by Jurek Becker
From one moment to the next, our uncle decides to get rid of the hat at all costs. He thinks: Surely, I can do without that. He leans forward and puts his cup of tea down on a small table, when the dog raises its head and growls at him. The horse! shouts Aunt Esther or Aunt Moira, and brutally slaps whoever is sitting in front of her on the shoulder. Uncle Gideon, however, follows through with his plan: he undoes the chinstrap, removes the hat, and sets it down on the floor next to his chair. At that same moment he feels a relief of the kind that we—having never been in such a situation—cannot possibly understand.
The lady inquires whether Uncle Gideon is enjoying London. He doesn’t tell her the complete truth, but praises London as though he had to sell it. He merely laments a little the English way of eating, which should be allowed after his torment. The lady counters that taste is a matter of habit. It is quite understandable that everyone would think their local cuisine the best. Uncle Gideon disputes this. He entreats the lady to imagine a man who came down to earth—say from the moon—and compares English cuisine with, say, the French. The host says: The man from the moon would prefer the French way of cooking, I am sure of it. Uncle Gideon smiles politely; it is not in his manner to argue needlessly. Gradually, he begins to ponder what drove Silverstone to do this to him. The butler returns with fresh tea. Our uncle takes his cup from the table and adds, English tea, however, is the best by far.
He hears the doorbell ring. His heart skips a beat at the thought of new guests arriving. Now, it’s time for the toreros and the Helens of Troy. Secretly, he is already rescinding his death threats against Silverstone. He looks at the hat on the floor, which, in a moment—if all goes well—will be back in service. The host and his lady exchange a few words. Uncle Gideon sips his tea and strains his ears. The door opens, unfortunately, behind Uncle Gideon, who musters just enough self-restraint not to turn his head. The lady, in her language, speaks a few words past Uncle Gideon, which, judging by the tone of her voice, are of a chastising nature. If our uncle isn’t mistaken, her words are directed at a child. He brings himself to overcome his restraint and turns his head, but too late. The only thing he sees is the door handle snapping back into its position. The host apologizes for the small incident, and Uncle Gideon hasn’t even understood what happened. From this moment onward, he finds it increasingly difficult to speak, as the thought of Silverstone grows more and more powerful.
You poor, poor man, says Aunt Miriam, and no one knows whether she is close to tears or laughter. Uncle Menachem says: I would have killed him, I swear to you, I would’ve killed him! Uncle Gideon replies: That was my only thought that night.
From now on, our uncle can concentrate only on survival. He is of no use for conversation anymore and barely participates. From time to time, he shoots Silverstone or pushes him off a very high mountain. He replies only with yes or no and is a terrible guest, until, unexpectedly, he is gripped by a strong pity for his hosts. He imagines how someone must feel who is expecting a normal guest, and then, through no fault of their own, receives him. He imagines how terrified they must have been as he stood there in the door, with his hat and his crazy eyes and all the rest. How they must have taken him for a lunatic, possibly, before asking themselves whether the poor Jews of Galicia always dress like that. How they must count this evening among the inexplicable events of their lives and yet act as though there was nothing unusual to it. No, our uncle thinks, this is more than mere politeness. This is admirable.
He should explain to them, he thinks soon after. But then he feels his pride and thinks: The one who’s responsible should do the explaining. When a clock begins to strike the hour, Uncle Gideon stands up from his chair. He has plans for a concert, he says, Mendelssohn at Royal Albert Hall, and he has to stop by his hotel beforehand to change his clothes. His hosts are very understanding. The lady thanks him for his charming visit. Doing so, she doesn’t seem like someone who says one thing and thinks another. The host firmly shakes our uncle’s hand. The dog is nowhere to be seen. In saying his goodbyes, Uncle Gideon reminds them that his address is on his business card, and if they ever were to find themselves in Lublin, they shouldn’t hesitate.
Then he stands before the house and doesn’t remember exactly in which bush he had hidden his wonderful gray trilby. He takes a deep breath of the cold air and walks along the dark street toward a brighter one, while his audience begins to calm down after his adventure. Some are starting to feel hungry, the smell spreading from the kitchen is magnificent, and Uncle Gideon holds his hand out to hail a taxi. As he sits down in the car, he sneezes, leaving white marks on his handkerchief. In memory of his trip to London, he has kept the little boxes with the black and white makeup. Now, he recalls, he had promised to bring them this time. They must excuse him, he is an old man, and next time—with Aunt Linda’s help—he will be sure to remember.
Translated by Jonathan Becker
The Suspect
I ask you to believe me when I say that I find the security of the state something worth protecting at almost all costs. I say this not to cajole anyone or in the hope that a certain agency might be more favorably disposed to me as a result. I simply feel the need to express it, even though, for some time now, I’ve been considered a person who presents a danger to that very security.
