Arthur had planned to remain very calm, but now he noticed something welling up in him that would not be held back, just as nausea often needs release at the most unsuitable moment.
‘It is also an indisputable fact,’ he said sarcastically, ‘that something else has risen sharply over the past few years. Namely the persecution of the Jews in Germany.’
‘Doubtless, doubtless.’ Herr Bisang nodded as if Arthur had just agreed with him. ‘That is also presented as a reason in many of these applications. Rightly, I assume. But . . .’ He was not yet content with the alignment of his watch chain, which required all his concentration.
‘But what?’
‘It cannot be the task of a Swiss authority to solve German problems.’
‘These are human beings!’
‘Yes,’ said Herr Bisang and nodded again. ‘There you come precisely to the point, dear Doctor Meijer. You see, that is the first and the hardest thing that one must learn in such an office. Almost everyone who places an application here is right. As a human being. As a single person. As an individual. And yet we must turn down most of these applications. Because we must think of the whole.’
‘These are empty words! Anti-Semitism in Germany is a reality!’
‘Precisely because it is a reality.’ Herr Bisang had discovered a sensitive spot on his neck, and was touching it very carefully with his fingers. ‘Precisely because we see every day the terrible effects such a reprehensible philosophy can have. Persecutions. Bullying. Loutish behaviour in broad daylight. As if it were the Middle Ages.’
‘That’s precisely why . . .’
‘That’s precisely why, my dear Dr Meijer, we can’t let the same thing happen in Switzerland. Nip it in the bud! If I reflect that there has been a Frontist representative for Zurich on the national council for two years – that is an alarm signal!’
‘And we defeat the Front by closing the borders?’ Arthur was really furious now, and it was an emotion that he only allowed himself very rarely.
‘I didn’t say that. But neither can we open the gates wide. We must precisely regulate immigration, with a dropper, as one might say. You as a doctor should understand that.’
‘I’m probably too stupid,’ said Arthur. ‘But I’m sure you’ll explain it to me.’
‘Only too happily. Although . . .’ Herr Bisang pulled his pocket watch over, looked at the time and shook his head resignedly. ‘Ah well, time is marching on. Where were we?’
‘You were trying to explain to me why I should be in favour of the rejection of my own request.’ Arthur’s voice trembled with the effort of not simply yelling in response to the official’s dusty calm.
‘Of course, of course. There is that rule in medicine: any substance applied in the correct dosage can be curative. Or at least not damaging. Is that not the case? But if one introduces an overdose of anything to the organism . . .’
‘An overdose of what?’
‘A state, my dear Doctor Meijer, is also a kind of organism. In which all the parts must work together. Each one in its place, and each in its God-given quantity. As long as nothing changes, the whole remains healthy. But if that equilibrium is disturbed . . . In our neighbouring country we can see what that can lead to. Irritations. Reactions. Convulsions.’ The medical vocabulary seemed to remind him of something. He took a silver pillbox from a desk drawer and reached into it with pointed fingers.
‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘I was only trying to give you an example. From your own sphere. Our country is still healthy. Largely healthy. We have fortunately been spared the illness of anti-Semitism. Largely spared. But if there were suddenly a Jew standing on every street corner, a foreign Jew to boot – for how long would Switzerland remain immune? And once such an infection has taken root . . .’ Herr Bisang nodded significantly, he knew his way around infections, that was supposed to mean, and put a small pink pill in his mouth by way of precaution. ‘It must be in the greatest interest of the Swiss Jews to avoid anything that might encourage anti-Semitism in this country.’
‘Do I understand you correctly, Herr Bisang? You are refusing Frau Pollack’s accusation because one Jew more might encourage anti-Semitism in Switzerland?’ Now Arthur was really raising his voice.
‘My dear Doctor Meijer! How can you accuse me of saying any such thing? I don’t mean the individual. Not the single person. Not the human being, as you so rightly said a moment ago. But as an official I am obliged to see the larger contexts. To think beyond the day. In your interest too.’
He pushed aside the folder containing the application, as if everything was sorted out and finished, and rose to his feet. ‘If there’s anything else I can do for you . . . It’s always a pleasure to talk to an intelligent person.’
Zurich, 1 August 1937
Dear Frau Pollack,
I would so have loved to be able to report a positive result, so I have repeatedly postponed writing this letter.
But everything turns out to be much more difficult than I had expected. I fear I have failed.
Outside in the street a brass band is passing. Today is the Swiss national holiday, and many fine speeches will be delivered. Has it always been the case that there is barely a connection between words and deeds? Or has it only struck me so clearly in recent times? (Do brass bands play so loudly because so many hypocrisies need drowning out?)
I have been informed, very kindly and correctly, that a work permit is absolutely out of the question. If at all, such a paper is issued only for positions for which no Swiss applicants can be found. (Which actually means none at all.)
At the moment I am at a loss about what to do next. One would really have to be a Goliath and shake these officials until their polite smile falls from their faces. They actually expect one to be grateful on top of everything.
