by H. G. Adler
“The main thing, Herr Lever, is that you’re happy here. It really doesn’t matter whether it changed or not.” Frau Lever said this in a cheery manner, as if she wanted to intercede between me and her husband. “In the end, it’s all just a matter of opinion.”
While talking thus, we reached the hermitage. I unlocked it, turned on the light, and the couple stumbled a bit, as most strangers did, on the steps into the foyer, where they were greeted by old copper pots and washbasins with outstretched arms and open splayed hands ready to receive alms. Like everyone else I had brought here, the guests stood there looking somewhat lost. The result was an unease that was slowly lifted only when I began to talk and explain. But this time I didn’t hurry to do that; instead, I drew out that feeling at a slow pace in order to present their lighthearted curiosity with something quieter and more modest. That happened of itself as soon as I struggled to lock the door from the inside, as otherwise it was not easy to do, which then helped me to feel better about displaying my power over all visitors in the process. Herr and Frau Lever soon felt this as well, stepping uncomfortably across the stone floor one foot at a time, whispering softly in order not to disturb me, and looking curiously at basins and boxes that returned their gaze in a particularly dead manner. Sometimes more venturous guests wanted to part the heavy red curtain in the main hall, but then didn’t feel quite right in doing so, choosing instead to risk a few steps to the right and down the narrow passage that led to the old cemetery.
Once I had let enough time pass, I called out cheerfully to the chastened guests that, well, now we can begin. With a sweeping gesture, I pushed back the curtain and the visitors stepped forward with pointed, awkward steps. Usually this was when people would begin to sneeze, cough, or blow their noses because of the dry air, resulting in a look of mild admonishment from me. Then they would hold a handkerchief over their mouths and swab it around. However, if entering the hall didn’t affect their breathing, then they hardly ever cleared their throats. At the ready, as there was no point in dawdling, they kept their eyes on me as if waiting for a sign that they were free to move about and not feel anxious anymore. I then proceeded to casually tell them something about the history and the style of the hermitage, during which I pointed with an outstretched hand at the arched ceiling, painted a light blue, and the fine white stucco. I managed to do this in such a compelling fashion as to cause the hard-nosed guests to bend their heads back and dutifully look up. Then I would talk on, now with an ever-stronger emphasis and also somewhat faster, pointing out the windows installed above on the right, then the balcony way up on the left, the heads turning as I did. Herr and Frau Lever did this as well.
Devilishly, I added, “As for the building itself, you can see that nothing at all has changed. It’s been well taken care of, and during the war it was even cleaned and repainted.”
Herr Lever lowered his head and looked at me. dumbfounded.
“That’s unbelievable.”
“You can see so yourself,” I responded firmly. “In a certain sense, you’re right. Nothing has changed. Some things have even been improved for the better.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Quite simple. The conquerors not only made history; they also loved the old history and tried to conserve it.”
“The conquerors did that? The same who—”
“Precisely the same, my friends. Does that surprise you? Here the conquerors have provided an indisputable service. The living were killed, and their past in stones, images, books, and objects, as set down by their ancestors, was collected, taken care of, and brought to life.”
This well and truly surprised Herr Lever, who stopped and grabbed hold of his wife’s purse.
“Just think, Mitzi, isn’t that marvelous? Isn’t that amazing?”
Frau Lever clasped her chin with her thumb and forefinger.
“Marvelous!” she chirped enthusiastically. “Really, I think so, too.”
“Herr Doctor,” her husband said in a factual manner, “the human soul is unfathomable. It’s the same for us in Africa, where there are whites, blacks, and others.”
