Berlin Cantata
Page 1
ALSO BY JEFFREY LEWIS
Meritocracy: A Love Story
The Conference of the Birds
Theme Song for an Old Show
Adam the King
BERLIN CANTATA
First published in 2012 by Haus Publishing Limited
HAUS PUBLISHING LTD.
70 Cadogan Place, London SW1X 9AH
www.hauspublishing.com
Copyright © Jeffrey Lewis 2012
ebook ISBN 978-1-907822-42-1
Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd
info@macguru.org.uk
Cover image: © David Turnley/CORBIS
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library
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to Gayle
CONTENTS
DOROTHEA ANHOLT – Happiness
OKSANA KOZLOVA – Wedding
HOLLY ANHOLT – Claim
ANJA MANN – Joke
HOLLY ANHOLT – Atonement
DAVID FÜRST – Enterprise
HOLLY ANHOLT – Boyfriend
NILS SCHREIBER – Girlfriend
FRANZ ROSEN – Hero
SIMONA JASTROW – Confusion
HOLLY ANHOLT – Tenant
DAVID FÜRST – Tease
OKSANA KOSLOVA – Father
MISCHA LANDER – Exile
OKSANA KOSLOVA – Students
HOLLY ANHOLT – Journey
NILS SCHREIBER – Words
FRANZ ROSEN – Weakness
OKSANA KOSLOVA – Separation
NILS SCHREIBER – Words (Continued)
HOLLY ANHOLT – Vacation
HERBERT KAMINSKI – Accident
HOLLY ANHOLT – Education
FRANZ ROSEN – Painting
FRANZ ROSEN – Hatred
NILS SCHREIBER – Story
HOLLY ANHOLT – Franz
FRANZ ROSEN – Exile
NILS SCHREIBER – Rejection
HOLLY ANHOLT – Silence
HOLLY ANHOLT – Incidents
HOLLY ANHOLT – Fear
DAVID FÜRST – Work
HOLLY ANHOLT – Pot
GERTRUDE BAUM – Sister
HOLLY ANHOLT – Decision
GERTRUDE BAUM – Trust
HOLLY ANHOLT – Call
DAVID FÜRST – Love
FRANZ ROSEN – Consequences
FRANZ ROSEN – Alternatives
HEINZ SCHIESSL – Defeat
PETRA LUESCHER – Gift
HOLLY ANHOLT – Demonstration
FRANZ ROSEN – List
ANJA MANN – Justice
NILS SCHREIBER AND DAVID FÜRST – Comanches
OKSANA KOSLOVA – Brushstrokes
HOLLY ANHOLT – Mourning
FRANZ ROSEN – City
HOLLY ANHOLT – Nils
“The Jewish migration to Germany, like other strands in the history of German-Jewish ties, is taking place amid a complex web of issues involving emotional questions of memory and forgetfulness, destruction and rebirth, politics and personal fate.”
– The New York Times, March 23, 1992
DOROTHEA ANHOLT
Happiness
WHAT CAN I SAY? They sent me an invitation in the mail, I received it, I looked. What’s this, I’m thinking. The City of Berlin, Germany? Now you get an envelope like that, with the cellophane and the whole thing, you immediately think it’s a parking ticket, right? Of course it wasn’t a parking ticket, it couldn’t be a parking ticket, I hadn’t even been a foot in that city in fifty years, and believe me, my memories weren’t too great from then, as you can imagine. So I open it and I’m already aggravated. That’s where it started. They invited me. Believe me, if they hadn’t sent me that envelope, I wouldn’t have gone.
I could bring a guest, I could go anytime to fit my schedule, the whole thing, I couldn’t believe how nice they were, the plane ticket, the hotel. And I must say, you know I thought the hotel, if they were bringing over so many people, how could it be such a nice hotel? But the Intercontinental Hotel, no less.
How could you complain? Room service was good, the hotel was good. I bought a new piece of luggage. And then I had to decide. Should I invite Holly or shouldn’t I? The invitation was you could bring two people, what was I going to do, go alone? I didn’t even think she would want to. Always with the plans, my daughter, so many plans, here, there, she goes everywhere. If you only have a month’s vacation, an invitation from your old mother, I wouldn’t want to impose, that’s all.
But she was fine with it. “Oh Mom, of course I’ll come, are you sure you want to do this, you can’t go alone,” on and on. So that was that. We picked the dates, and the people in Berlin, from the government, you almost couldn’t believe how nice they were, they had one small change with the date, to fit the other guests who were coming, and that was that.
So we went. Boom. Just like that.
I didn’t know what to expect. How could I know, I was just going, they invite me, so I go. And I have to tell you, that city has changed. Everything is just like new there. Now I’m not stupid, of course I knew it would be changed, of course, it was bombed, it had to be changed. But still you don’t expect that. I was looking for all the things that I could remember. The zoo was still there. That was good, that was nice. And Wertheim department store? Those people were Jewish, too. A lot of people, a lot of things from then, were, of course. That was the whole problem. I don’t want to even get into that. I didn’t want to think about it. Just go, look, say thank you, go home.
Well that’s what I thought anyway. But you see this is what daughters are for. Daughters are for aggravation. I’m barely unpacked, she’s already nudging me, “When are we going to go to the country? When are we going to go to the country?”
“What country? Why country? We just got here. What, it’s a whole city, isn’t a whole city enough for you?”
