In the background the conference was breaking up, people were having their last drinks, chauffeurs were carrying suitcases out into the courtyard, board members were sipping the cold remains of their coffee, applauding when, in their view, he happened to have successfully concluded a major interview. Between two interviews, his predecessor Pliefger insisted on rushing up to him. With his usual condescension (steel condescending toward publishing, nothing personal, merely a matter of different branches of industry) and an expression of such surprise that it was almost insulting (as if they really had taken him for a senile half-wit), he said, pumping his hand up and down: “First class, my dear Tolm, positively outstanding, we have every reason to congratulate ourselves on your election.” And Kliehm, the Zummerling supporter, displayed such astonishment at Tolm’s eloquence that it really came very close to being an insult.
Was there actually something like envy in Bleibl’s expression? Surprise, certainly, at the ease with which he discharged these duties, at the unexpected cheerfulness when Bleibl must have expected dejection, nervousness, and inarticulateness, after having succeeded in “hoisting” him—that’s how he had openly phrased it himself—to exactly where he wanted him: to the most endangered place, the most dangerous position, which no one expected to suit him, a role that no one expected him to play so well—he, the rapidly aging, ideologically somewhat insecure Fritz Tolm, the “swaying reed,” the weakling, the pushover, the extemporizer among the board members, “somehow” obscurely linked through his family with “them”—as open to attack as he was vulnerable.
No doubt about it: Bleibl was surprised, probably wondering whether it had been wise after all to nominate him, to toss his name into the meeting, which, after three hours of debate, was now totally exhausted—after the rejection of so many who would not have refused: Tolm, of all people.
More cars drove up, more suitcases were carried out, chauffeurs hurried back and forth, security officials took up new positions, TV and radio crews packed up, dishes rattled, bottles were stacked in crates; and at that moment, when the media had had their fill, it occurred to him that during the whole press conference he had never been quite that relaxed, almost lighthearted, quite that casual in his statements, the two tracks had never run so smoothly side by side, they had collided—but now he had to have a cigarette; voluptuously, hungrily, for a few moments he felt young, as in his old student days after a particularly boring seminar, or as a young officer after a successful withdrawal, when he had reached for a cigarette. And promptly a young puppy of a photographer who was still hanging around had snapped him: just as he was taking the crumpled package out of his pocket, fishing out a cigarette, lighting up with his own hands without anybody rushing over to offer him a light. And he foresaw—that much he did understand about journalism, that much he had learned, although it was generally held against him that, while being “in the trade and controlling it, he neither was of the trade nor knew anything about it”—he foresaw that these pictures would eventually make the front page: the white-haired, dignified new president, known for his charm and courtesy, this seemingly easygoing old gentleman who lacked some of the ingredients of a truly stable and serious-minded character, hair slightly tousled, clothes correct yet with a dash of casualness, relaxed despite his extreme jeopardy, standing there with a cigarette between his lips, not entirely consistent with his dignity, not at all with his new status, holding the crumpled package, the scruffy matchbox, the conqueror—whereas in fact he had been conquered by Bleibl.
Now Bleibl had him where he had always wanted him: right at the top, where there was to be no more rest, no pause, no relaxation, no private life for him, where he was to be hounded to death, protected to death, exposed to the utmost risk, yet he had just discovered the double-track function, just in these last two hours rediscovered his private life: his children and grandchildren and Käthe, no longer afraid of speeches to be made, of press conferences to be conducted, of interviews to be granted. There was much more stored up in him than even he would ever have expected: thoughts as yet unuttered, insights he could draw upon, prefabricated formulations lying in readiness. They could ask him whatever they liked, the aggressive journalists; and the fawning ones, those who were both fawning and aggressive; and even if he wasn’t a member of the trade and had never been really part of it, journalists were people he knew something about, and he had always preferred the aggressive ones to the fawning ones. After all, he had been boss of the newspaper, his “little paper,” for the past thirty-two years, and he had seen them come and seen them go, had seen them rise and fall, had got along reasonably well with them, although he had never quite grasped what journalism was all about, no matter how often they had dinned into him at conferences that jour means day. And to chat away pleasantly into microphones for one day, for one day, on his front consciousness-track, faced by cameras and sharpened pencils, for the day: that’s what he had learned in those moments when the fear for his own life had so suddenly vanished.
