The Boxer

by Jurek Becker

  If only, Aron says, the work had dealt with things that interested him. Usually a Soviet officer sat across from some frightened German mayor, or the representative of some authority, and they discussed problems that bored Aron to death. Since it was always the same officer, even entire idioms, whole sentences were repeated. Soon Aron had to start paying attention so that his lack of enthusiasm would not interrupt the flow of the conversation.

  On several occasions, he says, he was sorely tempted to lighten his work by leading the interlocutors astray, by translating their words not exactly, not truthfully, but slightly off to one side. In contemplating this, he had nothing special in mind — that is, nothing political — only his desire to provide a little variation by creating confusion. He never yielded to this temptation, never, of course; he didn’t want to pay for such inanities with reasonable reprisals. Besides, conscientiousness is one of the tools of the trade of a bookkeeper. The only freedom he allowed himself now and then was, while truthfully repeating the contents, of placing his own accents. For example when the German person in question was dislikable, and this happened more than once, Aron adapted his voice so that the German’s words sounded denigrating and the words of the officer sharp and cool, like orders. This modus operandi didn’t change the outcome of the conversation, he says; his unauthorized behavior only underlined the positions more clearly and perhaps contributed to abbreviating the procedure.

  Regardless, the breaks provided a certain rest. Aron was at the disposal of the officer in charge, a forty-five-year-old-man from Leningrad. His name was Leonid Petrowitsch Wasin, and to Aron’s frustration he was an antialcoholic — just sweet tea morning, noon, and night. After a couple of days they had exchanged their life stories, in installments. Once Wasin said his brother had also married a Jew. He was a shy, reserved man; Aron felt that every time he had to give an order, he had to overcome all sorts of inner conflicts. Their relationship was good, civilized up to the last day, Aron says. Neither of them was an especially outgoing type.

  Perhaps this too concerning us — after they had been working together for several weeks, a company director approached Wasin and complained that he was constantly having problems procuring various materials; he thought the problem could be solved by the Red Army He also requested a staff car, without which he had great trouble carrying out his duties. The German authority responsible had refused his request several times.

  After he left, without getting what he wanted but with Wasin’s promise to put in a good word for him, Aron regretted that Wasin hadn’t reprimanded the presumptuous man. It’s one thing to make promises, for what they are worth, he says, but not to react to such arrogance, or worse, even to respond sympathetically, that was an entirely different matter.

  Since there was some time before the next appointment, Wasin made tea. “What are you upset about?” he asked.

  “Does it show?”

  “Well, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s the way you treated that man.”

  “Was I impolite? That makes me uncomfortable. You should bring my attention to that in the future.”

  Wasin certainly knew what Aron had meant; he smiled because he found his observation elegantly ironic. And Aron felt the moment was opportune, or at least he thought he could make it so. “Why didn’t you kick him out?” he asked. “Or, better still, why didn’t you promise him a butler?”

  Wasin was silent; he put tea leaves in two glasses and looked at the water for so long that it started to boil. Aron was convinced that Wasin refused to discuss such issues with his interpreter. Then he sipped his tea — he could drink incredibly hot tea — and he said, “You know, that’s an issue about which neither of us is impartial. Perhaps it would be wisest if, after a war, decisions were made only by people who had nothing to do with the war. But that can’t be done. When I started working here, I also asked myself what rights the Germans I was dealing with had and what rights they didn’t have. Apparently you tend to think they have no rights; I’ve noticed this for a while now. I don’t judge you, but I’m of a different opinion.”

  “Very magnanimous,” Aron said.

  Wasin scowled and asked Aron to save his mockery for some more appropriate occasion. He asked Aron angrily if he thought it would be a solution to kill all the Germans. If the result of the war for the defeated had to be exactly as it would have been for the victors if they had lost the war. Did the only difference in the chance of war consist of which side was struck by disaster, or wasn’t it also a question of type of disaster?

  “That’s not what this is about,” Aron said. “To kiss someone’s ass or to kill him, those aren’t the only two options.”

  “Did I kiss his ass?” Wasin asked.

  “More or less,” Aron said. “What do you think he would do to you if he could do as he pleased? I don’t mean this man in particular, I don’t even know him.”

  “Who do you mean then?” Wasin asked.

  “The average German.”

  “You’re starting from the beginning again,” Wasin said. “Perhaps there are only two options, because there are only two sides. Our work cannot be determined by feelings. When a German stands in front of me, I can’t keep reminding myself that my wife and my parents were killed. Of course, we’re in a position of power here, the question is only what we should do with it. I’ll tell you again, there are two sides. On one side we have you and me and most of our visitors, on the other side are those people against whom we fought.”

  Aron said he alone knew at least ten different sides; then the next visitor knocked on the door. He had the impression that Wasin treated the man particularly indulgently, as if to irritate him, Aron. Later they did not resume the conversation. Aron felt there really was no point; apparently Wasin came armed with convictions that precluded any discussion. And why Wasin never brought the subject up again, Aron says, he never knew, and never gave it a second thought.

