by Jurek Becker
“Why don’t you join the Russians?” Aron asked.
Ostwald laughed bitterly, waved this suggestion away, and said, “They’re all in cahoots.”
Aron was decidedly of a different opinion. It was at least worth a try, he maintains; one couldn’t be so blind as not to see that the Russians had made a clean break with the past, unlike the other Allies. He named examples of this, even though he had to admit that he didn’t follow politics much. Ostwald waved this away too and said Aron’s so-called proof was tomfoolery.
“Then tell me why you think they’re all in cahoots.”
Ostwald wouldn’t say. He said all further discussion on that subject was unnecessary, the sentence he had just uttered was a fundamental fact. “I wouldn’t argue with you whether this table is made of wood or iron.”
“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what you’re doing,” Aron said.
At first I thought he didn’t want to get involved in that conversation because he realized that what he had just said was absolute nonsense. But I soon realized that I was mistaken, that it wasn’t nonsense. You must understand, every claim is made from a certain standpoint, and only those who know that standpoint can judge it correctly. What had he meant when he said that the English, Americans, and Russians were all in cahoots?”
“I presume that in Germany at the time there was a widespread misapprehension. What he meant was that the Allies discussed their policies with one another.”
“Wrong. Hardly anyone thought that. Not Ostwald in any case, he was an educated man.”
“What then?”
“You forgot his point of view,” Aron says. “Think of what he wanted.”
This is followed by an encouraging nod that helps me guess what he might mean. Ostwald wanted to see heads roll, that’s what Aron’s hints indicate — he wanted maximum penalties. He had set himself the task of cleansing the land of all the people he held guilty and, considering his extreme experiences, they must have been many. Therefore his lack of faith in the Russians had its foundation in his certainty that they wouldn’t give him a free hand in his cleanup operation either, and that was undoubtedly right. From this perspective, they were all in cahoots.
“Bravo,” says Aron.
A few days before Mark’s release, the following occurred: Aron was on the way to the sanatorium; he had picked up his bicycle from the Stationmaster when suddenly he thought that he didn’t need the room, which had cost him a great deal of coffee, anymore. He wanted to resolve the matter right then, before the next rent was due. So he leaned his bicycle against the wall and went back into the house. The Stationmaster wasn’t enthusiastic but had to accept his notice. When Aron stepped out to the street for the second time, his bicycle had vanished.
I still can’t understand why he was so indifferent toward his possessions, toward objects that at the time must have represented great wealth. I am up to my ears in examples. He paid a pound of coffee a month for a shabby little room when, I hear from others, for such a price one could have rented the Sanssouci castle, with all the servants to boot. He burned linens, threw away cuckoo clocks and paintings, gave away chocolate, and now, in the spring of 1946, he let someone steal his bicycle. “You must have been out of your mind to leave your bicycle by the wall unsupervised. Didn’t you know how much it was worth?”
“How could I not have known?” Aron says. “After all, I’m the one who paid for it.”
“Stop trying to be funny,” I say. “Isn’t it true that in the camps everything was worth a thousand times more than in normal times? And a hundred times more than that after the war?”
“That’s true.”
“And before the war you weren’t exactly a millionaire?”
“That’s also true.”
“So there. How do you explain your sudden carelessness?”
“I explain nothing,” Aron says. “I’m simply telling a story”
He often retreats to a place where I can’t follow. I don’t exclude the possibility that now and then he tells me of an Aron he would have liked to have been, but I can’t prove this assumption, because, like him, I’m just telling a story.
The theft of his bicycle infuriated Aron beyond all measure. The material loss itself carried less weight than the arrogance of the thief, whose deed Aron took as a personal offense. A thief would not have robbed an anonymous bicycle owner thus; he had a chosen victim: Aron. A woman stood nearby and looked on, interested. Aron asked her, “Did you see anything?”
“Was that your bicycle?”
“Yes.”
“He’s over there,” the woman said and pointed down the road. At a hopeless distance, Aron saw a man riding away on his possession and immediately turning a corner.
“Do you know that man?” Aron asked.
The woman came uncomfortably close and whispered that it was a Russian, she had seen him perfectly well. Then she moved away quickly, as if she didn’t want to get involved any further in this explosive case. Aron caught up with her and stood in her way; the woman tried to get past him. “Leave me alone,” she said. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Where are the Russian headquarters?” Aron asked. “You actually want to go there?”
“Why not?”
The woman wasn’t prepared to answer this question either; she finally left. She almost ran and looked back only once at the dangerously naive man, fear of Siberia, Aron presumes, in her eyes. He had had to ask other passersby for directions to the headquarters. The whole way, I hear, anger seethed in his head. He thought, If you want compensation, please go ahead, help yourselves, you have a right to it. But not from me.