So once again, as always, Kortschede had also been mentioned as a candidate, Kortschede who hadn’t shown up this time; and once again there had been some pretty direct allusions to his “leanings” which made him unfit for this office, “totally unfit, though there can be no doubt about his capabilities.”
Inevitable that Bleibl should now come up to him, while Amplanger stayed in the background; Bleibl, who really did have a coarse face, a regular “mug,” actually, and coarse manners too; old now yet still with the lusty youthfulness of the man who, while never a woman’s ideal he-man, nevertheless had many affairs. Strange, for the first time in thirty-five years to see Bleibl verging on embarrassment, surprise at any rate, giving an appreciative nod; but then the arrow from a quite unexpected quarter: “So the Fischers are expecting? And I had to see it in the sports section of one newspaper and the social column of the other—you never told us, even Käthe, when I mentioned it, was surprised.” Bleibl was watching closely, discovering instantly, of course, that he knew nothing about it either. Sabine pregnant? No one had told him, and there was some mystery about it, some whispering going on, none of the reporters seemed to have known, no one had asked him: “How do you feel about the new grandchild expected in the Fischer family?” He sensed that behind this remark, behind this question of Bleibl’s lurked something he didn’t know about. “Congratulations, on both counts: your performance here, which was brilliant—I see I shall have to read the literary section more often to keep up with you in future—and on your grandchild: in four months’ time, I understand. Take care.”
It was all over sooner than expected, Käthe was not yet back from Sabine’s. When there were meetings or conferences, she always withdrew, presiding only briefly as the lady of the house over afternoon tea or coffee, offering homemade cookies and little cakes, she happened to have a weakness for petits fours, which she produced herself in her own delightful kitchen—and she did all this so nicely, so graciously, that it didn’t seem like a mere duty, and she chatted with the men, looked after the secretaries, who appeared genuinely to like her and asked for recipes and advice. “No, really—what fantastic things you always make!” When wives were admitted to the male sanctuary for a few hours, she would ask them upstairs for tea, a chat, a drink, sometimes even showed them her wardrobe to the accompaniment of “Ah’s” and “Oh’s,” talked about children, grandchildren, travel plans, entertained without discrimination even the men’s girlfriends, referring to these openly to her husband as mistresses, doing this so nicely, inspiring immediate confidence, even reassuring these girlfriends—former stewardesses, secretaries, or salesgirls—when they seemed a bit out of their depth in these unaccustomed surroundings. Maintained her dignity and wouldn’t tolerate any snide remarks if someone tried to malign Rolf or Katharina, Veronica or Holger I; defended Herbert, who was decried as a visionary, would not rise to vicious remarks about their seven-year-old grandson, whose present whereabouts were unknown. “Your son’s current girlfriend, Katharina�
�she’s a Communist, isn’t she?” And she would reply: “Yes, I believe she is, but I’d rather you asked her personally—I greatly dislike defining other people’s politics.” Comments on the extramarital affairs of her son-in-law Erwin also did not seem to upset her. Hints about Sabine’s life—she remained completely unruffled, while security guards in the corridor, on the balcony, and in the rambling storerooms were watching over her.