The fact that I’ve come to have such a reputation both shocks and embarrasses me. To my knowledge, I have never given the slightest cause for suspicion of any kind. I’ve been a committed citizen since childhood, or at least I’ve tried to be. I can’t recall a single circumstance when I might have uttered an opinion that doesn’t correspond to those held by the state, and therefore to my own; and if this ever did happen, it could only have been due to a lack of concentration on my part. I would hope the gaze of the state is trained and discerning enough to recognize real threats and disregard trifles that are anything but threatening. And yet something must have occurred near me that caused the state to direct some of its attention my way. Maybe some will understand me when I say that, at this point, I’m glad not to know what it was. If I did, most likely I’d try to counteract the unfavorable impression and make matters worse in the process. This way, however, I can move more freely, or at least I’m getting there.
By now it will have become clear that I’m under surveillance. My situation is complicated by the crucial fact that, in principle, I consider this sort of procedure useful, indispensable even. Yet, in my case it’s pointless and, be honest, insulting.
One day, a man named Bogelin, whom I had regarded until then as loyal to the government, told me that I was under observation. Naturally, I immediately ceased all dealings with him. I didn’t believe a word he said and thought: Under observation, me! I had almost forgotten about the matter when I received an extraordinary letter. It appeared to be sent by an acquaintance of mine from the neighboring country, with whom I had been friends since my school days. It was an envelope of the kind he had been using for years. It had his handwriting on the front, and his name was printed on the back. The letter I removed from the envelope, however, had nothing to do with me or him: it was addressed to a certain Oswald Schulte and signed by one Trude Danzig, two people whose existence I hadn’t been aware of until that very moment. I immediately recalled Bogelin’s hint. The letters must have gotten switched at the agency responsible for the surveillance of the mail. In other words, I now had conclusive evidence that I was under observation.
It is well known that in moments of distress one is more inclined to commit heedless acts, and I was no exception. As soon as I had finished reading the letter, I picked up the phone book, found Oswald Schulte’s number, and called him. When he answered, I asked him if he knew Trude Danzig. In light of the letter, this was an utterly redundant question, but in my panicked state I asked it anyway. Mr. Schulte replied that, yes, Miss Danzig was well known to him, and he inquired whether I had a message from her. I was about to explain the peculiar circumstances that brought us together, when I realized the immense stu
pidity of what I was doing. I hung up the phone and sat there in despair. I told myself, although far too late, that it is only logical that the phones of those whose mail is monitored would be monitored as well. In the eyes of the agency, one suspect was now in relation to another. To make matters worse, I had ended the conversation before mentioning the mix-up in letters. Of course, I could have called Oswald Schulte a second time and explained the situation to him. To the ears of those listening in, however, this would have sounded like an attempt to cover myself, and in a manner that could have been interpreted as defaming the agency. Apart from that, I was repulsed by the idea of explaining anything to this Mr. Schulte, who in all likelihood would have been under surveillance for a reason.
For a long time I sat without moving to avoid acting hastily again, and then I devised a plan. I told myself that a false starting point creates its own logic, that all of a sudden a consequentiality comes into existence that seems imperative to those who are acting in error. The suspicion I was under was such a false starting point, and every one of my usual actions, which under normal circumstances would seem harmless and without significance to the agency, would serve to confirm and reinforce it over and over. Thus, in order to invalidate the suspicion, I just had to do nothing and say nothing for a sufficient amount of time, and it would necessarily be dismissed due to a lack of sustenance. I trusted myself to do this, being somebody who prefers listening to speaking and standing still to walking. Finally, I said to myself that my rescue shouldn’t be long in coming, that it need not wait if I was true to myself.
The first step I took was to break up with my girlfriend, who potentially could have been a bad girlfriend for me in the eyes of the agency. For a short time, I entertained the idea that she might be a member of the surveillance team. She had unrestricted insight into all my dealings. However, I found no evidence for this and parted from her without any such suspicions. I don’t want to claim that the separation didn’t affect me at all, but it wasn’t a big deal either. I seized on the very first pretense, puffed it up a little, and two days later everything that belonged to her was gone from my apartment. I felt lonely the first night after her departure, the next two nights I didn’t sleep well, and after that I was over her.
At my office I faked an ailment of the vocal chords, which—so I claimed repeatedly in a croaking voice—hurt me whenever I spoke. As a result, no one noticed that I stopped talking. My colleagues’ conversations began to steer clear of me, which soon became so natural that I didn’t need the vocal chord excuse anymore. I was happy to see that, with time, I was being noticed less and less. During lunch breaks, I stopped going to the canteen and started bringing a lunch from home, which I would eat at my desk. I made an effort to appear constantly like someone who was busy thinking and didn’t wish to be disturbed while doing so. I also considered becoming a careless employee instead of a good one. I decided, however, that conscientious work, as had always come naturally to me, couldn’t possibly have been the reason for the suspicions against me, that if anything carelessness would be a reason to keep an eye on me. Thus, the only one of my habits that remained unchanged was that I completed my work in a timely and diligent fashion.
Once, while in the bathroom, I overheard two colleagues talking about me. It was like a final flare-up of interest in my affairs. One of them expressed the belief that I must be afflicted by some sorrow, that I had lost my old vitality. The other one said: Sometimes it just happens that a person doesn’t feel like being sociable. The first one replied that maybe they should pay me some attention, maybe I was in a situation where I could use consoling. The other one ended the conversation by asking: Is it really any of our business, though?—for which I was very grateful to him.
