This afternoon they have arranged to make up for the walk they missed. This time she is waiting for him, in the same coat again, a little hesitant, as if she could guess at once that he has spent a poor night. She looks inquiringly at him, but he acts as if nothing were wrong and takes her hand for the first time. It is small and feels dry. As soon as they have gone a little way they are back where they had been the day before in his room, still talking in that whispering tone, while the rain rustles down through pine and birch trees. The doctor mentions the confusion that he has felt since yesterday – everything is alarmingly new, it is all changing. He doesn’t want her to be mistaken in him, he would like her to assess him as he is, and herself too, so that she won’t regret anything later. She doesn’t know what he means, she says. Regret? The doctor hardly knows how to put it. He’s a sick man, he left his job a year ago. He has odd habits. And to make sure that she knows about him, he tells her about his tuberculosis, only so that she’ll be aware of what she is letting herself in for, because that is what he understood her to mean yesterday, that’s how he understands it himself. He may be ill, but it doesn’t matter to her. Or that’s not exactly it, but I only want to be where you are, she says, the rest will settle itself. What he hears in her voice above all is the idea of the two of them together, us, we, it sounds gentle and firm, as if nothing much more could happen to them now. She has already thought about a room. She knows people whose advice she can ask, she will write to Berlin today if he would like that. Would you? She mentions a few names that mean nothing to him as they go down to the beach, on the last part of the path before they leave the woods, both of them shivering, although the rain has slackened noticeably. Wait, she says. Shall I? She means is she to ask about the room, but perhaps there is something else as well, the doctor says yes, please write to them, and he wishes he knew what heaven had been kind enough to send her to him.
In his room that evening, the doctor tries to recapitulate exactly what they talked about, all of it, but he really recollects only her voice, and the silence that does sometimes fall but is not uncomfortable when they are just walking, before their conversation goes on. That is all he knows. He is partly reassured; everything will take its course as if he didn’t have to do anything about it. But he must write, at last, to Else Bergmann about the journey to Palestine that she suggested, and tell her that he will certainly not be going on any such journey. She will not be particularly surprised, but all the same he has to explain it to himself. It costs him an effort to write to her pretending that, ultimately, he simply did not like the idea, although that is exactly what he does say in his letter.
4
It takes her some time to realise what he wants from her. Why he hesitates to touch her, when there is nothing she wants more, when he calls for her to set out on a walk, because now they go walking almost every day. It is still quite cool, but the rain has stopped, and the sun even comes out now and then. They have plenty of time, they can take really long walks, hand in hand, but on Dora’s part still with trepidation, as if she might lose him any moment. There is much about him that she doesn’t understand: when he asks her if she really means what she says, when he runs himself down in talking to her. For instance, he may ask, do you really want to know the truth? Then he adds that he can only advise her against getting involved with him, and at that she laughs at him and listens as if he were talking about some other man, a man she doesn’t know.
They are sitting on a bench in the middle of the woods, and he doesn’t make it easy for himself. He imagines her with him in Berlin, always assuming they could find a room, and what it would be like. He wants her to be close to him as often as possible, but he also needs to be alone, for instance when he is writing. He walks a great deal, he tells her, he walks through the city for hours, because ideas come to him while he is walking, sentence by sentence, and then later all he has to do is write them down. He writes only at night. I’m unbearable when I’m writing. But then he laughs. She doesn’t think the admission very terrifying. It sounds odd to her, but not threatening. So what is he afraid of, she wonders, of me? Are you afraid of me? Afraid I’ll disturb you? If I do disturb you, she says, then I’ll go away until you let me know that I can come back. She is half joking, but he seems to be relieved. He has hardly written anything for weeks, perhaps he has written himself out, but the way he says so shows that he doesn’t really believe it. Do you understand? She is not sure that she does, but now he kisses her. He wishes he could live somewhere out in the country, and she says yes, and then yes again, on this bench in the middle of the woods. Sometimes I don’t believe in you at all, he says.
He is wearing a new suit, dark blue, almost black, with fine white stripes, a white shirt, a waistcoat, a tie that she already knows.
She writes to her friend Georg, and then to Hans, who has sent her two postcards with scrawled messages that she can’t answer. Reading between the lines, she sees that he was telling her he missed her, that he didn’t reproach her, and for that very reason she hesitates to ask him any favours. Since meeting the doctor she has seen Hans in a new light, as if he had shrunk, someone whom she can’t take entirely seriously as a man, because like Dora herself he is only in his mid-twenties. All the same, she must write to him; his father is an architect, he has contacts, she needs those contacts now. The doctor, as she describes him, is an acquaintance she met on the beach who is doing her a favour. She feels that her letter sounds a little formal. In September, she tells Hans, she will be back in Berlin, I hope you are well, she adds, which sounds almost as if she didn’t have much to do with how he is. Strictly speaking, she owes him nothing. They have been to the cinema together two or three times, but otherwise there was nothing in it, at least not for her. She is glad that the doctor has never asked about him, it would have embarrassed her, as if she should be ashamed of knowing someone like Hans. Later, in the afternoon, they will go for a walk again; the doctor has promised to take the children into the little resort to buy them ice creams, so the walk may be later than usual.