I do not want to raise false hopes, but I have firmly undertaken not to give up on this matter. We still have a small amount of time before Irma and Moses finally have to leave the country.
They are both well. I shamelessly pretended to Fräulein Württemberger that the striking improvement in my patient’s health was entirely down to her good care and supervision, and if she continued to perform her services so efficiently, a complete recovery might be possible. (I have often observed that people who despise other human beings are particularly susceptible to flattery.)
I assume that the weather in Kassel is as lovely as it is here. If circumstances were different, I would write: enjoy these fine days!
With kind regards
Arthur Meijer
PS: I have firmly resolved to write a letter without a PS today.
67
Every month François paid the chief nurse at the old people’s home, one Frau Olchev, a few francs to devote special care to Chanele, and to alert him immediately, in the middle of the night if necessary, if anything was wrong with his mother. This morning she had rung him at about half past three. Frau Meijer was breathing with difficulty, and saying confused things, apparently in French. She, Frau Olchev, had not understood everything, but she was sure that it had something to do with a drummer and some ravens, perhaps Herr Meijer knew what it meant. She didn’t want to frighten him, heaven forbid, but on the other hand if something was wrong and she hadn’t told him in time, she would blame herself, particularly when Herr Meijer had always been so generous towards her. In her experience, on more than one occasion, such confused states often preceded death, the understanding fled before the soul. She had, as she was sure Herr Meijer would have intended, called the doctor, and perhaps it was something quite harmless, but if the worst came to the worst, she didn’t want to have to blame herself . . .
And so on. Frau Olchev, and perhaps this had something to do with her profession, was chatty even at this early hour.
François called his brother and sister – they had agreed that he would do this some months previously – and got the car out of the garage. For a few years he had been driving a French product again, a Citroen
11 CV that his business partner in Paris had bought for him under particularly favourable conditions. On other days he could wax as lyrical about the model’s advantages – front wheel drive! Steel monocoque chassis! – as his father once had about an exotic wood dining table, but today no one in the car uttered a word as they drove to Lengnau in the summer dawn. François spoke only once, to say, ‘How empty the roads are at this time of day.’
Hinda and Arthur sat side by side in the back and held hands.
They arrived at the old people’s home just before six, and all three ran up the steps, as if every second counted. When they charged into their mother’s room – the best room in the house, François had seen to that – the doctor had already come from the village and gone again. He had given Chanele an injection; she was sleeping now, and would not wake up for the next few hours. She lay there with a thumb in her mouth, a little girl who had dressed up as an old woman and gone to sleep after her game. Her breathing was quite calm and peaceful.
It had been a false alarm.
Frau Olchev, feeling guilty about all the excitement that she had caused, and at the same time proud of the importance granted her by the event, was even chattier than usual, and construed the meaningless phrases uttered by the doctor she had summoned as statements of profound significance. He hadn’t been able to find anything really alarming, she said, reporting his diagnosis, but given the patient’s great age and her weakened general condition, one must always expect dramatic changes, so it had only been correct – Frau Olchev repeated the words with red underlining – it had been absolutely correct to call him straight away, because once they started fantasising it was always an alarm signal. She, Frau Olchev, hoped very much that she had acted as Herr Meijer would have wished, she knew how concerned he was about his mother – as indeed were the other ladies and gentlemen – and he would certainly have taken it amiss of her if she had neglected to make the phone-call out of concern for his sleep, and then, God forbid, the worst might have come to the worst.
She used the phrase ‘if the worst comes to the worst’ and its variants as a universally applicable specialist term. Arthur could easily imagine her recording deaths at the home in the incident book in the same terms: ‘Frau So-and-so at such-and-such a time: the worst came to the worst.’
Basically, he thought, it was the most honest opinion that one could express.
After the excitement of the nocturnal alarm, the sudden relief also had an aftertaste of disappointment, as if someone had at the very last moment removed an obstacle at which they were already running. In fact they could have driven back to Zurich straight away, but they agreed, quickly and silently, that they would, since they were here, visit Chanele again later, once she had woken up. There was nowhere in the old people’s home where they could have waited in any great comfort; the cleaning women had just arrived, and were putting the dining room and the common rooms under water. So they got back into the Citroen and drove into Lengnau, since they were all ready for a small breakfast or at least a cup of coffee.
But that wish turned out not to be easily fulfilled. The pubs – here in the country there were no cafés – were all still closed, so at last they found themselves in the deserted garden of Die Sonne, where a table with two benches stood beneath a massive chestnut tree. All around the foundations for other seating opportunities were fastened to the ground, smaller stones for the benches, larger ones for the tables, but because the requisite boards were missing it looked as if the siblings had sat down in the middle of a neatly arranged graveyard.
The three of them didn’t find themselves sitting together like that very often any more. The days when they had really been close were now long gone; they weren’t children any more, and with every new grey hair one grows further apart from one’s brothers and sisters. They turn into strangers, or perhaps it only seems that way because strangers become more familiar. Either way, a special kind of awkwardness had arisen between them, as often happens when private feelings have been made public, when one is ill at ease with mutually agreed silence, and prefers to create a safe feeling of detachment by batting a few commonplaces back and forth.