He missed Käthe now. If Sabine was to have her child in four months, she must soon be in her sixth month—and had said nothing to anyone. One thing was safe to assume when it came to Bleibl’s pointed remarks—whether he was talking about Rolf, Katharina, Herbert, or Holger I: he always got his facts straight. If he said “in four months,” then it was four months, even if Sabine herself might not be that sure. Such things all came from Zummerling sources, and they had their ear not only to the pulse of the times but also to the abdomens of prominent women; they knew better than the lady herself when a period was missed, they were abdomen researchers of a special kind, no doubt they questioned housemaids and pharmacists, rummaged through garbage cans, snooped around in medical files, perhaps even monitored phone calls, all for the benefit of the public. Surely Käthe would have told him if she had known, and he couldn’t fathom why Sabine hadn’t told them. If Bleibl had read it in the sports page, it must have something to do with riding; he didn’t want to give way immediately to his urge to rush to the phone and call. He was longing to go upstairs to Käthe and have tea with her. He was sure she would refrain from facetious remarks about his election, if—something he would probably never find out—she felt like being facetious at all. She would hear it on the radio, of course, or see it on TV at Sabine’s, and she would be more likely to feel alarmed than facetious since she knew that Bleibl was out not only to make him deeply afraid but to destroy him.
At last the clatter in the conference room had stopped, all the media people had left, and he could sit down for a moment without being photographed; he felt fatigue settling over his face like a cobweb, actually felt the creases spreading, exhaustion after the amusing and tiring game of his double-track function, but he mustn’t smoke another cigarette just yet. He hated these confrontations with Grebnitzer, his doctor, and no doubt Amplanger would report: three during the session, one after lunch, a fourth one after the interviews. Amplanger had been re-elected secretary by acclamation, without lengthy discussion, and although he was from his own stable—hadn’t he won his spurs on the paper at his father’s side, built up a career in it and on it?—he was never quite sure whether Amplanger wasn’t really a Bleibl or even a Zummerling man. Pleasant, well educated, skillful, he rarely revealed his streak of ruthlessness, and then most clearly when he smiled: he had never seen a harder smile, you could almost hear his teeth grinding. All the Amplangers smiled, his wife, his four children, and malicious wags claimed that soon his dog, his cat, and his parakeets would start smiling too. Amplanger’s smile was notorious and feared—as the head of personnel on the paper he had been feared; there were still a few people left from the paper’s early days with whom he could talk on familiar terms, and they had told him there was a saying: “When Amplanger smiles, you’ve had it.”
Now presumably Amplanger was tired too, too tired to smile?
He seemed almost human as he sat down beside him, looking out over the park, seemed even a bit rumpled about his white shirt collar as if he had been perspiring, his hair slightly untidy—he seemed almost a “real human being” as he said: “Have another cigarette, sir, I won’t tell.” But he shook his head and merely asked: “What’s all this about my daughter and the newspaper report about her being pregnant?” “It seems your daughter Sabine has withdrawn from training for the championship, and this has led to some speculation, I’ll have it thoroughly checked out—I was surprised myself by Mr. Bleibl’s news. But now—if I may say so—you ought to lie down a bit. This has been a wild day, I’m worn out too, and as soon as I can be sure you’re upstairs in your own domain, I’ll be on my way. Fantastic, if you’ll allow me to say so, the way you coped with the media, simply fantastic.”
“Must I start work tomorrow—I mean, go to the office?”
“No, not till the day after, we’ll have a little ceremony then, a sort of reception for the whole staff—you know most of the department heads, of course. No, not tomorrow.”
“I’ll sit here for a while, you might as well go home—give my regards to your wife and family.”
“I’m sure I needn’t spell it out to you that all the security measures taken so far for Mr. Pliefger will now be transferred to you. If you wish, Mr. Holzpuke will give you the details—he’d like to do it himself, though of course I’d be glad to, only I don’t want to tread on his toes. So if I may assume that under these circumstances you will be able to reach your apartment without my help, which you might possibly find bothersome, I’ll say goodbye.”
“Thank you, goodbye—see you the day after tomorrow.”
