by Jurek Becker
What had hitherto been the living room was converted into a bedroom for Mark, and Aron slept in the master bedroom. Conveniently, both rooms had doors leading to the corridor. Aron didn’t let Mark sleep with him in the double bed, not even for one night. He would have liked to, but just in time he remembered when as a child he was allowed to sleep with his mother for one week in his father’s bed while his father was away on business, and the tragedy that followed when his father came back.
Mark’s presence did not affect his work — Aron could take care of it in the evening or when Mark took his afternoon nap — but it did affect his relationship with Ostwald. Ostwald came as usual, at any time of the day, and sat down, to talk and drink. He hardly noticed Mark. He didn’t actually ignore him, he just reduced their relationship to what was unavoidable — as if he didn’t want to appear impolite. Ostwald wasn’t crazy about children, Aron says, and had made it clear that the reasons for his visits had nothing to do with Mark. On the other hand, Mark wasn’t an obtrusive child but was self-contained and shy. Aron presumes he must have sensed Ostwald’s reserve. In any case, as soon as Ostwald would turn up, Mark would retreat to his room, where he would play or look out the window. Then Ostwald tried to behave like he always did, but Aron sat there with a bad conscience, and in his thoughts he was in the neighboring room. He looked past Ostwald and restrained the drinking; he didn’t want Mark to see his father drunk. Ostwald said, “The only way out is to get some help. You can definitely afford it.”
Though Aron promised to find a housekeeper, for several weeks he did nothing. Ostwald didn’t pressure him, he never said things twice, but his behavior changed noticeably. Until then their meetings had been entertaining mainly because of his liveliness, now he hardly spoke. Aron had the impression that he came only for the liquor, and Ostwald didn’t try to challenge this impression. He drank hastily to reach the desired state as fast as possible and not have to extend his visit longer than necessary. Soon he came rarely and finally not at all.
For a couple of days Aron didn’t miss him; he was almost relieved by Ostwald’s absence. The cognac was locked up, Aron busied himself with Mark and was a good father, until this new situation felt like a sacrifice to his son. He started longing for Ostwald; he thought that with his absence Ostwald wanted to punish him.
Punish you? What for?”
“His staying away could have been a sign of a jealousy.”
“He was jealous of Mark?”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“Why did you care so much? Was it fun to watch him drink?”
“It was only like that in the last few days, it wasn’t like that at the beginning.”
“What first attracted you to him?”
Although he has already lifted his hand from the table to brush off my question, Aron declares himself prepared to name a couple of reasons after all: Ostwald was an intelligent person. He was original, meaning entertaining and amusing. With time he, Aron, had the feeling that Ostwald needed him for more than just the cognac — that behind Ostwald’s self-conscious words was a person in need. Ostwald was like him; the past had damaged them in similar ways. And, not least, Aron says, Ostwald had been above every suspicion.
on did his best not to let Mark feel his vexation, but it became increasingly difficult. One morning he took him by the hand and went to see Ostwald. Normally Aron took advantage of walks to explain the world to Mark, often until they were both exhausted; it had to be that way. For example, shop signs were particularly suitable material for Mark’s first reading lessons. This time, however, Aron was silent, and in his thoughts he prepared for the meeting with Ostwald. He planned a sort of reconciliation, which was problematic since no argument had taken place. There had been only a growing estrangement, which was the result of a new situation that could not be changed by any number of well-meant words. Thus Aron’s visit was hardly more than a gesture; nothing could be clarified through an exchange of opinions.
In Ostwald’s street he was suddenly afraid that his visit itself could lead to a fight. Aron was aware that he had a tendency to choleric outbursts, and experience had taught him that good intentions offered scant protection from them. A choleric, he says, does not choose when he shouts and when not. It could easily happen, if Ostwald stuck to his guns for too long, that Aron would shout at him. He would accuse Ostwald of coming to his apartment only to drink good liquor, everything else was just an excuse. And he pictured his reaction when Ostwald would answer, “That’s exactly why I came.”