‘We should actually be grateful to Frau Olchev,’ said Hinda. ‘She’s brought about another family reunion.’
The first at which we’ve sat around an empty table.
‘That’s true,’ said Arthur. ‘We’ll probably have to wait a long time for a coffee, at such an unchristian hour – Oh, forgive me, François.’ His brother and sister looked at him in surprise. He was the only one to have noticed any allusions in his words.
The benches had no backs, so they weren’t sitting very comfortably.
Arthur started talking about the vote in the religious community, at which they had just decided by 236 six votes to 178 to remove the harmonium from the synagogue, again, but he couldn’t even pretend to himself that he was interested.
The silence between them grew louder.
As a distraction, Hinda opened her handbag, took out an envelope and rubbed away at the digestive traces that a bird had left on the table.
François saw the Hitler stamp and asked, ‘News from Ruben?’
Hinda nodded. Grateful for a topic of conversation, she reported that a letter had arrived at Rotwandstrasse only yesterday, and it had been so strange that neither she nor Zalman had really been able to make head or tail of it. The letter itself was at home, but she could recite it almost by heart. Previously, Ruben had kept reporting new irritations and instances of bullying, his letters, Hinda said, could have been bound into a Black Book, and now all of a sudden here he was writing that they shouldn’t worry about him, and please to lend no credence to the horrific propaganda that was sadly being disseminated even in the Swiss newspapers. Germany was a country in which law and order prevailed, he wrote, where nothing was ever done to anyone unless he had broken the law. A new Reich was coming into being, so exemplary that it almost corresponded to that ideal state described by the scholar Rabbah bar bar Chana in the Talmud, and he, Ruben, was grateful that he had been allowed to make a modest contribution to that construction in his own town of Halberstadt.
‘Do you understand that?’ asked Hinda. ‘He can’t really mean it.’
François ran both index fingers from his upper lip and across his cheeks, his old gesture when he felt superior to others. ‘Do I really have to explain that to you as a goy? Have you forgotten the stories Uncle Pinchas always told us? About the campfire on the back of a fish, or about the crocodile as big as a town with sixty houses? Those were all stories told by Rabbah bar bar Chana.’
‘So?’
‘They’re all lies. Tall stories.’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘They’ve probably started censoring letters going abroad. So he’s writing the opposite of what he means, and mentions Rabbah bar bar Chana so that we know how to read it. They may even have threatened him. From what one hears, in Germany you can end up in a re-education camp for less than a letter.’
Hinda, entirely accustomed to the orderly conditions in Switzerland, had never even thought of such a thing, but now that François said it, she was sure he was right. The most terrible rumours were going around about those education camps and the things that happened in them. No one knew exactly, but it was assumed to be terrible. And now her son Ruben . . .? She took a shocked, deep breath, as someone falling from a bridge gasps for water just before the water closes over him.
Arthur was shocked as well, but in his case the emotion had little to do with Ruben. He was thinking about all the letters Rosa Pollack had written to him from Kassel. If she found herself in difficulties, if she was arrested or even locked up, it would be his fault.
His alone.
Because he had failed in everything that he had tried to do for her.
‘Anyway, I don’t understand why Ruben didn’t come back to Switzerland long ago,’ said François.
‘He doesn’t want to.’
‘Meshuga,’ said Franço
is, and the word sounded strange from his lips.
‘It’s because of his community. But now,’ Hinda said resolutely, ‘now he has to think about his children. I’ll write to him today and tell him to come.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then Zalman will have to go and get him.’
‘I should go and fetch someone too,’ thought Arthur. ‘But they wouldn’t let her over the border.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
A waiter came out of the pub. His apron reached to the ground; you couldn’t see his feet moving, so that he seemed to float. On a tray he balanced everything that belongs to a lavish breakfast: a steaming jug, fresh rolls, eggs, cheese, jam. He set the tray on the table, where it sank like a stone into dark water, without leaving a trace. Then he shoved up alongside François on the bench, carefully straightening his apron as a well-bred lady might straighten the hem of her skirt. ‘You don’t mind if I join you for a moment?’
‘You’re dead!’ said François. ‘When will you finally admit it?’
‘When I no longer need to be alive.’
Uncle Melnitz looked cheerful, almost exuberant. Even the smell that emanated from him had changed, as dust changes its smell when it rains. ‘It’s starting up again,’ he said, and rubbed his hands as if before an interesting job or a good meal. ‘I can feel it in all my bones: it’s starting up again, yes.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ said Hinda.
‘Of course not, my lovely, of course not.’ Uncle Melnitz’s arm was suddenly so long that he was able to pat Hinda’s cheek across the table. ‘Just you keep your hands over your ears. Shut your eyes. Then nothing will happen to your son. If you can’t see it, it doesn’t happen.’
‘What do you want from us?’ asked Arthur, even though he knew exactly what Uncle Melnitz wanted.
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