What he really wanted was to go off right then, walk, across the courtyard, the bridge over the moat, along the avenue into the village, slowly from house to house, as far as the church. There he would have sat down, maybe even said a prayer, later knocked at Kohlschröder’s door, invited himself for coffee and a chat, about the world, not about God, about whom he was less inclined to speak with Kohlschröder than with anyone, probably because he was a priest. He would have stopped in front of his parents’ house, that one-and-a-half-story “cot” recently refaced with asbestos shingles where the teacher was still living, a young fellow with a car and a wife in jeans: the teacher had added a garage and turned the vegetable garden into a lawn, a thick close-cropped lawn on which the bright plastic toys of his two children could be seen lying around. So far he had refrained—and he intended to go on refraining—from asking if he might be allowed to see the house again from the inside: the two sloping attic rooms, downstairs the living room, kitchen, and tool shed, in the basement the laundry room and storeroom; probably it had all been modernized, and he wondered where they would have put in a bathroom, whether upstairs or down. He would have recalled his parents and his brother Hans—all dead, his parents buried here, his brother far, far away, if there had been anything left to bury. Direct hit. Rocket launcher. Some time or other he must pay another visit to the graves, as Käthe often did—then she would drive to Neu-Iffenhoven to visit her parents’ transplanted graves on her way home, taking along flowers, buying copper candle holders, commissioning gravestones from young sculptors of which he had seen only the designs: roses-and-crucifix symbolism, in marble, almost identical, with only slight variations, for both sets of parents, but he didn’t like going to cemeteries, never had, or to funerals, which some people seemed positively to enjoy.
He would have recalled the milk soup, whose flavor he had never encountered again, neither in war nor in peace; and even Käthe, who made superb soups, had never been able to reproduce that flavor, even after he had explained a hundred times what went into the soup: dollops of beaten egg white, that very discreet flavor of vanilla sugar—she always put in too much—and above all a certain, apparently inimitable creaminess which with Käthe always turned out too thick or too thin. Well, of course, he didn’t know the recipe, he could only remember the taste—and that was the very thing that couldn’t be recaptured, any more than the smell one had been conscious of on a particular evening somewhere—like the smell of autumn leaves rising from the courtyard in Dresden as he lay with Käthe in the room they had rented for the night.
His most vivid memory was of Saturdays: after confession the bath, in a galvanized washtub in the laundry room, after the bath the soup, bread and margarine, on lucky days cocoa, and not even the memory of confession had diluted the memory of the flavor of the soup. And he would have stopped in front of the Pütz house, the Kelz house, and would have wondered, although he knew he would never do it, whether he should go in and say hello to Anna Pütz (whose present name he knew to be Kommertz) or Bertha K
elz (whose present name he didn’t know); simply go in, say hello, and look into the faces of those old women, who would no doubt have been shy because he now lived in a manor house and was such an influential person. He would have searched in their faces for the girls with whom, more than fifty years ago, he had been so violently in love that it had made him ill: Bertha when he was thirteen, Anna when he was fourteen, one blond, the other dark—girls’ eyes, breasts, legs, hair—he had followed them, sneaked after them, tried to kiss them, made a pass at their breasts and tried to stroke their legs, neither of them had been offended, they just found him a nuisance, probably went through the same thing with other boys, were perhaps used to it, but not yet curious enough to seduce him, as Gerlind Tolmshoven later did—and he had never known how to answer the strange question put to him in the confessional: “Alone or with others?” Pastor Nuppertz seemed to take one or the other for granted with a boy of his age. Was it “with others” when he sneaked up on girls and tried to grab them or merely—and sometimes they allowed that and they would both be amazed in a beautiful, poetic kind of way—wanted to look into their eyes: long and deep, while keeping—as he solemnly promised—his hands to himself. Was that “with others,” to look in a girl’s eyes and search for What? and find What? And Nuppertz’s insufferable question as to whether during his bath on Saturdays he “fiddled around” with himself, and that it would be better to have the bath water not too hot and to wear swim trunks—that actually gave him ideas he had never had before.
The Safety Net Page 2