it was the

  damned trousers that were hell bent on getting down to

  the bloke in the watery grave. Probably he’d put on a pair

  of harmless new trousers that day and left the old ones in

  the lurch, and now they wanted to get back to him, only it

  was going to be without me. In a trice I pulled them off and

  chucked them in. First one leg sank and flipped to and fro

  under the water like it was hunting for something, then the

  other one joined it, and then they were in complete agree-

  ment that was the right route for them, and in the

  twinkling of an eye they’d dragged down the saggy seat

  and everything else with them. I turned my jacket collar up

  to my ears, scrambled up the steps and made for home.

  I can well understand it must have given you food for

  thought, seeing me going full gallop down the street in my

  jacket, underpants and wet socks, but that’s the pure and

  simple explanation, and the reason I didn’t stop the first

  time you yelled at me was likely on account of the tobacco

  in my ears, it was well nigh impossible to get out. I’ve no

  objection to spending the night here in the police station,

  inspector, I’m perfectly aware it won’t do me any good to

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  214 n Benny Andersen

  insist I’m more sober than I’ve been for a very long time—

  but if you would just be so very kind as to lend me a pair of

  trousers to go home in tomorrow morning. Though prom-

  ise me one thing: I’d very much like to know a little bit

  about the trousers first. Whether they belonged to an old

  soak, a pimp, or maybe a rent boy. You can appreciate that

  I’ve grown a little more choosy after this business.

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  Nightingale

  Meïr Goldschmidt

  This is an account of a poor old or ageing Jew who hanged

  himself for love, but was cut down in time and yet re-

  mained caught in a noose.

  Such matters are best recounted in some detail and

  beginning from the beginning, which is to say with Leizer

  Suss.

  Very few will still remember Leizer Suss, partly because

  he died many years ago, but also because to the public he

  was not known by the name of Suss but Lazarus, which is a

  direct translation of Leizer. The surname Suss he had either

  inherited or acquired by accident, for it means horse in

  Yiddish, yet he was no dumb animal. He was in many

  respects well esteemed within the community, in particular

  for his piety, that is to say his orthodox observance of ritual,

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  218 n Meïr Goldschmidt

  and for this reason, and also because he was poor, he had

  been entrusted with the job of schauchet, namely butcher

  and dealer in meat which the community can confidently

  eat. Otherwise there is little to say about him. He passed all

  but unnoticed out of this world, leaving a widow no longer

  young, and six children, a daughter and five sons, having

  made good provision for all the latter, raising them accord-

  ing to custom until the age of thirteen and then sending

  them out to make their way in the world, one with a

  merchant in Altona, the rest with traders in this city.

  The years went by and the family lived happily accord-

  ing to the Latin precept bene vixit qui bene latuit: whoever

  lives in obscurity lives well. The mot
her grew old, about

  sixty, but still hale and hearty and somewhat imperious; the

  daughter, Gitte, was approaching forty and still unmarried,

  either because she was without private means and merely a

  schauchet’s daughter—failings which not even her beautiful

  brown eyes could make up for—or because she was not

  ‘active enough in the pursuit of her own happiness’. In

  short, there were reasons enough, and together they were

  called God’s will. The brothers sought to make up for it with

  quiet affection, at times with a jest, more often with pre-

  sents. Through their own diligence and thrift, their rising

  income or wages, they were in a position to make a growing

  contribution towards their mother and sister’s keep. All

  four who were here in the city would gather at their

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  Nightingale n 219

  mother’s on a Friday night, just as surely and regularly as

  she would light and bless the Sabbath candles.

  Aside from its slowly but steadily increasing affluence,

  the only change which had occurred since the father’s

  death was that the family slightly altered its name, and

  the reason for this went back to Altona, where, as already

  mentioned, the eldest son, Michael, had been placed. It

  happened he was due to be promoted to partner in the

  ‘firm’—it was an outfitter’s shop—and to this end the

  firm’s ‘chief ’, whose name was likewise Lazarus, said to

  him one day: ‘You are called Lazarus. Well, it’s a good

  name—I won’t pretend otherwise. But there can be too

  much of a good thing! Lazarus & Lazarus: say what you

  like, it won’t look good on a signboard.’

  ‘Then Lazarus & Co.’, said the prospective partner

  modestly.

  ‘Lazarus & Co. And when people ask who is Co? Laza-

  rus! Whichever way you look at it: Lazarus & Lazarus!’

  ‘Well, then’, said Michael, not daring to complete his

  meaning, which was ‘So won’t I become a partner?’

  After a moment’s pause the chief continued: ‘Tell me,

  did your father not have another name than Leizer?’

  Michael reddened and failed to answer.

  ‘No matter, that’s between you and me and need not

  disturb your blessed father in his grave. But was he not

  sometimes called Leizer Suss?’

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  220 n Meïr Goldschmidt

  ‘That is possible’, answered Michael.

  ‘Well, that’s it then! Who says you have to hold on to

  every letter in your father’s name, when he himself never

  willingly used it! We’ll put an A instead of a U. Sass is a

  good name. Lazarus & Sass—it has a ring to it, and will do

  nicely!’

  So that was that; and since Michael, who was now head

  of the family, called himself Sass, one after the other the

  brothers followed suit, and last of all, with some trepida-

  tion at first, but finally, as no one appeared to object, their

  mother likewise boldly assumed the name of Sass. It is

  possible, indeed probable, that the name change prompted

  a little raillery within the community, but as we have said,

  no one protested.

