by Morris West
“It sounds wonderful. I wouldn’t mind changing places with him. I don’t want to see Rome again for a long, long time. I’ll write to Jean Marie as soon as we get back to Tübingen.… By the way, we must do something for Francone. I think a gift of money would be best. I don’t imagine he gets paid too much. Remind me, will you, liebchen?”
“I will. Close your eyes now and try to sleep.”
“I’ll drowse off in a little while. Oh, that’s another thing. I have to send Cardinal Drexel a thank-you note for the use of the car and of Francone.”
“I’ll remind you.… Now go to sleep. You looked absolutely worn out tonight. I want you around for a long while yet.”
“I’m fine, liebchen, truly. You mustn’t worry about me.”
“I do worry. I can’t help it. Carl, if Jean Marie is right, if there is a last great war, what will we do? What will become of the children? I’m not being foolish. I just want to know what you think.”
There was no way he could qualify the answer and he knew it. He heaved himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, glad of the dark that hid the pain in his eyes.
“This time, my love, there will be no banners and no trumpets. The campaign will be short and terrible; and afterwards no one will care where the frontiers used to be. If we survive, we’ll try to hold together as a family; but you have to remember we can’t dictate what our children do. If we’re separated from them, then we gather some good souls together and do what we can to hold out against the assassins in the streets! That’s all I can tell you.”
“It’s strange!” Lotte reached up to touch his cheek. “When we first talked about this, before we came away, I was afraid all the time. Sometimes I wanted to sit in a corner and cry about nothing at all. Then, while you were in Monte Cassino, I took out that little piece of pottery the Senator gave you and held it in my hands. I traced the name that was written on it. I remembered how the lots were drawn to see who would die, and who would perform the act of execution, on Masada. Suddenly I felt very calm—fortunate somehow. I understood that if you hold too tightly to anything—even to life—you become a captive. So you see, you mustn’t worry about me either.… Kiss me good night and let’s go to sleep.”
As he lay wakeful through the small, cold hours, he wondered at the change in her: the air of new confidence, the curious calm with which she seemed to accept an unspeakable prospect. Had Aharon ben Ezra bequeathed a last magical courage to the potsherd which bore his name? Or was it perhaps a small wind of grace blown from the desert, where Jean Marie Barette communed with his Creator?
VI
It was good to be home. In the countryside the harvest was safely gathered; the blackbirds were pecking contentedly over the brown stubble. The Neckar flowed silver under a summer sky. Traffic was sparse in the city, because the holiday-makers had not yet returned from their sojourn in the sun. The halls and cloisters of the University were almost empty. The rare footfalls of janitor or colleague sounded hollow in the hush. It was possible to believe—provided one read no newspapers, switched off radio and television—that nothing would ever change in this quiet backwater, that the old Dukes of Württemberg would sleep forever in peace under the floor stones of the Stiftskirche.
But the peace was an illusion, like the painted backdrop of a pastorale. From Pilsen to Rostock the armies of the Warsaw Pact were arrayed in depth: shock troops and heavy tank formations and, behind them, the rocket launchers with tactical atomic warheads. Facing them were the thin lines of the NATO forces, prepared for a fallback under the first onslaught, trusting, but none too confidently, that their own tactical warheads would hold up the advance until the big bombers came in from the British Isles and the IBM’s were launched from their silos on mainland United States.
There was no mobilization yet, no call-up of reserves, because the crisis had not matured to the point where democratic governments could rely on their depressed and uneasy populations to answer a call to arms, or respond to the rhetoric of the propaganda machine. German industry still depended on guest-workers, who, deprived of tenure and citizenship, could hardly be expected to render liege service in a lost cause. At the other side of the world a new axis had been formed: industrial Japan was pouring plant and technical experts into China, in return for oil from the northern fields and the new wells in the Spratleys. Islam was in ferment from Morocco to the high passes of Afghanistan. South Africa was an armed camp, beleaguered by the black republics.… No leader, no junta, no parliamentary assembly could compass or control the complex geo-polity of a world haunted by depletion and the debasement of every currency of human intercourse. Reason rocked under the barrage of contradictions. The corporate will seemed frozen in a syncope of impotence.
After the first relief of homecoming, Carl Mendelius found himself tempted to the same despair. Who would hear one small voice above the babel cry of millions? What was the point of propagating ideas which would immediately be swept away like sandmotes in a tempest? What was the profit in expounding a past that would soon be as irrelevant as the magical animals of the cavemen?
This, he understood clearly, was the syndrome that produced spies, defectors, fanatics and professional destructors. Society is a stinking slum; blow it up! Parliament is a nest of nincompoops and hypocrites; destroy the filthy brood! God is dead; let’s polish up Baal and Ashtaroth, call back the Witch of Endor, to make the spells we need.
The best remedy was the sight of Lotte, busy and cheerful, dusting and polishing and chatting with women friends on the telephone, knitting a winter jersey for Katrin. He had no right to trouble her with his own dark dreaming. So he retired to his study and addressed himself to the pile of work that had accumulated in his absence.
