by Betsy Carter
Meyer smiled. “You do fine.”
Egon said that he and Meyer would be happy to take her around the campus. “Even better,” said Meyer, “we’ll show you our Berlin, won’t we, Egon?”
Egon glanced at his friend and then at his watch. He was amused to find that the conversation had ambled past the thirty minutes Meyer had allotted. Carola saw him look at his watch and stood up. “I mustn’t take any more of your time,” she said. “Thank you, I feel more at home already. I can’t wait to come back and meet your Berlin.” She shook Meyer’s hand and kissed Egon’s cheek.
After she left, Meyer sighed. “Lovely. Floated in and out of here like something from a dream.”
“Forget it,” said Egon. “All you can do with women like that is admire them from afar.”
But Meyer could not forget her. He nicknamed her Schneewittchen after the heroine in Snow White, and when she came to the university, he made good on his promise. By then he was working at a publishing house for a meager salary, yet he managed to take her to exotic Italian and Chinese restaurants and to the graves of the Grimm brothers at Old St. Matthew’s Cemetery. Meyer bragged to Egon that on one of their Sunday-afternoon strolls on Kurfürstendamm, Carola had taken his arm. “See, good fortune embraces those who wait their turn,” he said.
“Be careful,” answered Egon. “Good fortune can be a fickle friend.”
But Meyer ignored Egon’s warning and courted his Carola with little gifts: a papier-mâché pin in the shape of a clarinet, an onyx turtle that he promised wouldn’t bite. He didn’t notice good fortune loosening its grip until the day Carola, with a slight flush in her cheeks, told him she had a friend she couldn’t wait for him to meet: Max Cohen.
Plump, chinless, and already balding, Max Cohen was the man who brought color to Schneewittchen’s frosty cheeks.
That night, Meyer sat in their living room while Egon studied. Bathed in the light of his friend’s desk lamp and his own misery, he shook his head. “What can she possibly see in him?”
Egon didn’t look up until Meyer repeated the question a third time. “Don’t you understand?” he finally answered. “Max Cohen comes from a wealthy family in Bonn; his father is the head of a successful architecture firm. He’s studying architecture so he can take over the company someday. Architects, unlike writers, get paid good money for what they do. Women like Carola marry the Max Cohens of this world. You do want your Schneewittchen to live happily ever after, don’t you?”
“Egon, open your eyes,” said Meyer. “Nobody’s going to live happily ever after in this country. The mark is worth nothing, and we still have veterans hobbling around in their old uniforms. Schneewittchen can marry her bloated architect, but all the money in the world won’t keep her satisfied. She needs a real man.” Meyer opened his arms and did a crude shimmy with the lower part of his body. “Face it, we might as well do all of our eating, drinking, and screwing today. Tomorrow will only be worse.”
Egon had to laugh at the way Meyer threw in references to sex whenever he could. He teased his friend about never having even had his tongue inside a girl’s mouth, and Meyer teased him back about all the women he’d imagined Egon had had. Meyer called them ladies because, in his envy, they became caricatures of women of the world, with dusted white cheeks and large breasts, and in a perpetual state of arousal. “You live in a fantasy world,” Egon told him. “First of all, they’re girls. They have ordinary skin and normal-sized breasts. But let’s not have this conversation until you have something to talk about.”
Meyer did not live in a fantasy world when it came to Berlin. By now, he considered himself a city boy, one who saw too keenly that awful things were going on there. More people than ever were begging in the streets, and those who weren’t seemed to be living another kind of desperation. Middle-aged war-widows-turned-prostitutes had become commonplace, as had mothers offering up their teenage girls for a price to young men on the street. But even Meyer was shocked to learn that the city’s most famous stripper had recently urinated on a customer’s table when he booed her act.
Like many of his age and class, Egon’s father lived apart from what was happening in Germany. By 1925, Wildflowers of Europe, with illustrations by an American artist, was nearly as successful as European Ornithology, but Rudolph regarded his fame as another thing to be gotten through, like paying bills. Hobbled by his rheumatism, he walked with a cane. His eyesight was nearly ruined, and he had learned to do mundane things, like fit a key into a keyhole, by touch. At seventy-two, he had become an old man, though he remained a vain one. Each morning, he massaged coconut oil into his scalp to regenerate his hair follicles, and he always wore a jacket and tie, even alone at home.