I just nodded humbly and didn’t allow myself to get distracted by such words of wisdom, but instead led the guests from exhibit to exhibit, explaining what was in the display cases. The manners and customs, beliefs and conceptions of an extinct people saved at the last hour for posterity by its surviving members, who had already been handed a death sentence. Their destruction had been suspended in order to preserve these wonderful and lovely objects for the sake of scholarship, for the sake of history, the mother of all scholarship. But the extinction of the people, no matter how much effort had been devoted to it, was not as completely successful as had been wished for; as with every human endeavor—much as with the Tower of Babel or even the original couple desirous of knowledge—this one was not met with complete success. All such actions are in vain. That’s what the proudly ambitious men of history must recognize, and thus had the annihilated survived their own destruction, surviving history itself as well, their own history, the murderers disappearing, unable to haul off or destroy the collections of objects, which served as history’s revenge, the treasures remaining behind, thrown together in heaps. The still-living members of the people overcome by history who were employed to work in the storage holds of their history could not, once they were free, fulfill the death sentence handed down and let themselves be lost amid the general vortex of the victory over the conquerors, letting history be history, laughing into their sleeves, though some returned to the oaths they had taken to preserve such things as memorials, their work as scholars having provided them with a living, they being ready to do it again, themselves feeling it was right, though, at the time, their souls were too numb to shudder while reflecting on the madness that lurked behind each item. They knew only that it meant money, a paid job. And so they squatted and scurried about again in the stored materials of their surviving history, although their eyes were as empty of history as their hands and speech. Thus they bored their way through history or trampled upon it, for they hardly knew anything.
Herr Schnabelberger and Frau Dr. Kulka belonged to this lost group that had nonetheless survived and found themselves here again, though they were different from the rest. They had grown accustomed to their charge without being too horrified by it, though they had tasted the blood of history in their mouths and felt a sense of revenge. These two, along with the other guardians who, in service to the conquerors swallowed the paltry morsels of servitude and had now gathered together again to serve the commemoration of the celebration of the near-successful destruction that had recently occurred, were not interested in the administration and public display of history; instead, a board of trustees was established that made clear what the job was, this singular opportunity needing to be maintained and developed in the kind of professional manner that was required. Which was why they employed some returnees, such as me. The hermitage, an old house of prayer, had already been turned into exhibition spaces during the war, and that’s where the lives of the extinct people were now preserved in images. Yet neither the collected objects nor the labels explaining them nor the informative plaques were enough to do this, nor even a completely fitted-out kitchen and a dining room, such that every visitor could exclaim what a wonderful achievement it was, a terrific success, this being how these people had really lived. Now that I understand them and can imagine it all, one can’t help being grateful for such effort and cost, how splendidly it rises above such destruction and thereby conquers it, thus allowing us to be rid of it. No, that had never been enough, for you couldn’t just gawk at the dead and imagine them; they had to be seen as alive, and that was how one had to have them. To this day, art and ingenuity remain essential traits of human beings; that was also true for the well-informed conquerors and last trained members of those who would become extinct. Then they and the conquerors pulled together a collection that they advised upon, and then one of the heads gave a spee
ch:
“You’ve done a beautiful job so far. We are very pleased. But it’s not enough. Nor is it right to let you show us how you live, what you do, and what you know of your ancestors. For soon that will be of no interest to us, nor to the future. Your time is limited, and afterward we will be sad and will no longer have you. That’s unbearable. You must exist, even when you don’t exist, but it must not cost too much, which you will agree, nor can it take too long, as we’re in a hurry and you have no time. We have read in your ancient book that your Lord created humans from a lump of clay. Go forth, do as instructed. Do not, I advise you, breathe life into its nose! You are clever, so think it over. You must not disappoint us! Not at all.”