Yesterday, on the way back, he told Dora that he couldn’t live alone in Berlin; he can entertain the idea of Berlin only because he has met her. For instance, he can’t cook. Would she cook for him in Berlin? He has put the question stupidly, like a schoolboy. He can’t ask that of her, he says. She embraced him and kissed him, and said how happy he makes her, although in the last few days it has struck her that he hardly touches the food she cooks. He has lost weight since she met him, and now he wants her to cook for him in Berlin.
Elli too says that she is uneasy about her brother; not only is he losing weight, he also has a high temperature almost every morning, and she is afraid that the cold weather isn’t doing him any good. They met briefly in the front hall. Dora took his sister’s words as a veiled accusation, as if it were her, Dora’s business to see that the doctor recovers his strength, and had been for some time now. At supper in the evening with the new children who have arrived at the holiday home, he leaves most of what is on his plate, or says he has eaten something already in his room. Don’t be angry, says his glance, but when she thinks about it, it is more as if he were saying: you don’t understand, there is so much that you don’t understand, but all the same you are dear to me.
You’re my salvation, he says. And I didn’t believe there could be any salvation for me.
If one can die of happiness, then surely that’s what I must do, and if happiness can keep one alive, then I will live.
When she thinks of him before going to sleep, she is particularly glad that he has taken to addressing her by the informal du pronoun, and that he never tires of praising her, as if she herself knows less than anyone who she is. He may ask: have I said anything about your dress before? And then, a little later: come on, read something to me, because when they are not out walking he asks her to read to him in Hebrew. She has already read to him from the Book of Isaiah: he likes the prophets best. I could sit here for hours listening to you, he says. Or he
says: I would like to lay my head in your lap, as soon as I pluck up the courage I’ll ask you to let me.
The weather is still disastrous. As long as she can sit in the kitchen with him she doesn’t mind that, but now, suddenly, there are plans for him and his sisters to leave Müritz. Elli’s husband Karl has arrived. At his first breakfast after joining the family, there was much discussion about the doctor, how he isn’t eating and weighs less than ever. He tells her about it that afternoon. Valli has suggested leaving, even the children didn’t make much fuss about that, they are real little pests now that they can’t bathe in the sea any more. He doesn’t seem happy about this prospect, does not say that their departure is fixed, but sooner or later of course they will leave, which unfortunately means that he will go with them, for he can’t stay here alone, without his sisters.
At first she can’t believe it. But why not, she asks, and what does alone mean? Are you alone? She hasn’t really even had a taste of him yet, she wants to say, they’ve never spent more than a couple of hours together, and unfortunately she herself can’t leave this place, because if she could she wouldn’t hesitate to follow him. The doctor tries to soothe her, saying that nothing has been decided yet about the day of their family’s departure, although he has to admit that his weight loss is quite serious – perhaps there is somewhere better to spend the next few weeks.
They are standing up there in his room, she can hardly look at him now that she knows there are only a few days left. It never occurred to her before, she realises, that he would be leaving. She thought that when the holidays were over they would go straight to Berlin. Now it is up to her to question the plan. The doctor is standing behind her, she feels his hands on her stomach, he runs his fingers through her hair, he breathes in the smell of her. This doesn’t mean the slightest change to our plans, he says. I don’t even have to promise you, because if I promised that would mean I had doubts. The sooner I leave this place, the sooner I’ll be in Berlin. She is not sure whether she believes that. Is it maybe something like Tile’s red scarf, a present to take home, and then you don’t know what on earth to do with it? Tomorrow Puah is coming, he says, I think you will like her. He hasn’t let go of her all this time, his hands are warm, which is a certain comfort, but no more.
She does indeed like Puah at once. She isn’t here just because of the doctor, but Dora can tell that they know each other well, he has been learning Hebrew from Puah, and also she has been living in Berlin for some time, so there is a kind of double connection. He doesn’t say a word about their own Berlin plans in front of Puah. He praises the holiday home, the children, although if he were honest he doesn’t like them quite as much as he did at first, when they sat in the garden singing and eating every evening; that makes it seem like years ago. This is Dora, he says, and Dora thinks it sounds as if he were saying, look, this is the miracle that has happened to me. Sad to say, he is going to leave Müritz very soon, he says that evening as they are all sitting together, and not everyone is happy with that decision, he adds, least of all himself. Puah says: Then we’ll meet in Berlin. After that they talk about Berlin for some time, not in the same way as she and the doctor talk about the city, but as if nothing there were any good, as if anywhere would be better than Berlin, where potatoes have to be sold under police protection, and the Reichsbank is printing two million new banknotes every day. Do you hear about that in this remote place? The doctor laughs, and says that yes, believe it or not, there are newspapers here, but Dora isn’t listening, she is looking at the expression of the other woman, Puah. She likes the doctor, she runs her fingers through her hair as she talks to him, jokes about his Hebrew, saying he is far and away her quickest pupil. From a distance, you could take Puah for Tile’s sister, and Dora is almost proud that the doctor likes Puah, she is not jealous, or only a little: at first she was jealous of Tile, too, but then there he was, standing near her in the kitchen, and she was the only one he wanted.