He lived in the same apartment that he and Elisabeth had moved into more than thirty years earlier, and he still took his coffee with bread and butter and jam out on the terrace. Mostly out of habit and the lack of anything better to do, he was writing a book about the trees of Europe, but with his failing eyesight, he needed his old housekeeper, Annette, to come in and take dictation. It was bothersome having someone witness his clumsy steps and awkward groping; as much as possible, he preferred to be alone.
At least this was the explanation that Egon gave to Meyer about why, after four years of college and one of medical school, his father had never been to visit him in Berlin. Not that he was in a hurry to have him come; Egon’s last trip home at Christmas had left him with unpleasant memories. His father had dutifully inquired about his studies. When Egon had asked him about his work, he’d offered up generic descriptions of the “stately beech trees” and “sprawling oaks.” He’d been working with a new illustrator from America who did her drawings from photographs. She’d never even seen the trees. “It’s an arduous process of monthly posts going back and forth,” he’d said, “but her drawings seem tidy and accurate. I couldn’t ask for anything more.” To Egon’s mind, he should have asked for a lot more. Had Rudolph’s eyesight been better, surely he’d have seen that the drawings were static and clinical, with none of the life of his wife’s.
“Do you miss Mutti?”
Egon rarely mentioned his mother around his father; he couldn’t bear the way Rudolph’s face seemed to cave in when he did. But this time, the question had spilled out before he could catch it.
His father had stared down at his lap. “Dwelling on the past is the greatest obstacle to living,” he’d said. “I try to concentrate on the present.”
So it was a surprise when Rudolph wrote to say he was being honored by the German Society of Naturalists at a luncheon in Berlin on the thirteenth of April, and asked if Egon would have time to have dinner with him that evening. Egon showed the letter to Meyer and said, “You’ll join us, won’t you?”
To which Meyer responded, “And finally meet the famous father? Of course.”
His father was already seated when Egon arrived at the restaurant. Rudolph was wearing a finely tailored black suit and a meticulously pressed white linen shirt. In the candlelit room, his eyes seemed as brooding and penetrating as ever. Even now, women turned to take a second look at the elegant gentleman with the long legs and luxurious white hair.
“Hello, Papa,” said Egon.
Rudolph gripped his cane and was about to push himself to standing.
“Don’t get up, it’s only me.”
He sat back down.
Sometimes, when Egon was taking a difficult exam or going on a date with a girl he was eager to please, he would tuck the glass eye into his pocket like a good luck charm. Tonight was one of those times, and as he pulled his chair out, he dug his hand into his right pocket and held it. Father and son exchanged pleasantries. Egon told Rudolph that his friend Meyer would be joining them. “You two will hit it off. He’s a writer. He wants to write books eventually, but for now he is a junior editor at Ullstein Verlag.”
Rudolph seemed distracted, and Egon wasn’t sure his father had heard what he said. He continued, “He also writes poetry and has had some essay
s published in Vossische Zeitung and a few in—”
Rudolph ordered a glass of cognac. “And what about you, Egon? Have you decided what you want to do?”
Egon touched the outside of his right pocket. “When I used to draw with Mutti, it was the eyes of the animals that interested me the most. I’ve been learning about them. Why dogs’ eyes glow in the dark; how ducks, even though they have flat, wide-set eyes, can take in nearly three hundred and sixty degrees. Did you know that a horsefly’s eye is made up of thousands of pin dot–sized lenses? It fascinates me, all this, Papa, it really does. I’m thinking that I’m going to specialize in ophthalmology.”
Rudolph sipped his cognac, then dabbed the corner of his mouth with his middle finger. “I applaud your obsession. But when your mama and I worked together, we had the animals, the birds, the flowers… the whole world to explore. The eye, Egon, why be so specific?”