When the dying folk heard the last word, they felt energized, for it was a powerful speech, and it meant more to them at this hour than the voice of their blasphemed Lord. Their most courageous speaker replied:
“That’s the way it has to be, which is why we are here. We will take your advice. Give us a little time and we will make mannequins that will look just like us, though they won’t know what is good or evil. They’ll be life-size and look entirely natural, not made of earth, as if resting in fields and caverns but instead made of an artificial material that is used for the kinds of mannequins one sees in the display windows of clothing stores, except much finer and more expressive, so deceptively the same that the only thing preventing them from being living souls is the lack of any breath. You’ll be startled by how alive our people can appear, even when they are extinct. Then you can experience again the fear of us that has so possessed you. Cold terror will grip your spine and run deliciously throughout your very core and bones. But spare yourself any fear, for even stronger within you is the feeling of unconquerable power, for you are protected and saved; the mannequins, with their painted faces and hands and glued on hair, will perhaps not be innocent, yet innocuous and harmless. You can take comfort from them, as the mannequins are dead and will not persecute you, for a blow can break them. They will be alive only in your past fears, otherwise not at all.”
The speaker had arranged it such that his speech ended with the very same words with which the conqueror ended his. The recommendation about the mannequins was approved, followed by a lengthy discussion of how the figures should be presented and dressed. Wax was decided against, as it was hard to handle and too expensive, nor did earth, stone, or cast stone recommend themselves, as they were too stiff. Something simpler was needed, and indeed the dying were inventive: a frame made of poles and staves covered with rags, flax, and coarse fabric to make up the raw forms, and over that a layer of plaster, on top of which there would be a pliant paste made of wood fibers and a binding material that would allow one to finely work the surface before they were set in their final form.
It was supposed to consist of a family: a grandfather, a father, and a mother, a daughter and a son. First, little mannequins were commissioned. Quickly, cute little dolls were made that were played with, smiled at, fitted out with flapping limbs, with characteristic alterations made such that they more closely resembled the distorted image of this ancient people as they were made in larger sizes. Then a wave of activity was set in motion; sculptors, painters, decorators, many hand workers and other skilled people worked with a minimum of rest in a hastily assembled workshop. They were driven and encouraged, even receiving more to eat, but they always had to be prepared to be interrupted by high-placed visitors, to demonstrate their progress under careful inspection. Proud, the men stormed in without knocking, their hands placed pertly on their hips. Sometimes a hand would free itself from tight-fitting silk in order to underscore a desire or command with a pointing finger. Humorless rebukes could be heard, but also encouraging praise. Monitored continually in this manner, the work moved quickly toward the sought-after result. Each face was a masterpiece, the glass eyes piercing, the brows wrinkled in concern and the eyelashes individually applied with tweezers, heads and lush beards appointed with real hair that had been cut from the heads of the dying and collected, the expressions of the faces and their mien true to the way the extinct folk had expressed themselves. It all looked magnificent, especially the grandfather with his venerable long beard.
Then the clothing of the family of mannequins was made. Tailors did this who chattered a lot when their gags were taken off, but soon the conquerors didn’t want to hear any more of their childish suggestions. Garments from the somber times of extinction were distasteful to the conquerors, for that was no longer the time of this people, so instead the costumes of a hundred years before were requested, the fine clothes of the Biedermeier period, the good old days of this people, in which they flourished rather than were destroyed. And so it was done. Everything was prepared in accordance with old pictures, then heads nodded approval, the fabric rustled, the scissors cutting brightly through, the needles flying, the sewing machines singing; soon the most beautiful tailoring possible was done.
Yet how were the mannequins to eke out a living? They were not up to the long workday, so it would be better to present them on a holiday. Not a holiday of penance and sorrow, however, but one about freedom and joy. They should think of their forefathers, who were once slaves of the king in that land. But the eternal one, their Lord, led them from there with a strong hand and outstretched arms. If the eternal one had not led them, whose name must be praised, had not led the forefathers from that land, then their children and their children’s children would have remained in servitude in that land forever. He had parted the sea for them, and they safely passed through it. Then the eternal one had required them to memorialize the story of the exodus as Passover and to tell of it, while those who told of it were praiseworthy. It must not be forgotten; if the people indeed were extinct, then the mannequins had to commemorate it, and not on just one day but every day, year after year, so that the liberation of the extinct folk would be commemorated for all time. Thus it was right, for the commemoration was not necessary only for the days of Passover but on all days. Also included were the nights of those days. Yet what was named was not only “all days” but “all the days of life,” for the “days of your life” referred only to the length of their temporal lives, whereas “all the days of life” meant the time of consummation, when the Messiah would appear. Therefore it was right that this people no longer existed, but instead the mannequins awaited His coming.