The guard at the door looked at his papers. Irritably, Aron demanded, in Russian, to speak to the officer in charge. The guard went to ask a second soldier for help. He took Aron to a bare room and told him to wait. Aron waited for over a half hour. He cooled off and started wondering what he would say to the officer in charge, should he ever get to see him. From a legal point of view, his position wasn’t favorable. He would be asked what led him to believe that the wrongdoer was a soldier of the Red Army, and the only proof he had was the pitiful claim of a woman who in the meantime had disappeared, no further witnesses. He soon realized that his plan was unlikely to succeed, that it would be more sensible to write off the bicycle and disappear before any words were exchanged. The soldier who had taken him to the room came in and waved Aron toward the stairs. Aron asked, “Where are you taking me? To the officer in charge?”
“Deputy,” the soldier said grumpily and in German, even though Aron’s question had been asked in Russian. It was as if he refused to let himself indulge in familiarities with someone he didn’t know.
The deputy was a bearded man of uncertain age. Aron wasn’t acquainted with military ranks, but could see that this man was certainly an officer. He pointed at the empty chair in front of his desk. When Aron sat down, before a word was spoken, he asked, “Where did you learn our language?”
Aron’s response could not be brief and, in explaining, he had to reveal a couple of details of his biography. He thought that it would only be to his advantage in the resolution of his case if the deputy knew who he was dealing with. When at last the question was satisfactorily answered, Aron wanted to speak of his case, but he was interrupted. The officer asked, “Why aren’t you working for us?”
This unexpected turn disconcerted Aron; he imagined it was an offer to join the secret service. “I can’t think of anything I could do for you,” he said.
“You could be an interpreter, of course,” the officer said. “Interpreters are important people in our endeavors to get along with the local population. We have problems enough, but not enough interpreters.”
“First listen to why I’m here.”
“Everything in due course,” the officer said. “Where are you currently employed?”
“I work in the market.”
“The black market?”
“Yes,” Aron said.
The off
icer grinned, the first expression on his face so far — perhaps he was impressed by Aron’s openness. He tore a strip of paper from a newspaper, rolled himself a cigarette, and gestured to Aron to help himself. Aron smoked one of his own cigarettes, American.
“We probably can’t offer a salary as good as the one you earn now,” the officer said, amused, “but what we offer is certainly a more durable post. I can vouch for that.”
Aron liked the joke. “It won’t work for one simple reason,” he said. “I live in the middle of Berlin, and I’d never travel twenty miles here and back every day.”
“You live in our sector?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not speaking only on my behalf. Interpreters are needed in Berlin just as much as they are needed here. I’ll give you a letter that you can take to any one of our departments.”
Aron shrugged and made an effort to appear undecided. He was afraid that a determined refusal would be an obstacle in the path of his actual concern. He said, “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. And now to you.”
Aron explained what was to be explained. He named the few facts, which were rather pathetic in his own opinion. The officer took a paper and pencil and asked for the name and address of the woman. He did this even though Aron had just described the manner in which she had disappeared. At this, Aron stood up and said, “Please excuse me for disturbing you, the problem is solved.”
“Sit down.”
Aron stayed standing, awaiting a lecture. The officer said, “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”
“Yes,” Aron said, “my bicycle.”
“And how am I supposed to find it?”
“That’s not my problem.”
The officer blew out his cheeks pensively and played with his beard; he had barely finished smoking the first when he rolled himself a second cigarette. Aron sat down again because he was so bewildered.
“Is it really such a great loss?”
“Should thieves be punished only if their victims’ loss is great?”
Renewed bewilderment. With a heavy heart, the officer said, “If you really insist, I can give you a second letter. Perhaps our supply center in Berlin can get you another bicycle. Okay?”
Apparently he thought that letters were magic potions, trump cards in all situations. Aron says he felt sorry for the bearded officer, who suddenly seemed vulnerable. Nevertheless, he had to tell him that apparently there had been a misunderstanding; Aron didn’t want any old bicycle, he wanted his own, and the rightful punishment of the delinquent. Yet, as things stood, he realized that it was obviously quite impossible. He says the Russians could have made a reason of state out of such a trifle, searched all the barracks and examined every bicycle. Then doubts arose in his own mind: How could he be certain that the woman wasn’t a liar? Or perhaps she had made a mistake; there are all sorts of strange stories about the mistakes of so-called eyewitnesses. “Never mind,” he said, “the case is closed.”
The officer looked relieved and on parting reminded him of his offer and of his willingness to write the letter. “Don’t think about it for too long. An interpreter is more than just an interpreter for us.”
* * *
When Aron arrived on foot at the children’s home, several surprises awaited him. Mark wasn’t in his room but in the park — for the first time in the park on his own. Aron recognized him through the doorway in his green coat; he secretly observed him for a couple of minutes. Mark didn’t play with the other children, who threw a ball at each other between the trees. He walked on wobbly legs all the way from the house to the wall, time and again, silently, over and over again. At first sight Aron was puzzled by his peculiar behavior, wanted to go up to him and ask him what was wrong. Yet it soon became clear that Mark had a plan, that he was training himself hard. A couple of times, while he took a little break, he looked at the children, not with envy, Aron says, rather with anger. They were the looks of a person who has serious work to do and becomes understandably upset when other people fool around under his nose. Only when Mark, suddenly tired, sat down on a bench did Aron go up to him and kiss him. “Did you see how well I can walk?” Mark said. “Yes.”
