The Hormone Factory: A Novel

by Saskia Goldschmidt

  I swallowed, and steeled myself. I had to stick with what I had come to do; our company’s future depended on it, and my cousin back in London was waiting to hear the outcome of this meeting. “I think I’ll save my opinion of the Dutch for later, Rafaël. That isn’t what I’ve come to discuss right now. First can you explain to me how it is that you were spared? What did you have to do to make that happen?” I asked, fixing him with a haughty stare.

  “I shall answer your questions, my good Motke,” said Levine, “since I gather you are curious to know if my conscience is bothering me. Well, I can tell you this much: I torment myself day in, day out, wondering if I did enough, if I could have done more, if I should have gotten my hands even dirtier. I still don’t know if my children and grandchildren are alive, and every night I torture myself trying to imagine the horrors they may have gone through and, should they still be alive, the state they’ll be in when they finally do return from that hell. I weigh all that I did, and especially all that I did not do, on a calibrated scale, and then ask myself—did I do enough? Every hour I spent asleep or collapsed on the sofa, every meal I ate, every time I hesitated to go back to pestering my vile contacts with yet another request, or was too exhausted either to write one more letter or to return to that horrible building to debase myself with yet another desperate spiel—so many occasions when I failed to do what I might have done. These war years may have turned me into a barrel of self-reproach, but that barrel is not filled with the poison you are talking about. Yes, Motke, I did use my connections. I did try to trade my Farmacom shares for exit papers for my family, and for nearly two long years I truly believed that we would be given permission to leave. I filled out truckloads of forms, I wheedled and fawned and licked their boots. I reminded a top general in the Führer’s own inner circle about the good old days when we served together in Flanders.”

  He gave a bitter laugh and went on. “I even tried to convince that scumbag Rajakowitch—Eichmann’s right-hand man, the one responsible for practically every Dutch deportation—of my international prominence and my economic value to the Aryan nation. I got Willem Mengelberg, the conductor of the Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra, whom the Dauphine’s love of music had brought into our circle of friends but who was also popular with the brownshirts, to intercede for me. I bragged that in the First World War I had voluntarily returned to Germany to serve my fatherland. I waved the Iron Cross I’d earned for my devotion to the German cause in their faces, and I even reminded them that I had kept my German nationality until 1932. Reprehensible conduct on my part, Motke, to be sure. It wasn’t pretty; it won’t win me any accolades. I am not proud of it. But all that haggling did result in our being granted deferments, and dispensation from having to wear that revolting yellow star. I don’t know if it will comfort you to know that in the end, we too were called up. That all the trouble I’d gone through, and all the groveling I’d done, had been for nothing. We were to report to the transit camp for deportation. Only the summons came just as the trains stopped running and the enemy was as good as beaten. If D-Day had happened just one month later, you wouldn’t be sitting here putting me through the wringer; you’d be writing my obituary instead. But perhaps you’d have preferred that outcome, rather than having to confront me now. So there you have it: my scandalous conduct.”

  He’d been slowly twirling his fountain pen in his hands. Now he put it down and looked up. “Just for the record, I now have a question for you, Motke. I understand that when you boarded that diplomatic train you were seen off by the deputy of Minister Von Ribbentrop himself. I should like you to tell me how you feel about that rather remarkable circumstance. Is your conscience quite clear about Von Ribbentrop’s signature permitting you to run out on everything and everyone? Was it fine, in your view, to take advantage of that powerful crook’s scrawl, while my desperate scramble to keep myself and my fellow man out of a living hell was a disgrace? How do you justify that, in your kingdom of self-righteousness? Let me guess. I think that from your comfortable ivory tower in London it was easy to look down your nose at your friends’ last-ditch struggles to stay alive. It’s like putting a bunch of rats in a steep-sided box, topped with a mesh roof to make sure they can’t escape, filling it with water, and then watching the rats panic, run out of steam, and drop dead one by one. That’s how you looked on from a safe distance. How easy, then, to pass judgment on what went on over here.

