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
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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,
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/8/2014, SPi
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.
Copenhagen Tales Page 18