“There’s a letter for you in my room.”
“What does it say?”
Mark smiled secretively; he seemed to know its contents, which must have been good news. “Go in and read it,” he said.
“Go on, tell me.”
“You’re to take me with you,” Mark said.
Aron ran into the house. A letter from the doctor lay on the pillow. The doctor wrote that from a medical point of view he could see no reason to keep Mark in the home any longer. On the contrary, what was still to be done for the child could only be achieved outside, in normal surroundings. And if Aron would allow a recommendation — he felt so close to Aron — he should immediately treat Mark like a normal child and never give him the feeling that he was different from the others. Because, aside from the peculiar occurrences of his past, he wasn’t different.
Aron wiped the tears from his face and went back to Mark, who was still resting on the bench. “You’re right,” Aron said. “I’m taking you home with me today.”
“Are you happy?” Mark asked.
This question really touched him, Aron tells me. Until then, Aron had been certain that the prospect of going home mattered to Mark only for his personal joy. But now he had the impression that Mark was, above all, happy for Aron’s sake, as if he had been training only for him.
“And how I’m happy!” Aron said. “How did you know what the letter said?”
“Irma told me.”
“Irma? Who’s Irma?”
“You don’t know Irma?”
Mark’s amazement wasn’t feigned; apparently Irma was a very familiar name for him, and his own father, the all-knowing, didn’t know Irma. “Irma is the nurse.”
He dragged Aron into the house, went into his room, then to another one, and knocked on the door. In the process Aron caught himself thinking of other things: He walks like a real person, he knocks on the door like a real person. Mark asked an elderly nurse if Nurse Irma was there.
“She’s out.”
“When will she be back?”
“She didn’t say. Probably this evening.”
“I’m taking him home today,” Aron said.
“Well then, our young man will be happy,” the nurse said indifferently.
“Is the doctor available?”
“He’s not here either.”
“Please tell him that I’ll be back.”
In Mark’s sleeping hall Aron said, “You must say good-bye to your friends.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
Aron opened Mark’s bedside table, took everything out, and Mark started to cry. He turned his head to the wall and brought his hands to his eyes more and more frequently; soon he gave up trying to hide his tears. Some other children had come closer and stared as if they were at a circus, but they left solemnly when Aron chased them off shouting. Aron unfolded his handkerchief and gave it a shot. “Tell me about Irma.”
With this he had found the exact source of Mark’s tears. Mark described, at first interrupted by sobs, an unearthly being. Beautiful, clever, friendly, selfless, so it seems. Aron couldn’t understand why his son had hidden such a treasure from him. If Mark was telling the truth, then Irma had taken care of him ten or a hundred times more lovingly than was to be expected of a nurse. She had read to him both books Aron had brought and others too, she had an answer to every question, she had gone walking with Mark so that he could see what was beyond the walls and the parks of the home. Once she had built an entire person out of snow for him, a snowman — that’s how Irma was.
“Did she spend as much time with the other children?” Aron asked.
“No, only with me,” Mark said. It sounded as if he had meant “That’s the whole point!” And he sounded proud.
“Did she give you your food?”
&
nbsp; Mark said that sometimes he had offered her his chocolate but she never took even one piece, as if this was the ultimate proof of how special she was. He said, “Sometimes we also talked about you.”
“About me?”
“She asked me and I told her.”
“What did you tell her?”
“About how you got healthy that time.”
“And what else?”
“I can’t remember.”
Only when Mark asserted that they had also spoken about him, Aron says, did he suspect that Irma’s attentions were directed not only to his son but to himself, and that Mark had played the role of a go-between. “I told you how I brought lots of packages. Wasn’t it understandable, then, that she should be interested in such a father? And that he didn’t have a mother, he would have said that, too. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it must have been that way, but wasn’t my suspicion logical?”
“No, it’s illogical.”
“Why is it illogical?”
“How do you explain the fact that up to the last day she didn’t try to meet you? Surely there had been plenty of occasions.”
“Perhaps she had tried but I simply didn’t notice.”
“That’s splitting hairs. In the end you’ll claim that her reserve was purely a sign of refinement.”
Aron smiles at me — that’s exactly what he thinks — however, he prefers not to answer my loaded question immediately but to let the facts speak for themselves.
Mark’s move brought considerable changes that were greater than Aron had predicted. The biggest and most notable change was that Mark was present twenty-four hours a day
Like Aron before him, Mark had to get used to the apartment gradually, with the additional awkwardness that most of the objects in his new surroundings were not only unfamiliar; they were completely unknown to him. For example, he had never seen a closet, never heard a radio; the first rocking chair of his life was the subject of daylong experiments.