  In the first report card that Mark brought home, the teacher had noted under the section “General Assessment” that Mark possessed a remarkable intelligence for his age and was possibly in the position, with a greater eagerness to learn, to skip a grade. In particular she mentioned his gift for music and math. Aron rewarded him with a toy of his choice. On a walk he asked if Mark would like to learn how to play the piano.

  “I don’t know,” Mark said.

  “Other children would jump for joy and you don’t know.”

  Aron explained to Mark the, in his opinion, unique enjoyment that came from being able to play the piano; he spoke of the pleasure one could provide others, visitors, for example, not to mention his own father. It soon turned out that Mark had already heard a piano but had never actually seen one.

  When they got back to the apartment, Aron asked Irma to look around for a piano teacher for Mark, preferably someone in the neighborhood. Astonished, Irma said, “But, Arno, I could do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Do you have anything against my teaching him?”

  “None,” Aron said. In the excitement he had completely forgotten that Irma was a piano teacher. Why should he have something against it? So they didn’t need a piano teacher but an instrument. Unfortunately Kenik, the expert on major purchases, was gone. Aron asked her to check around, here in the apartment house, in the streets, while shopping, to see if someone might have a spare piano, or knew of one that was not being used. “Only find out where it is,” he told Irma; he wanted to discuss the price with the owner himself. “A brown one if possible.”

  Finally the piano appeared, thanks to Irma’s diligent research and Aron’s negotiating skills. Irma was happier than Mark, at least at first, until he mastered the finger exercises and was able to play short pieces. In the evenings she often gave concerts; Aron and Mark sat there and could request tunes. When she would bow deeply at the end, like pianists do, they would applaud loudly.

  Once she interrupted her performance and listened; Aron thought something was wrong with the piano.
But Irma said, “Somebody knocked.”

  Out of the three of us, she had the best ears. Mark ran out of the room; visitors were rare. He came back and whispered, “A man.”

  Aron immediately thought of Ostwald; a man at this time of night could be only Ostwald, he thought. Yet even before he was in the corridor he knew that Ostwald was out of the question because Mark knew Ostwald and, if it were he, Mark would have said, “Ostwald,” not “A man.”

  Tennenbaum was waiting at the door. He wished Aron a good evening and asked if he was disturbing him, if so he could come back some other time. Aron led him into the kitchen. A little while later, when Irma, curious, stuck her head around the door, Aron told her, “I won’t be long.”

  Tennenbaum wouldn’t let himself be put off; he may even have feared they might not let him in. He had a request. First, he expressed his regret that they had completely lost sight of each other; after the long and, all in all, pleasant collaboration he found it a little surprising. As for himself, he could claim that the last few months had been successful; the trading company, whose existence Aron surely remembered, was thriving. He hoped things were also going well for Aron.

  “I can’t complain,” Aron said.

  Aron glanced at his watch. Tennenbaum finally came to the point. “I hear you are working for the Russian authorities?” he said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “May I know what you do there?”

  “First please tell me your problem,” Aron said.

  Tennenbaum was expecting a shipment. From West Germany to West Berlin, he feared difficulties driving through the Russian Zone. He needed someone who could put in a good word for him; to be precise, he needed an authorization. Not for free, of course; that was obvious, he said. He could think of several ways to show Aron his gratitude — pettiness had never been his style.

  Aron thought that only a small dealer, not one of the important ones, would require such an embarrassing favor. He was silent for a long time, not because he was thinking of how he could help Tennenbaum but only so that Tennenbaum would think that that was what he was doing. I simply sat there and looked at the wall, and he sat very still, not wanting to disturb me. Aron said, “You know how happy I’d be to do something for you. But you came at an unfortunate time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Between us, Mr. Tennenbaum, I have already helped some people. Not exactly with shipments but with other authorizations. As recently as last week. You will understand that I can’t bother the Russians every day. Who am I anyway? They would throw me out.”

  “When is the earliest you can try again?”

  Aron was happy that his little game was working so well; he says it was so much more fun than simply kicking Tennenbaum out. He said, “Not for another two months, and that’s pretty tight. Besides, the question remains open if I can help you at all. I’ve never tried getting transport authorizations.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” Tennenbaum sighed. “Too bad.”

  When he left, the piano started again. Aron couldn’t get Ostwald’s name out of his head. Ah, he said, if only it had been Ostwald knocking at my door. He pictured a reunion in full detail, a curtain drawn over all discord; the lack of a friend made his longing for Ostwald strong and tenacious. Even if liquor had become more expensive, he told himself, there was more than just liquor between us. In the evening they could sit and talk, complain and sound out the situation. Mark could sleep or play or go out with Irma. He even yearned for that being together without saying a word; he claims Ostwald belonged to the category of people whose simple presence worked liked medicine for almost anything.

  The following Sunday he went to Ostwald’s house. The worst thing that could happen was that Ostwald would refuse to take his proffered hand, justifying himself with random excuses. Aron had decided to say, “If I am to blame, I beg your pardon. If you’re to blame, let’s forget about it. Or do you have a better idea?” Ostwald’s answer would settle everything. But a stranger opened the door. Aron’s first thought — his new friend; he said he’d like to talk to Mr. Ostwald; the man led him to the living room. No trace of Ostwald. Aron had never been in that apartment. He looked around until the man asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Has he disappeared?”