“Mutti was specific too. You know she was obsessed in her own way with the birds. Anyway, it’s not as specific as you think. In order to become an ophthalmologist, I’ll have to understand human anatomy, all two hundred and six bones, how each organ works. It’s a world unto itself.”
His father raised his hand as if in surrender. “Your mama was a genius, so that’s a whole other story. If this is what you want, it’s fine with me, as long as I have the money to pay for it, though it’s a shame you’re coming at this ophthalmology business too late to help an old man get back his eyesight.”
Egon had reached into his pocket and was about to show his father the glass eye when Meyer appeared, shirt untucked and a coffee-stained manuscript under his arm. “Speaking of geniuses,” Egon said, relieved to shove the keepsake back into his pocket, “here’s my friend Meyer.”
“Ah, the famous writer,” said Rudolph, rising to his feet.
Even in his diminished state, he loomed over Meyer by nearly a foot.
“Please,” said Meyer, “let’s sit. I look taller in a chair.”
His words made the air feel lighter. Meyer asked Rudolph about European forests and what effect the bullets and shrapnel might have had on the trees. Rudolph wanted to know about Meyer’s work at the publishing house. Meyer told him about the manuscript he was reading, to which Rudolph responded, “They’re Jewish, you know.”
“Who’s Jewish?” asked Meyer, looking around the restaurant.
“The Ullsteins. Old man Leopold was from Bavaria. Died about twenty-five years ago and left the company to his five sons.”
“Oh,” said Meyer. “I’ve only met Franz, who seems cordial enough. Even shook this lowly junior editor’s hand.”
Odd, thought Egon, his father had barely ever mentioned religion. “Papa, what’s the relevance of the Ullsteins being Jewish?”
Rudolph turned to Meyer. “You seem like a shrewd fellow, you tell him.”
“He means that being Jewish isn’t a private affair these days. We’re all in the spotlight,” said Meyer, raising his left eyebrow as he always did to punctuate one of his pronouncements. “Let’s put it this way: When you become an ophthalmologist, you won’t be Dr. Egon Schneider, you’ll be Dr. Egon Schneider, the Jewish ophthalmologist.”
Egon smiled. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?”
“Maybe not,” said Meyer, “but when I become a famous writer, I don’t want to be known as Meyer Leavitt, the Jewish writer, or Meyer Leavitt, the German writer. Meyer Leavitt will be quite enough.”
The next hour passed in easy conversation. Meyer and Rudolph talked about Hesse’s novels, Schnitzler’s plays, and Schönberg’s music—“like dishes crashing to the floor,” said his father—as Egon listened in amazement mixed with jealousy. He knew that Meyer breathed in all this culture, but his father? What did he know of literature? When did he listen to music? It pained Egon how effortless it was for Meyer to engage his father in a way that Egon never had.
After dinner, Rudolph had a second glass of cognac, then pushed back his chair and placed his cane directly in front of him. “A pleasure,” he said, as if he were addressing the German Society of Naturalists. “I trust we’ll meet again, Meyer.”
Egon could see the effort it took for him to pull himself up, and he and Meyer rushed to his side. “Likewise,” said Meyer. “In the meantime, I’ll keep watch over this young man. Not that he needs me to take care of him. There are plenty of ladies vying for that job.”
Rudolph squeezed Egon’s shoulder. “It’s nice to know he inherited something from his papa.” There was a tremble in his touch. As they headed to the door, his father had to stop and lean against the wall in order to catch his breath. When Egon offered his arm, he refused the help: “Thank you, but I’m used to doing this on my own.”
A car was waiting to take Rudolph back to his hotel. When Egon bent over to open the door, he felt a sense of loss, as if his father were fading away. I ought to tell him I love him, he thought. The words, so simple, formed in his mind, but his mouth refused to speak them. “Take care of yourself, Papa,” he said. Once seated, his father raised his hand and waved, never turning his head as the car pulled away.
Egon and Meyer stood on the curb, their eyes following him. “Interesting man,” said Meyer. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a father who reads books and listens to music.”
“I can tell you what it’s like,” said Egon. “He does all those things, and knows all those things, and it has nothing at all to do with me. I’ve never even heard of Schönberg.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” said Meyer. “I guess when you spend all your free time wooing the ladies, you don’t have time for books and music.”