I was already determined to disconnect my phone and yet refrained from doing so: it could have created the impression that I was trying to remove a means of observation. Nevertheless, I stopped using the phone. There was nobody I needed to call, and whenever it rang I wouldn’t pick up the handset. After a few weeks, people stopped calling me—I had elegantly solved the telephone problem. For a short while, I wondered whether it wasn’t suspicious for the owner of a phone never to make any calls. I answered myself that I would have to decide between an assumption and its opposite. I couldn’t hold both to be equally suspicious. Otherwise, all that remained for me was to go insane.
I changed my behavior wherever I could discern regular habits. To achieve this, I studied myself with great patience. Some of the changes seemed exaggerated; some made me feel ridiculous. I made them anyway, telling myself: What do I know about how a suspicion evolves? I bought a gray suit, even though I like bright and vibrant colors. I was convinced that what I liked mattered least now. Unless it was of vital importance, I didn’t leave the house anymore. I stopped paying the rent in advance and in cash to my landlord, but instead paid by money order. An overdue notice—I had never received one before—conveniently followed. Some days I would take the train to work, some days I would walk the long way. One morning a schoolchild approached me and wanted to know the time. I held my watch out to him. The next day I left it at home. I contemplated to the point of exhaustion which aspects of my behavior were habitual and which were coincidental. Often, I couldn’t answer the question, and in those cases I decided in favor of habit.
It would be wrong to believe that I felt unobserved in my apartment. Again, I thought: What do I know? I threw out all books and magazines that might reflect negatively on their owner. At first, I was certain that such writings weren’t to be found in my possession anyway. Soon, however, I was surprised by what kind of material had made its way into my apartment. From time to time, I would switch on the radio or television, but only to watch programs that I wouldn’t have watched before. Not surprisingly, I didn’t enjoy these programs, and so this problem was solved as well. During the first weeks I often stood by the window to watch what little was happening outside. Soon, however, I began to consider whether someone who stands by the window for hours might not seem like a person keeping watch. I pulled down the blinds and accepted the possibility that it might appear as though I was trying to hide something, or hide myself.
Life in the apartment continued by lamplight, but as it stood I hardly needed light anyway. When I came home from the office, I ate a little, then lay down and thought for a while, if I felt like it. If not, I would doze until I achieved a comfortably mellow state, which was difficult to distinguish from sleep. Then I would really sleep, until the alarm clock woke me in the morning, and so on. Sometimes during those days I would be annoyed by my dreams. They were oddly wild and scattered and bore no relation to my life. I was a little ashamed about this and thought it very convenient that I couldn’t be observed in my dreams as well. But then I thought: What do I know? I thought: How quickly a word slips from the mouth of someone sleeping, a word that might come as a revelation to an observer. In my situation, I would have considered it reckless to assume that I wouldn’t be held responsible for my dreams to the extent anyone was aware of their nature. So I attempted to get rid of them, in which I succeeded with astonishing ease. I can’t really say how this success came about. The quiet and uneventfulness of my days certainly helped as much as my resolve to be rid of my dreams. In any case, soon my sleep resembled a kind of death, and when the ringing of the alarm woke me in the morning, I rose to life from a black hole.
Now and then I couldn’t avoid exchanging a few words with someone while shopping or at the office. The words appeared superfluous to me, but I had to say them in order not to appear rude. I used my best efforts to avoid having to be asked questions. If I was nevertheless forced to speak, my own words droned in my ears, and my tongue balked at the abuse.
Soon I had gotten used to not looking at people anymore. By virtue of this, I spared myself many an unpleasant view. I concentrated on matters that were actually important. It is well known how easily people mistake a gaze into their eyes for an invitation to converse—I had now ruled out this
possibility. I watched where I was going, I looked for whatever I had to grab onto or avoid. At home I hardly made use of my eyes anymore at all. It soon seemed as though I had begun to move about more securely, and only rarely would I stumble anymore. After this experience, I would venture to say that the lowered view is the natural one. What use is it, I asked myself, when one is always proudly raising one’s gaze and constantly blundering as a consequence? I also spared myself from noticing the way others looked at me, whether amiably, spitefully, compassionately, or with contempt. I no longer needed to take it into account. I hardly knew who I was dealing with anymore, and this contributed more than a little to my inner peace.
So, a year went by. I hadn’t set a term for this lifestyle, but now, after quite a long while, I felt a wish that it might soon be enough. I felt I was at a crossroads, that I was slowly losing the ability to just live for the moment. If that was what I really wanted, I told myself, then fine, I could continue existing this way in the future. If not, it had to end now. Still, the longing I suddenly felt for the old times seemed childish and even illogical to me, and yet it was strong. I thought it likely that the suspicion brought against me was long gone. There was no other reasonable possibility.
On a Monday night, I decided to go out. I stood in my darkened living room and didn’t feel like sleeping or dozing. I raised the blinds, not a little but all the way, then I turned on the light. Then I took money from a drawer—I would like to mention that all of a sudden I had plenty of money, because throughout the year I had earned normally but spent only very little. So I put the money in my pocket and didn’t quite know what for. I thought, a beer might not be a bad idea right now.