Ostwald wasn’t home. Aron didn’t have a piece of paper on which to write a message, that he could then drop into the mail slot. He would have liked to leave some sign of life, he had nothing on him that could have reminded Ostwald of him. Only a banknote, he says but, as things stood, that was not a serious possibility. He even knocked in vain on the door to the neighboring apartment.
On the way home he was plagued by the suspicion that Ostwald had spotted him through the window and that was why he hadn’t opened the door. He was thinking of going back when Mark announced that his feet hurt. Aron carried him part of the way home. People turned around to stare; the children grinned because nobody had to carry them when they were Mark’s age. Aron started the lessons again. But Mark didn’t want to listen; he brought up the topic of Nurse Irma. It wasn’t the first time he had begged Aron to let him visit her in the home; he said that at least he would like to write her a letter, Nurse Irma would definitely answer.
“It’s your birthday soon,” Aron said, “then we’ll go there. Definitely.”
Mark asked what that was, a birthday. Time and again Aron was struck by such questions. He explained the reason and sense of birthdays and didn’t forget to mention the important role of presents. He said, “For your birthday you can wish for something beautiful and, if you’re lucky, you actually get it.”
“Does everybody have a birthday?”
“Everybody.”
“You too?”
“Naturally.”
“Can you also wish for something?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“From you,” Aron said. “From who else?”
He observed that this information, in addition to all anticipated joy, apparently brought a new preoccupation into Mark’s life.
* * *
Now and again Kenik would come by and offer his services, more and more often since Mark’s arrival. Aron gratefully accepted; Kenik soon became indispensable tohim. It would never have occurred to Aron to leave Mark alone in the apartment for over a quarter of an hour, the time it took for a quick purchase. Whenever he had a longer errand to run he took Mark along, or Kenik had to come. He himself found such attention exaggerated; nevertheless, he took Mark along or called Kenik.
To Aron’s question how he could show his gratitude for putting him through so much trouble, Kenik replied, “Don’t talk like that, you’ve already done so much for me.”
With time I liked him better. But I never knew what to say to him. He felt most at ease when the table was well set and he could talk about the past. Not necessarily about the camp, simply about the past. Probably he felt that the past was the most important part of his life. But he talked about it in a way that in my opinion led to nothing. The old times were one thing and the new ones something else and in between there were no bridges. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I am better than he is. It’s just that I didn’t know what to do with him. I was bored. I once thought that Kenik was perfect for people who collect prejudices against Jews. He got along splendidly with Mark.”
* * *
When the monthly statements were due, Aron went to Tennenbaum and found him waiting with tea and cookies. Tennenbaum’s intention to solve the dissension between them could not be overlooked; right at the door he laid his hand in a friendly manner on Aron’s back and led him into the room in which the table was set. He hardly looked at the columns of numbers Aron had handed him; he laid the pap
er to one side as if it would only disturb their cozy afternoon. He remarked that everything was bound to be correct, as always. Yet Aron saw no reason to share Tennenbaum’s conciliatory mood — this unfounded heartiness — without a fight. He said, “You didn’t think so for a long time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’d better check. Just a couple of weeks ago you were worried about the balances. What has changed in the meantime?”
Tennenbaum looked at him like a wounded deer, Aron relates. With a little reproach and much patience in his eyes, Tennenbaum said, “Why do you have to remind me of that?”
“Because I remember. Either you are worried, in which case you should check, or you’re not worried, in which case why did you say you are?”
“All right,” Tennenbaum said, smiling. “Will you nevertheless drink a cup of tea with me, a sinner?”
While Tennenbaum poured tea into the cups, Aron wondered why his boss had become so friendly. Perhaps Tennenbaum had recently looked around in vain for a new bookkeeper, hence the about-face.
While they sipped their tea, Tennenbaum was preparing an explanation, Aron could tell. He discarded unexpressed formulas and searched for better ones. Finally he said, “In all honesty, Mr. Blank, something has indeed changed. If you remember correctly, recently we spoke about the books, with which I was always satisfied. The topic of our brief conversation was, if you’ll allow me the pompous word, your lifestyle.”