Once the garments were finished, and shoes and buttons were prepared, the mannequins were wonderfully fitted out, mothers and daughters decorated with jewelry made of artificial gold and silver and appointed with artificial gems, necklaces and brooches, bracelets and rings, and everything that a rich family should have while celebrating the High Holy Days, while the men wore silk shawls and yarmulkes made of velvet. An initial display of the family in the workshop charmed the conquerors, as they felt no shyness in touching the faces and gently fiddled with the garments. An apartment was then set up in the hermitage, where the mannequins were given a dignified setting. On the street side, the hermitage had three spacious alcoves with windows beneath the women’s balcony, which had already been divided into display chambers, one a kitchen and the other a room decorated for the High Holidays. These served to provide all the needs of home for the family of mannequins, the conquerors giving the command, there being no need to speak with the housing office. The move from the workshop was followed in haste. So that the High Holy Room display was not damaged, the mannequins’ clothing was removed. The finely made things were sprinkled with white moth powder and placed in suitcases as the mannequins were laid in chests full of soft cotton and carried to the hermitage. Everything was placed in a corner, with cloth sheets draping over it, the mannequins initially assured of their rest.
What was necessary for the kitchen of a religious household was brought in, everything precise and exact according to ancient law. The living room was painted with soft pastel colors. Precious old shrines, chests, and commodes displayed the wealth of the mannequins; a Persian rug was rolled out, a so
fa with a sweeping, stately back and silk covering invited one to sit, the wide circular table encircled by five comfortable chairs. A sideboard next to the window was covered with heavy old folios. A forged bronze lamp hung discreetly above the table, and four silver candleholders were attached to the walls, where some pictures were also hung in order to display the forefathers of the mannequins in quiet gravity, followed by a religious saying embroidered in silk and framed, and a delicately cut mirror. Homey doilies were spread out on top of the chests, as well as precious and useful items carefully set out, such as bowls, pitchers, cups, vases, plates made of tin or hammered silver, dull stoneware and bright-flowered porcelain, a sewing box made of rosewood, a heavy box decorated with ivory letters, another mirror that could move in a frame and be attached to a wash table, a soft pillow with gold-brocaded fringes and borders laid out on the sofa. The only thing that was denied this devout collection was a clock, for it was meant to continue forever; therefore, it needed no time and no means to indicate the time.
Otherwise, the mannequins lacked nothing. There was no reason to think that their live spitting images were expelled from the commemorative table of the Passover celebration and led to their death and extinction. Protected and enclosed, the mannequins had only to just be. In order that they not worry when there was no one living to spend time with them, nor any visitor to share their celebration, they were mercifully provided with lush plants in cobalt-blue majolica pots on forget-me-not blue bases. They were placed before the window in the middle, where the softly gathered curtains let the daylight stream through the delicately cut panes. Then the table was set for the model family, the cloth a brilliant white, two tasteful candleholders with ivory-colored candles (these having been burned a bit, so that the wicks were black), a splendid jug with its sides bulging and a crown cover for the holiday wine that had yet to be poured out. As good as it all looked, neither could the mannequins, who were given five cups, be relied on to pour out four servings of drink, nor did anyone believe the prophet would appear, whose goblet was also placed on the table. However, they did make sure that the mannequins had a meal that was set out on a tray, three flat loaves of unleavened bread made of white cardboard, with brown flecks that looked amazingly real, the other food made up just as artfully, be it the boiled eggs, the lamb shanks, the bitter and green herbs, or the two little bowls next to them, in which to dip one’s fingers like someone arriving out of the desert thirsty for water.