  “I’ll give you one assurance, Motke, and that is that on this continent, there is no one alive who has kept his hands clean. Some hands may be dirtier than others, some may never come clean again, but all are contaminated. Yours are no exception.”

  “Alas, Rafaël,” I said, getting to my feet and walking over to the window, which overlooked a deserted courtyard strewn with piles of garbage, “this is no time for niceties. I am prepared to accept that your hands are not that much dirtier than my own or those of many others, but it’s the perception that counts. For the sake of our company’s future, you must understand that I have to clean house.”

  I turned and saw Levine slap his right hand over his fist. “Rafaël,” I said in a gentler voice, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your efforts over all these years; for your excellent discoveries, and for having trained so many scientists here in this lab, who have become such stellar researchers thanks to you. You have passed your consummate knowledge on to the next generation; you are therefore no longer needed. It is time for you to start enjoying a peaceful retirement.”

  Levine punched his left fist into his right hand. “Are you giving me the boot?” he shouted indignantly. “Right this minute? For five long years I’ve been kept out of my lab, for five years I was prevented from doing research, for five years all I did was run around taking care of the most ridiculous nonsense, having to prove how many Jewish grandparents this one or that one had, licking the boots of all those anti-Semitic dolts in uniform, humoring them, rushing from pillar to post, wasting five precious years on futile inanities. And now, now that I can finally get back to the lab again, you have the gall to kick me out of the company that has thrived largely thanks to my work?” He banged his fist on the table.

  Turning away from the window, I made my way through the ravaged laboratory, picked up a distilling flask lying in the corner of a shelf, put it down again, and pressed on with what I had come to say. “I know this sounds harsh, Rafaël, but in our company, in its new incarnation”—I hesitated briefly—“there is no room for Germans.”

  The profanity Levine let out echoed throughout the bare space. “This is totally absurd, Motke,” he thundered, jumping to his feet and starting to pace back and forth behind the desk like a caged tiger, his steps furious. “For five years I’ve had my nose rubbed in the fact that, no matter how German I may have felt all my life, I was not a German but an Untermensch, a contemptible Jew. And no sooner have those brownshirts turned tail than you show up here accusing me of being more German than Jew! Don’t you remember I told you that long ago I had myself baptized, because I thought it would give me a chance to prosper in my former fatherland, a nation that has always been of the opinion that some people have more rights than others? And have you forgotten that I became a Dutch citizen because I felt that after almost twenty years in this country, it was time to show my affection for the nation that had given me such great opportunities, a country that professes that everyone starts out on an equal footing? Apparently none of it makes any difference. In the end, the individual has no say over the identity he gets saddled with. I may be Prussian, an ex-soldier, scientist, laboratory chief, father, grandfather, spouse, author, pianist, idealist, Jew, Christian, pharmacologist, and physician; I may think those are the distinguishing traits that make me who I am, but in the end it’s other people who decide. Pinning a label on the individual—that’s the trick used to isolate the other, to rob him of his humanity, in order to rub him out. And the fact that the Nazis aren’t the only ones to employ that method is proved right here and now by yo
u.” Shaking his head somberly, Levine sank back onto his chair.

  I felt very uncomfortable and experienced a rush of pity on seeing my former mentor slumped behind his desk, looking so crushed and defeated. But then I steeled myself. Not happily; on the contrary, I was loath to do it, but he who wants the rose must deal with the thorn. So I responded, “I don’t really feel like having a philosophical discussion on identity right now, Rafaël. No matter how unfortunate it may be, you are, and will always be, German, regardless of how many other selves you may have. And right now there is no room in this country for people from the same background as the brutes who ran this place into the ground. Farmacom’s future depends on our ridding ourselves of anything that reeks of the brownshirts and their ilk.”