There was a stack of books, which he was begged to read and recommend. There were students reports to be assessed, revisions to be made in his lecture texts, the inevitable bills to be paid.
There was a note from the President of the University, inviting him to an informal meeting with a few senior colleagues on Tuesday forenoon. The President’s “informal meetings” were well known. They were designed to pre-empt any problems before they were raised at the full meeting of the faculties in mid-August. They were also intended to persuade the gullible that they were privileged members of an inner cabinet.… Mendelius had small taste, but a reluctant admiration, for the President’s skill in academic intrigue.
The next letter was a communication from the Bundeskriminalamt, the Federal Criminal Bureau in Wiesbaden.
… We are informed by our Italian colleagues that as a result of recent incidents in Rome, you may become the target of attack, either by foreign terrorist agents or by local groups affiliated with them.
We advise you, therefore, to take the precautions outlined in the enclosed pamphlet, which we circulate normally to government officials and senior executives in industry. In addition, we advise you to exercise special vigilance within the precincts of the University, where political activists may easily conceal themselves in a large congregation of students.
Should you notice any suspicious activity, either in your neighborhood or at the University, please contact the Landeskriminalamt in Tübingen without delay. They have already been apprised of your situation.…
Mendelius read the pamphlet carefully. It told him nothing he did not know; but the final paragraph was a chill reminder that violence was as infectious as the Black Death.
… These precautions should be strictly observed, not only by the subject, but by all members of his household. They, too, are under threat, because the subject is vulnerable through them. A common and concerted vigilance will reduce the risk.
There was a brutal irony in the fact that an act of mercy in a Roman street should expose a whole family to violent invasion in a provincial town in Germany. There was an even grimmer corollary: that a shot fired on the Amur River in China could plunge the whole planet into war.
Meantime, there were more pleasant thoughts to distract him. The E
vangelicals had written a joint letter expressing their thanks for “your openness in discussion and your emphatic affirmation of Christian charity as the binding element in our diverse lives.” There was also a second letter from Johann, addressed to him personally.
… Before I left on this vacation I was in deep depression. Your gentleness about my religious problem helped very much; but the rest of it I couldn’t explain. I was worried about my career. I couldn’t see any point to what I was doing. I didn’t want to join some big company, planning the economics of a world that could blow up in our faces. I was afraid of being called up for military service in a war that would produce nothing but universal disaster.… My friend Fritz felt exactly the same way. We were angry with you and your generation because you had a past to look back on, while we had only a question mark before us.… Then we found this place—Fritz and I and two American girls we met in a Bierkeller in Munich.
It’s a small valley, with only a footpath leading into it. There are high cliffs all around, covered with pines to the snow line. There is an old hunting lodge and a few cabins grouped around a lake, surrounded by lush meadows. There are deer in the woods and the lake is full of fish. There’s an old mine tunnel that goes a long way into the mountain.…
Fritz, who is an amateur archaeologist, says it was worked in the Middle Ages for bloodstone. We’ve found broken tools and a leather jerkin, and a pewter drinking mug and a rusted hunting knife.…
Last time we went into town I made enquiries and found that the place is private property, owned by a very old lady, the Gräfin von Eckstein.… Her husband used to use it as a hunting preserve. We traced her to Tegernsee and went to see her.… She’s a spry old girl, and after she got over her surprise at being invaded by four young people she’d never met before, she gave us English tea and cakes and told us she was happy we were enjoying the place.…
Then, purely on impulse, I asked her whether she’d consider selling it. She asked what for. I told her it would make a wonderful holiday place for students like us.… At the beginning it was just something to talk about; but she took it quite seriously.…
Anyway, the upshot of it all was she named a price—a quarter of a million deutschmarks. I told her there was no way we could raise money like that.… Then she said, if we were serious, she’d consider leasing it to us. I said we’d think about it and get back to her.…
I’d love to do it. It’s so quiet, so remote from today; and it could be made to pay for itself.… It’s one of the things we’ve talked about often in class: the small, self-contained economy where a quality of life can be preserved. When we come back I’d like to talk to you about it and see what you think.
I spend my nights by lamplight trying to set down a plan. I find it a much more satisfying exercise than the currency problems of the European community or the relations between the oil producers and the industrial economies and the agricultural nations.… Somehow, as Fritz says, we have to scale things down to human size again, otherwise we all go mad, or become indifferent robots in a system we can never control.… I’m running on, I know; but this is the first time I’ve felt free to open myself to the father I truly love. It’s a pleasant sensation.…
Later, as they ate supper together, Mendelius read the letter to Lotte. She smiled and nodded approval.
“That’s good! He’s coming out of the dark forest, at last. It isn’t easy to be young these days. I’d encourage the idea, Carl; even if nothing comes of it. We can’t afford money like that; but still…”
“We might,” said Mendelius thoughtfully. “We just might. I’ve got some big royalties due in September; and once the new book is delivered… Besides, Johann isn’t the only one with a private dream.”