“Oh, no, not this again,” said Egon, smiling.
Meyer was wrong about one thing. He didn’t have to woo the ladies. They wooed him.
5.
It turned out that drawing was what captivated Egon most about his studies after all: achieving the perfect curvature of the eyeball; identifying the nerves, veins, and arteries; the way extraocular muscles seemed to shoot away from it. When he outlined the vitreous humor, the clear jelly that filled the back chamber of the eyeball, he’d shade it with a touch of gray to make it look as gelatinous as it felt. Everything about the eye pleased him. He loved how it looked. He was fascinated by the way each vein and membrane had a specific purpose and neatly intertwined at the optic nerve, like railroad lines that funneled into a single track. The hours he spent at his medical studies melted time away. In his absorption and attention to detail, he drifted to the same place his mother had gone when she drew the birds, and often he would feel her presence.
He chose his distractions judiciously: a pretty girl, an hour with Meyer, sometimes a nightcap at one of the nearby beer halls. Berlin of 1926 had more than enough distractions. There was the music, every night a different artist, a different cabaret; riotous dance halls; the opera; Potsdamer Platz with its overdressed baroque buildings and outdoor cafés.
Late one autumn night, Egon walked to a club two blocks from his apartment. At the bar, he ordered a port and was reading a newspaper when he became aware of people laughing and staring his way. “That’s the one,” said the woman onstage, who was beckoning to him. She wore a baby bonnet, white bloomers, and a pink satin bib that barely covered her nipples. “The dark one with the big blue eyes. I like him.”
Egon pointed to himself with eyebrows raised.
No, he would not be part of this farce; he would leave as gracefully as he could.
He raised his arms and partially bowed to the crowd, then reached for his wallet and drew out money to pay the bartender. He blew a kiss to the woman onstage, mouthed the words Nein, danke, and backed himself out of the room. There were boos. As he slipped his jacket on in the foyer, he could make out shouts of “homosexual,” “sour sport,” “Jew boy.”
Though he confided most things to Meyer, Egon didn’t tell him about this episode. Meyer’s head was already too filled with negative images. Besides, they were Berliners now, and Egon t
old himself that these things came with the city. But after that night, the music sounded shriller to him. The formerly spotless streets were littered with trash. The lights that had once wooed him looked garish, and even the beautiful Grunewald, where he had walked on Sunday mornings watching for deer and fox, was barren. Berlin had become a bleak and grotesque city. He wondered if this was how his mother had seen the Stadtwald at the end.
Frankfurt seemed years away. His main connection to it was Annette, who dutifully visited his father each day and sent Egon long reports by post: There are buds on the pear trees, and the air smells sweet, she wrote in the beginning of May. Your father is up to the W’s. Today, he dictated the waythorn. After that, there remains only the willow, the yew, and the Ziziphus jujuba. Then Trees of Europe will be completed. He seems very optimistic.
Then, on the morning of May 14, 1928, she telephoned Egon at the room he was renting. Her voice was steady as she described what had happened that morning. “When I came, I went straight to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I shouted to him, did he want one too, but he didn’t answer. I went to the library thinking he’d already started his work, but he wasn’t there. Then I checked his bedroom. That’s where I found him, lying on his bed fully dressed in a suit and tie and even his shoes. He died peacefully, I can tell you that.”
The news should not have come as a surprise. Two years earlier, when his father had come to Berlin, Egon had thought he would be dead within the year. Now, only months after his seventy-fifth birthday and weeks before he was to finish Trees of Europe, he must have finally relented and given himself up. Other than their walks in the woods, they had never been easy with each other, yet Egon found himself crying and shaking, as he had not when his mother died. He called Meyer. “You saw us together. We weren’t exactly the closest father and son, yet I’m devastated.”
“It’s natural,” said Meyer in a tone that suggested he’d given this a lot of thought. “It’s the shock of the void. First your mother, now him. You spent your life trying to get his approval. It defined you and gave you a purpose. Now that’s gone too. You deserve to feel devastated.”