  Levine took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Of course there is distaste for anything German in this country, I am only too aware of that; it’s understandable. But the Dutch, surely I don’t have to tell you this, are a mercantile folk first and foremost. This country’s existence depends on export, on international trade, and these anti-Teutonic sentiments will very soon be history; it won’t be long before the Dutch come to realize that they need the Krauts to get the economy rolling again. Take it from me, Motke, trade and profit-making are worshipped here, over and above any other principle. Within a year the merchant mentality will win out over anti-German sentiment.”

  “That could be, Rafaël, but even so, your recent conduct has at the very least set tongues wagging. I can only go forward from here on with people who are squeaky clean and unimpeachable. You will never regain your spotless reputation; therefore, your involvement is a stain on Farmacom’s good name. And that is something we can’t afford right now. I’m sorry, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I aim to do the right thing by you, however; the honorable thing. You are turning sixty-five this year, and you deserve, after these terrible times, to enjoy your golden years with no financial worries.”

  The volume of Levine’s voice rose again. “Me, not squeaky clean? Squeaky clean! Your insinuation stinks to high heaven, it’s more putrid than any rotten thing I encountered in these past years. It’s the pot calling the kettle blacker than black. It’s filthier than the grubby brownshirts goose-stepping up and down our streets. Maybe you’ve conveniently forgotten how you yourself are besmirched all over! Has your stay abroad affected your memory? Who’s the one who messed around with your brother’s testosterone dosage, despite every warning not to? Who’s the one who took advantage of his position and sexually harassed, abused, and raped his workers? Who’s the one who cadged a signature out of Von Ribbentrop, of all people, then turned and ran without giving the factory or the people he was leaving in the lurch another thought? Who’s the one who, while we were trying to save lives, was concerned only with expanding the business, and never even lifted a finger to prod those quaking cowards of our government-in-exile or that useless lump of flesh who calls herself queen into doing something, anything, to stop the murder of millions on this continent? Who, Motke?” He paused, glaring at me. Then he went on. “And yet you want to give me the boot, because I am supposedly the one who’s setting people’s tongues wagging? If you pursue this course, I shall see you in court. I’ll do everything in my power to take you for everything you’ve got, and create a colossal scandal for the firm.”

  His last words came out as a shout. His cheeks had turned a fiery red and his eyes glittered with a fierceness I had never seen in him before.

  “Rafaël,” I tried one last time, “of course I won’t let you go empty-handed. An honorable retirement is what I am offering you. The times are changing, and we need young people. The synthetic hormone field has been advancing at an extraordinary pace. You’ll never catch up now. Just accept that your time is past, and enjoy the years you still have living in peace and comfort with your Dauphine.”

  He pushed back his chair angrily, stomped over to the door, and savagely yanked it open. “Out!” he raged. “I’m giving you a week to come back to me with a different offer; if not, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  In the doorway I turned and looked at him. “I hope, Rafaël,” I said, “that you will use that week to get used to the idea that for everyone there comes a time to bow out. If this fucking war had never happened, you might have stepped aside years ago.”

  His crimson cheeks grew even darker. He was having trouble breathing. “All this time, I felt able to cope with the racial hatred engulfing us,” he said with visible difficulty. “I refused to be debased by it. For all that time I was able to steel myself against the mudslinging and contempt. But after all that, to be stabbed in the back by you, my friend, my partner, that is more than I can take. Get out, I can’t stand the sight of you a moment longer.”

  He slammed the door shut with a deafening crash behind me.

  44 …

  Levine and I both stuck by our positions. Stubborn as a mule, he was. In that regard, the world war hadn’t changed him one bit.

  It was of the utmost importance to get started straightaway on our firm’s makeover—we needed a clean break from everything that had been holding us back from participating in the huge strides being made in the medical and pharmaceutical fields, and were ready to deploy an eager, partly brand-new team chomping at the bit to win the synthetic-hormone battle. Time stands still for no one. It was to be a firm with just one clear leader at its head, for too many cooks spoil the broth. A leader with a squeaky-clean (yes!) image, who knew how to command trust and respect all over the world—an esteemed royal merchant. Farmacom, a consummately Dutch concern, was to go international without a single principal or employee under even a speck of a cloud. It was the only way our firm could hope to become a major player, eventually growing into the mega-conglomerate for which my cousin and I had been laying the groundwork. I could not and would not turn back now. If you want to make an omelet, you have to be willing to break a few eggs. I have never been one to dodge my responsibilities.