“And it has changed?”
“As far as I hear, yes.”
“That’s interesting,” Aron said.
“I know you think that this doesn’t concern me, you made that clear. But you are partially right and partially wrong. I must be allowed to worry about how my employees live.”
The word employees, Aron says, was the most uncomfortable that he ever heard from Tennenbaum’s mouth. In that moment, he says, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to bear working for Tennenbaum much longer. “So, what do you have to reproach me for?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Tennenbaum said. “On the contrary, I am very satisfied. I was told that you haven’t been seen at the Weinstuben since our talk. I am even more pleased about this because, perhaps, I have a small part in it.”
“That’s right,” Aron said, “I don’t go to the Weinstuben anymore. I’ll tell you why: I came to the conclusion that it’s more fun to drink at home.”
Tennenbaum didn’t let this spoil his mood; he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of good spirits that day. “No matter how hard you try, Mr. Blank,” he said, “I will not argue with you. You’d better give up.”
He held out a plate of cookies and posed the piquant question, would Aron like something alcoholic to drink? Aron naturally declined. Suddenly Tennenbaum’s tone became businesslike; he said that the preliminaries were now over, he had plans to discuss with Aron. He poured more tea and made a speech.
“The purpose of every business is, as you well know, growth. As you also know, in our case there are limits because our business is, from a certain point of view, illegal. We cannot expand unrestrictedly. I have thought of where our future lies, and I came to the conclusion: certainly not at the same level we’re at now. The black market — let’s call the child freely by its name — has to remain restricted. Aside from the possibility of reprisals, it is such that we can’t make plans for the long term; our sources change constantly, and we are always dependent on a thousand coincidences, in both supply and demand. I concede that to date we have not been doing too badly, but it won’t always be this way. Because to the same extent that the economy gradually becomes stable, the bread will be taken from our mouths. Besides, I don’t particularly care for this kind of business; I’m telling you honestly, it is too small-minded for my taste. I’ve decided to shut down our enterprise — sooner or later. I’m sure I told you once that I have good connections with the Allies. To be more precise, I know four, five people to whom I could be useful and who would help me because of that, if it can be done. In short, I have submitted an application for a trade license. I want to start a company that deals with exports and above all imports. For the moment it looks like we’ll be getting the authorization in a few weeks. But I don’t want to stand there with a piece of paper in my hand and nothing else, so certain preparations have already been made. For example, I’ve looked around for office space, for storage room, for example; already there are some business connections, not bad ones by the way. What I’m concerned about now, and this is why I’m telling you the whole story, are good people. How would you like to be head bookkeeper?”
Aron had listened attentively, even with a certain suspense; in spite of his dislike for the man, he still thought that Tennenbaum had a fine nose for business. (He looks for a newspaper article in his closet in which, years later, Tennenbaum’s company is mentioned. He can’t find it.) Tennenbaum sat there, his eyes full of expectation, Aron remembers, like someone who anticipates gratitude, or at least an enthusiastic consent. Since Aron’s answer failed to materialize for an inexplicably long time, he asked, “Did that leave you speechless?”
Aron sighed and turned his cup; caution kept him from immediately declaring that he could not picture himself as a collaborator of that kind. Aron found this caution cowardly and was embarrassed, yet he couldn’t shake it. He simply hadn’t found the courage, he says, to give an answer off the cuff that to a significant degree would influence his and Mark’s life for the following years. It was certainly reprehensible to have nothing but one’s salary in mind, he easily admits; on the other hand, it was impossible not to worry about it at all, especially in such complicated times.
“I see,” Tennenbaum said, “you need a little time. Sleep on it, but also know that I firmly count on you. Do you have any questions about the details?”
“Yes,” Aron said. “What will happen to the others after the closure?”