Lotte gave him a swift reproachful glance. “You wouldn’t care, perhaps, to share yours with your wife?”
“Come on, liebchen!” Mendelius laughed. “You know I hate talking about things until I’ve got them clear in my head. This one’s been simmering for a long time. What happens to elderly professors when they give up the chair? I can go on writing, I know; but I’d like to go on teaching, too, with small, selected groups of advanced students. I’ve had thoughts of founding a private academy, offering annual specialist courses to postgraduates. Musicians do it all the time—violinists, composers, conductors.… A place like the one Johann describes could be ideal.”
“It could.” Lotte was dubious. “Don’t misunderstand me. I love your idea, Carl; but it would be a mistake to mix it up with Johann’s project. Show him you’re interested; but don’t meddle. Let him follow his own star.”
“You’re right of course.” Mendelius leaned across and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry! I’ll keep my big hands out of the pie dish. Besides, we’ve got another problem to face.…”
He told her about the letter from the police in Wiesbaden. Lotte frowned and sighed unhappily.
“How long will we have to live like this, always looking over our shoulders?”
“God knows, liebchen! But we can’t panic. We just have to make a routine—like watching traffic lights and locking the house at night, and driving within the speed limit. After a while it will become automatic.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Georg Rainer called. He’s arriving Wednesday evening. Lars Larsen arrives in the morning from Frankfurt. That gives us a chance to talk before Rainer gets here.”
“Good!” Lotte nodded a vigorous approval. “You must see the terms are right before you go one step further with Rainer.”
“I will. It’s a promise. Do you need any extra help in the house?”
“I’ve got it. Gudrun Schild is coming in each day.”
“Good.… I wonder what our noble president has in mind for Tuesday’s meeting?”
“He worries me, that one.” Lotte was terse. “He’s a conjuror. He makes you think he’s pumping wine out of his elbow. What you really get is…”
“I know what you get, liebchen,” said Mendelius with a grin. “The trick is never to drink the stuff.…”
The President’s notion of an informal gathering was strictly Old Empire. Each colleague was treated to a firm handshake, a solicitous enquiry about his wife and his family, a cup of coffee and a slice of apple cake, freshly baked by the President’s wife and served by a maid in a starched apron.
The ceremony was a careful contrivance. With a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate in the other, the guests had to sit down. The chairs, each with a tabouret table beside it, were arranged in a semicircle facing the President’s desk. The President did not sit down. He perched himself on the edge of the desk in an attitude intended to suggest informality, intimacy and openness among colleagues. The fact that he spoke from three feet above their heads and had his hands free for gestures and punctuation was only a gentle reminder of his primacy. His speech was unctuous and usually banal.
“… I am in need of your expert advice. The—ah—responsibilities of my office preclude me from the day-to-day contact which I should like to have with the junior faculty and the students. I look to you, therefore, to interpret them to me and me to them.…”
Brandt, from Latin Language, leaned across to Mendelius and whispered, “He’s the fons et origo—and we’re the bloody water carriers.”
Mendelius stifled a grin behind his paper napkin.
The President went on, “Last week I was invited, with the heads of other universities, to a private meeting with the Minister of Education and the Minister for the Interior, in Bonn. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the—ah—academic implications of the present international crisis.…”
He paused a moment to let them consider the solemnity of the occasion in Bonn and what the—ah—academic implications might be. They were startling enough to dispel any boredom in his audience.
“… In September this year the Bundestag will authorize full mobilization of both men and women for military service. We are asked to prepare recommendations for exempted categories of students, and to supply lists of t
hose with specialist qualifications in physics, chemistry, engineering, medicine and related disciplines.… We are further asked to consider how courses in these subjects may be accelerated to meet the needs of industry and the armed services. We have also to face the depletion of students and junior staff as a result of the call-up.…” There was a ripple of surprise in the audience. The President hushed it with a gesture. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, let me finish! There will be time for discussion afterwards. In this matter we have no choice. We, like everyone else, will have to comply with regulations. There is, however, a more contentious issue.…” He paused again. This time he was obviously embarrassed and groping for the right words. “… It was raised by the Minister for the Interior, prompted, I believe, by pressure from our NATO allies. It is the question of internal security, of protection against subversion, espionage, and—ah—the activities of disaffected elements, in the student body.…” The only reaction was a hostile silence. He took a deep breath and hurried on. “In short, we are asked to cooperate with the security service by supplying them with copies of student dossiers and any other information which may be required from time to time, in the interest of public security.”
“No!” The sound erupted from the gathering. Someone dropped a coffee cup, which shattered on the parquet.
“Please! Please!” The President pushed himself off the desk and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. “I have conveyed the Minister’s request. It is now open for discussion.”
Dahlmeyer from Experimental Physics was the first on his feet, a big shaggy fellow with a jutting jaw. He challenged the President harshly. “I think we have a right to know, sir, what response you made to the Minister.”