  • • •

  In those early postwar years I spent a great deal of time in London getting the ball rolling. In the war-ravaged Netherlands, conditions were primitive; you simply had to jump through too many hoops to get anything done.

  In July 1945, as I was getting ready to return to the U.K., Agnes announced that the Dauphine was at the door, demanding to see me. This was unheard-of. Never before had she visited me at the office, and on the rare occasion when she deigned to leave the city, always in the company of her husband, it had been for some exceptional, usually festive occasion, such as Rivka’s twenty-fifth birthday, or Farmacom’s tenth anniversary. The rest of the time the Dauphine was kept busy spinning her artistic web inside her Amsterdam canal house, forever running up and down the stairs, barking out orders at children and servants, and then retiring to her leather armchair, where she devoured books like a spider guzzling houseflies, or settling down on her minuscule rickety piano stool to play her antique pianoforte and bring back to life the bygone baroque world of an as-yet undefiled fatherland.

  The fact that she had now undertaken an exhausting trip into the hinterlands was bound to have something to do with my conversation with Rafaël. I squared my shoulders before opening the door, and greeted her with a fair amount of trepidation. She sailed into my office like a panzer tank storming an enemy position. Her multiple turkey-wattle chins quivered with bottled-up indignation. She was dressed in a long and baggy dark coat and sported a broad-rimmed black hat with a large silver hatpin impaled in it that made me think of the bayonet affixed to a rifle. Like a little Napoleon, some indomitable general, she stood in front of me drawn up to her full height, clutching her black patent leather handbag with the gold clasp in her balled fists as if she were hiding a murder weapon in there. She pointedly ignored my outstretched hand and the invitation to take a seat on my tried-and-true Cozy Corner.

  “Motke,” she said, coming straight to the point, “you are making an unforgivable mistake. Revoke that scandalous plan of yours. It’s
just criminal, and makes you guilty of patricide—nothing less! Farmacom is just as much his creation as yours. You cannot do this to him, not after all that has happened.” She glowered at me like Miss Marple confronting the murderer with the evidence of his guilt.

  I tried to placate her. “Sari, do please sit down and let me offer you something to drink. It’s lucky you caught me, I was about to leave for England.”

  “I don’t want anything to drink, and I prefer to stand.” She clutched the handle of her pocketbook to her chest as if to underscore her resolve. “I want you to promise me you’ll take back what you said to Rafaël.”

  I sat down on my desk.

  “Sari, you’re wrong. Both of you are making a huge drama out of something that’s standard policy everywhere. Rafaël is sixty-five, an age at which it’s only normal to slow down a bit, if one can afford to. Why make such a fuss about it?”

  The Dauphine’s voice was starting to sound less and less composed. “Because it isn’t his choice. Because it’s being forced on him on spurious grounds. Because you are accusing him of collaborating, and of being German-born, because that’s what’s really behind all this. That’s what is so intolerable.” She paused for a moment, then went on in a choked-up voice. “Yesterday we heard that our daughters and their husbands have not survived. All four died of typhoid, after liberation. Our grandchildren are now orphans.”

  She clicked open her bag, took out an embroidered handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Sari, that is dreadful news.”

  Over the past several weeks we had been hearing almost daily of the tragic fate of this or that one who, euphemistically put, “had not returned.” And each time, whether it was my twin brother, a friend, employee, or passing acquaintance, I would feel a stab of grief. But as the bad tidings kept coming, I became increasingly adept at tucking away the sadness as quickly as possible. It was the only way not to give in to despair. Just as today they bury the spent uranium in layer upon layer of concrete in hopes that the lethal sludge will never seep out, so I salted away my anguish, allowing me to focus instead on the stuff I could actually do something about.