Aron listed the names he was familiar with, all of them employees; for example, he named Kenik. Tennenbaum smiled again; apparently he found these questions understandable and unnecessary at the same time. “Dear Mr. Blank, I want to make you aware of the fundamental difference that exists between our old enterprise and the new one. Till now we got along using speed and improvisation; that will change. A solid trading company needs qualified employees. Sympathy cannot play a role, it’s all about knowledge and ability. We will have to part with most of our people, but I don’t consider it tragic. First of all, our men have done very well until now and had a chance to put some money aside. And, second, in an economy that gradually strengthens, there is a place for anyone who wants to work. Please don’t mistake me for a welfare institution.”
At home, Mark and Kenik were playing checkers. Kenik opened the door, and while they were still in the corridor, he said, “He plays exceptionally well for a seven-year-old. I’m telling you, he has talent!”
Only when he was in the room did Aron understand what Kenik was talking about. He waited for the game to end. Kenik lost for educational reasons, or he played really badly. Then Mark was sent to his room; after his victory he was quite happy to go. Aron needed some peace for Kenik and himself. “What’s your profession?” he asked.
Apparently Kenik didn’t understand his question; after all, Aron knew exactly what he did and what he lived on. Aron had to say, “I mean, what profession did you learn as a young man?”
“Shoemaker,” Kenik said.
“Kenik,” Aron said, “you have to look for a new occupation.”
That was wholly astonishing. Kenik asked, “Why should I? Don’t I live like a king?”
“Not for much longer.”
Aron passed on the news — Tennenbaum’s plans and the predictable consequences. It made sense; there was no place for a veteran shoemaker in a trading company. Kenik sat there flabbergasted, unexpectedly deprived of his secure existence. He mumbled words to himself that Aron did not understand — probably he cursed Tennenbaum.
Aron tried to console him by saying that
the likes of us had already survived worse things; he noticed himself how stiff his words sounded and how they only darkened the mood further. He stopped consoling Kenik, and they cooked themselves a meal.
In the kitchen Aron asked, astonished, “Why are you smiling all of a sudden?”
“I’m smiling?”
“Come on, tell me.”
“I’ve changed my plans.”
“Changed your plans?”
Again Kenik smiled; he bustled around the stove and gave himself plenty of time before he started to talk, his face averted from Aron and in a voice that was broken with embarrassment. Since being released from the camphe’d had only one dream, he said, not extraordinary perhaps, but what does extraordinary mean? Even if Aron laughed at him now, he had made this dream his top — indeed his sole — priority. Even his work for Tennenbaum: it was only a means to reach his goal.
“Say no more,” Aron said. “You want to open your own business? A shoe shop?”
“A shoe shop?” Kenik said pityingly. Again he fidgeted at the stove for a couple of seconds; then he confessed that he dreamed one day, as a wealthy man, of moving to Palestine. Now the situation had changed. He stood before the choice, he said, either to give up his dream till later — because how was he going to come into big money quickly if not through Tennenbaum? — or to delete part of the conditions, namely the little word wealthy. Palestine remained, he just wouldn’t be a wealthy man but one with meager savings, which he could only hope would be enough for the long trip. Then he was silent, as if he had to give Aron time to grasp the entire scope of his words. At dinner he asked, “How about you?”
“You mean, am I going to Palestine?”
That was what Kenik meant. He pushed his plate away and wanted to convince Aron at all costs that a rosy happiness awaited them in the promised land — for Aron, for Mark, and for him. The two of them, he declared, side by side in the land of the fathers, in the land where milk and honey flow. He revealed an attachment to tradition, a Kenikian trait Aron had never suspected before, and that surprised him because it had made no past appearance in their acquaintance. He spoke of millions of like-minded people. They all look like us and think like us and leave each other alone; they were not that old yet, he said, it was still worth making the long trip. And while he didn’t tire of inventing new reasons for their departure, Aron thought, He wants to convince me so that he won’t be lonely there. Kenik enthused until Aron said, “Please stop. I don’t want to go.”