  The only person who disliked the change was Av-

  romche Nattergal. From boyhood he had been almost

  one of the family; on a Friday night he was present as

  surely as any of the sons; he had watched them all grow

  up—he was eight years older than the eldest son—had

  played with them, shared sorrows and joys with them all.

  There had once been some talk about his having Gitte, but

  that had blown over without leaving any bad feelings. But

  now, since the new name also came with various new

  items of furniture and a certain new ‘air’, greater expecta-

  tions or pretentions, vaguely, obscurely, it seemed to him

  he was being put aside, no longer belonged as fully as

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  Nightingale n 221

  before, that his lowly occupation was more noted than

  before. Yet he couldn’t quite explain it; it was an uncertain

  feeling, there one moment and gone the next. That was

  why he disliked the name of Sass, though he took good

  care not to say so.

  So what was his occupation, I am bound to be asked.

  Permit me not to act like a bull in a china shop, but to

  prepare the reader by relating how he happened to come

  by it.

  He was the son of a man known to the community as

  Reb Schaie, surnamed Pollok, one of the very last here to

  go about in a caftan and a fur hat and a long beard. But

  although on the outside Reb Schaie resembled some

  vagrant Polack, he was an intelligent and active man in

  society who ran a not inconsiderable skin-and-fur business.

  He kept account books—something virtually unknown in

  trade at the time—and was altogether an exceedingly pre-

  cise, serious, and strict fellow. Naturally he wanted his son

  to join the business; however, his Abraham (Avrohom:

  diminutive Avromche) came to develop an ever growing

  passion for music and song. Not only did he never miss

  a chance to hear music, remarks at times escaped him

  which indicated he wished, nay, dearly hoped, to make his

  own voice heard—by taking to the stage. For a good while

  his father treated this as childishness, a daydream which

  would soon evaporate in ‘the business’, and against his wont

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  222 n Meïr Goldschmidt

  would even jest about the matter, sarcastically remarking,

  ‘Avromche will yet get to be hrasan’, that is, cantor in the

  synagogue. But then one evening, when chance happened

  to bring him up to his son’s attic room, he surprised

  Avromche dressed in tights with a beret on his head

  performing a bravura aria, while the old music teacher

  Leibche Schwein, also known as Levin Snus, accompanied

  him on guitar. Reb Schaie chased Leibche Schwein down

  the stairs, and said to his son: ‘Knitted drawers and a hat

  with a feather! Why not with the grand cross on the national

  flag? Nah! What meschuggàs, what madness do my eyes

  have to see! Do you even know how crazy you are? I have

  but one thing to say to you, so listen: Anyone in the theatre

  not whistling at your long nose and crooked mouth, do you

  know what they’ll whistle at? Do you?’ ‘No, father.’ ‘At your

  crooked legs!’

  These cruel but not wholly unjust words extinguished

  an ideal, a hope and a lifetime’s ambition in Avromche’s

  heart. He was barely nineteen, yet from that moment on he

  was no longer young. He did not show his despair, com-

  plained to no one, in fact from the moment a mainspring

  had been snapped inside him it seemed that even the

  memory of ever having had such a drive had been

  quenched, yet at the same time something of life itself

  had been quenched. Even so, a profound unspoken pas-

  sion remained with him: the longing t
o hear music; and

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  Nightingale n 223

  seeing that his father now kept him on an even tighter

  leash so he could not afford a music teacher, Avromche hit

  on the idea of renting a box in the theatre and selling

  tickets for it so as to get in for free. For a while he even

  struck lucky, but just as a plant necessarily requires a

  modicum of warmth in order to flower and fruit, in the

  long run any business, no matter how modest, similarly

  requires a modicum of time and care. Not all box tickets

  always sell like hot cakes; one needs to look sharp; there

  are competitors, opportunities, and market trends in that

  business too, and Avromche was often most cruelly torn

  between his duties towards his father’s business and those

  towards his box, with the result that both fared badly.

  Without knowing the true reason, his father had ever

  more cause to be dissatisfied; and then finally all came to

  light: Avromche had incurred debts far greater than the

  cost of a regular seat in the theatre, and his father was

  contacted for payment. Reb Schaie paid off the debt, gave

  Avromche a sum of money, and said to him between his

  teeth, in Yiddish, which with its cryptic ring pregnant with

  curses had a force no words in Danish could ever express:

  ‘Leave my house! On account of the theatre you will yet

  seek a nail from which to hang yourself! You are useless

  and unnecessary on this earth! Go!’

  It was at this juncture that Leizer Suss and his wife

  proved to be Avromche’s best and perhaps only friends. It

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  224 n Meïr Goldschmidt

  even happened that Leizer Suss did something quite

  exceptional: he went straight round to Reb Schaie to

  impress upon him his harshness towards his son and to

  persuade him to make amends; but he came back most

  crestfallen and never spoke of what had transpired. But to

  Avromche he said: ‘No matter what, you shall never go

  wanting so long as I have meat on the table.’ Both he and

  his wife next attempted to the best of their ability to help

  Avromche plan his future. As there was no hope that he

  would ever give up his passion, it was found to be quite in

  order for him to devote himself wholly to the theatre, not

  to the stage itself, but to one or more boxes and the ticket

  sellers’ beat between the theatre and Lille Kongensgade.

 

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