5
She has been rather quiet ever since learning that the doctor will soon be going away. The doctor has assured her several times that it is all decided, yet he is restless and full of doubts. He has hardly slept for days, he has headaches, and a change of scene will not necessarily improve that, nor will the weather, particularly as it seems to be getting better here at last, and in the afternoon they are all down on the beach again. So why won’t he stay? It’s also because of Berlin, he tells Dora. For he wants to pay a brief visit to Berlin, as he did on the way here, he wants to stop off briefly in Berlin, just to look around and walk through some of the districts of the city, and if he has recovered his strength then, he will come back for ever. It is their last day but two, he is tired, and Dora passes her hand several times over his forehead and temples: he senses her sadness, he has already declined an invitation to spend an evening in the home.
He is afraid he will be a disappointment to her. He is leaving her, he can’t say what will happen and that in itself is a disappointment. No, she says. Stop it. Later she sits in front of him on the sand with her legs crossed, and smiles with something of a question in her smile, for this is the last time they will sit here. It is pleasantly warm. Dora thinks it is lovely weather, almost like the beginning of July in the days before he found her.
Although he hasn’t packed yet, the room already seems strange to him. Only yesterday he wrote to Tile, sitting at the table here, and a few days ago he wrote a card to his parents, but otherwise he has written almost nothing in the last month, a few diary entries but only half-heartedly, and a few sketches in which Dora does not feature. A letter has been lying there for days – a letter from Robert complaining that he is sick, or imagines that he is sick. The doctor does not feel particularly sorry for him; instead he complains of his own state of health in his reply. His head aches and he is sleeping badly, he says, he will be leaving this place on Monday. He could at least mention her name, but instead he writes about the colony and his status as a guest, which unfortunately is not entirely clear, because the general relationship also touches on a personal one. At least she appears in his letter in that way. He says not a word about his plans. Who would he discuss them with? Max, of whom he has had no definite news for months? Ottla? He could probably talk to her, and suddenly he hopes that after the journey he is soon to take he will discuss the matter with Ottla. He sits on the balcony to listen to the familiar voices, but not for very long, so as not to make the parting more difficult. He will certainly miss those voices, he thinks; the sea, although he may be able to give that up easily enough; the forest, but there are forests elsewhere too; and rooms of some kind where he can sit and write.
They say goodbye briefly, brightly. She is very brave, he thinks, once again wearing that dress before which he would like to fall on his knees immediately, here and now in the middle of her kitchen. He will not be eating with her today, because he has promised his last evening to the children, so instead he goes down to the beach with her again. There is not much more to be said. He asks her not on any account to come to see him off at the station. All right, she says, and he says: See you soon, to which she replies in turn: Yes, see you soon.
Up in his room he is relieved that she has simply let him go. Once he is in Berlin, he has promised, he will send a telegram. She said: Please don’t forget what has happened here, and now go, it’s all right. He begins packing; they don’t eat the main meal of the day until evening in the colony. How can she believe that he might forget even the smallest detail? Elli has packed too. The children don’t want to let him go, and he is not back in his room until nearly ten o’clock. Over in the home it is noticeably quieter now; he sees the children sitting at the long table, but without any sense of melancholy, as if he were already in Berlin and on his way to the hotel.
When there is a knock on his door he hardly notices it at first, as if he didn’t believe in the knocking, and then it is Dora. Obviously she hasn’t been running this time; on the contrary, she seems very calm, if a little pale. She has
not been crying, she says, but she spent half the evening over in the colony, thinking. That is why she is asking him with all her heart to put off his journey for a few days – he can’t, he mustn’t leave first thing tomorrow morning. Please, she says, and then again: Please. She sits down on the sofa again, strangely young and serious, as if she were more surprised than he that she has come. She shakes her head, is silent for a while and then says she didn’t know it would be so difficult. But that’s not why she is here. I just kept on thinking that you can’t go like this. Can you? No, he says. Perhaps he could have gone, but not now, not any more.
He thinks of her scent all through the train journey, a sentence spoken now and then, the flicker of a movement while Felix and Gerti pester him with their questions, pointing out all kinds of animals in the landscape going past outside the train, a flat, wide landscape under a cloudless sky. Even the swallows are still flying, but it is early August, and in the end they must fly away.
When they parted at about twelve-thirty, they had not said much more. Their only thought was how much one is deceived, particularly in oneself, for the miracle, hard to grasp as it has been so far, is not yet over, and patience and amazement still fill him – how gentle and knowledgeable she was. She walked away from him almost carefree, confused and happy as if now she had some kind of protection – she said something like that. And now sleep, promise me to get some sleep. And he did indeed sleep for several hours, with the scent of her round him, he slept not very deeply, as if expecting her to come back, or as if there was no difference this time, as if she were here with him and at the same time back there in her room. He can even eat breakfast next morning; he is awake at eight-thirty and packs the last of his things, on the watch for anything to disturb him, some small act of treachery, but there is only amazement.
The Glory of Life Page 3