  “No.”

  Aron had the sensation, even before the man had answered, that something was wrong — he could feel it. The man introduced himself as Ostwald’s brother; his name was Andreas Ostwald. He inquired about Aron’s relationship with his brother; Aron explained reluctantly. He wanted to see Ostwald, or at least hear a sentence that would dissolve his fears, instead of the tedious questions. The man said, “Forgive me for wanting to know who I am talking to. My brother is dead.”

  He heard the whole unimportant rest, Aron says, through a haze of tears; soon Andreas Ostwald was crying too. He lived there now and as the only living relative had inherited everything. A couple of miserable letters were in his possession; most of the things he knew about his brother came from strangers like the neighbors. He explained that since childhood his brother had been hardly accessible to him — complicated, eccentric, and with a tendency to get involved in incomprehensible activities — but he didn’t want to talk about old times now. The gentleman would surely find it hard to believe that he had last seen his brother in 1933, shortly before his arrest. After the war, only letters, and they were few and far between; he knew hardly anything about his brother’s life after the war; the letters were circumspect, impersonal, nothing more than signs of life. And the information the neighbors gave was full of gaps; the image that he had tried to piece together was incomplete. He knew vaguely about a job his brother had had in the judiciary, under the supervision of the English; then he understood there’d been some kind of trouble, nothing precise, that had led to his dismissal. He said he could imagine that his brother never avoided a fight; he had never been a compromising type. Still, the rumor that his brother’s only interest in life was alcohol was reliable. Several neighbors had independently confirmed that at a certain point he would come home dead drunk, unapproachable, night after night; nobody knew where he had been. It was his personal opinion, the brother said, that there, in that period of Ostwald’s life, lay the evil influence that, months later, led to his brother’s tragic death. In any case, one day, and again several neighbors commented on this, his brother had suddenly stopped drinking. People said that from one day to the next he started taking care of the way he looked — clothes, shaving, posture. He looked like someone who was starting afresh, with good intentions. In fact, he accepted a post as one of four lawyers in a firm near the Kurfürstendamm. Good salary, and even better prospects, according to his lawyer colleagues, said Andreas Ostwald; his brother could have grown old and happy in that post. No one had the slightest inkling that things might take such a turn, this suicide from out of the blue. Gas.

  “Do you have any idea why?” Andreas Ostwald asked. “Can you fill in any of the gaps?”

  “I appear only in the booze phase,” Aron said. “Not before and not after.”

  Andreas Ostwald, Aron says, did not make a good impression on him. Later he even goes so far as to say he had found him unpleasant, in spite of the tears; for those people it is customary to shed tears when a close relative dies. Andreas seemed to be irritated by Aron’s words; perhaps he remembered the suspicion he had expressed in connection to his brother’s alcoholism. “Perhaps you can tell me why my brother drank?” he said.

  “What did you do during the war?” Aron asked.

  “I was a soldier.”

  “He spent eleven years in the camps.”

  “I know,” the brother said, surprised. “But what does that have to do with it?”

  Aron stood up and went through all the rooms, looking for a picture of Ostwald, but found none. The brother asked him several times what he was looking for. Aron went home, the mourning lasted for weeks, Irma never knew.

  All she saw was t
hat he drank uncontrollably, day in and day out, that the stock of liquor was soon gone. Even when he was drunk, Aron betrayed nothing, as if Ostwald were a secret. From the very beginning, he says, his mourning was infected with violent rage. Such a stubborn idiot, he thought of Ostwald, such an irresponsible act. He destroys something that doesn’t belong to him, disappears to a place where he can’t be followed. Though he could sympathize with Ostwald’s foul moods, Aron thought, this was too much: What right does he have to put an end to the pleasure his presence gave others? How arrogant! What right does he have to destroy the hopes that he, Aron, held on to only for Ostwald’s sake? What right does he have to dissolve so much into nothing? (I must confess that not even Ostwald’s self-inflicted death made me like him any more than before. Of course, I believe Aron, that he was attached to Ostwald. Why else would he have told me about him? For me, this attachment is not all that interesting. Their relationship leaves me cold. Aron’s stories about Ostwald always contained an element of unfettered admiration I simply can’t relate to, because one can truly admire only someone one knows personally.)

  A short time later —-Aron was still in deep mourning — Irma looked so distraught when Aron came home from work, it was obvious that something terrible had happened. Her eyes looked unusually serious, and she didn’t greet him with her usual ceremony, a kiss and the question whether everything was all right. “What happened?”

  “Go look at Mark.”

  Aron rushed into the room. Mark lay on his bed, a wet cloth on his forehead. Aron took it off and saw that Mark had obviously been beaten. Scratches, a swollen face, red and blue bruises, one eye was closed and the other open only a crack, and Irma had already cleaned him up. “His chest and arms are also black and blue. Should I have called a doctor?” she asked quietly.

  “Get out,” Aron said.

  He sat on the bed, took Mark’s hand, and hoped his voice wouldn’t sound too shaky. “Who did this?” he asked.