The problem was, she had seen a picture, no, movies, we had a movie, which she found, I didn’t even know it existed anymore, I mean you don’t keep things forever, I thought it must have been thrown out, why wouldn’t I have thrown it out? But she found it, of myself and my late husband, her father, in the country. We had a very lovely country house in the country, on a lake, and it was near there that we…
Well I will get to that. I’m getting to that. I don’t quite feel like getting to that quite yet, but suffice to say, we had a very nice place on the lake and that was where we would go. My husband had quite a successful business, in mattresses and all kinds of bedding, everything to do with bedding, it was one of the larger shops in that area of commerce, and so we were fortunate. Martin loved the country. He would always talk about the fresh air, he had scarlet fever when he was a boy, I don’t know if that had to do with it or not, but he always loved fresh air, we would go there on the weekend and he would stand outside breathing. You could see him taking big breaths. He looked almost like a giant, or one of these pictures at a nudist colony. It just made him happy to breathe the fresh air.
So anyway, that’s what Holly was thinking about, that movie where we looked so happy. According to her, that is. But of course she didn’t know the whole story.
I s
hould correct one thing. I said Martin looked like a giant. But he wasn’t really very tall at all. It was just the way he would stand outside breathing, he looked tall.
The part that Holly did know, this is what I was going to get to, I’m just going to say it, this is where, when the Germans came, I mean the Nazi Germans you know, but by then it just seemed like the Germans, because that’s what they were saying, we’re the Germans and you’re not, anyway, I’m sorry, I’m losing my point – you know what I tell people sometimes, at my age, I’m going one way and my mind’s going the other. My point is, simply, this is where we had to hide in the woods. We hid in this place, we never even knew what it was, it was either from the army from the war, or hunters, we never knew, we had heard different things, but it was cement and only above the ground by about two or three feet, a cement box, that’s just what it was like, a big cement box, you couldn’t even stand up, and that’s where we hid. One year and four and one-half months, to be precise. Then they found us and that was that. Our darling daughter Helena perished on the train. Martin and I somehow were survivors but I’m definitely not getting into that.
Who’s to say who’s lucky and who’s not? That’s my feeling.
And believe me, I’ve seen more than I need to know.
But my daughter, I’m talking about my second daughter, Holly, she never lets a thing go, once it’s in her teeth, she never lets it go, you could hit her with a stick and she would be holding on for dear life. She wanted to know all about the country. I said to her, “Holly, we’re having such a good time. Here, here’s the menu, order some room service.” But no, her hamburger comes and still she keeps asking me. “Why did you keep it a secret from me? Who puts a film in a strongbox, anyway?” Oh and also, she wants to know why I’m having such a good time. I say, “Holly, it’s not just me, did you see Mr. and Mrs. Bronstein?” They were with us in our van, they were nice people also, he was anyway, she seemed a little snobbish, from Montevideo, Uruguay, no less. How did Jews get to Montevideo, Uruguay? I didn’t even know that. But they were having a good time, too.
“The other people, the Shulmans, they’re not having such a hot time.”
“Well that’s their problem.” What could I say? It was their problem. I do understand. Of course, you could be bitter, but what’s the point of being bitter with these people, they weren’t even alive then, they’re just trying hard to be nice, to say “I’m sorry.” I accept that. I do. Who’s to say who couldn’t be in which situation in life? You never know.
Holly, shut up already. Of course I didn’t say that. I don’t talk like that to my daughter. And she did come all this way too, and giving up her vacation. She works too hard, really. I’ll tell you this much about her: She’s been living in Paris, France. Until recently she had a boyfriend who was quite nice, a dealer in art, things of that nature, but I don’t think she really liked him very much. I wish she’d come back to California, not for my sake, absolutely not, for hers, I think it’s good to live in your own country. Why? Because I don’t know, but personally I think things are clearer, you always know where you are. She says she’s going to, but is not sure when. She’s a wonderful daughter, really. Never married. I can understand that. Of course, these days, nobody gets married, that’s what it seems like anyway. I don’t even bring up the subject of grandchildren. Why be heartbroken?
Anyway, it’s her life. But what’s good for the goose, that’s what I was trying to tell her, this was my life, so if I didn’t want to go to the country, why should I?
I think she thought it could be cathartic. I tell her, at my age, I don’t need cathartic.
What I don’t tell her, which I will only say once, right here, but only to be divulged after my death: I am ashamed of something. This is correct. There, I said it. And what am I ashamed of, Dorothea Anholt, eighty-one years old? If I could just tell you like that, it wouldn’t be too big a shame, right? Of course not. Believe me, it doesn’t work like that. If you’re ashamed of something, you barely know what it is. Of course you know what it is, but you don’t like to say it to yourself. You say it’s something slightly different from what it is. This is my lifetime’s experience, and believe me I don’t need some expensive therapist doctor at one hundred dollars an hour to tell me this. For instance, I’ll give you a perfect for instance: I am ashamed of what I am ashamed of. Because I don’t think I’m ashamed of the right thing. I should be ashamed for my daughter who died. Or this is what I say to myself, Doe, you should be ashamed for that. But I’m not ashamed. Sad, yes. I am as sad as the day it happened. I’ll never get over it. It happened, it’s done with, but it’s never done with. But ashamed? No. What’s there to be ashamed of? We did whatever we could. We did our best. It wasn’t good enough, God help us. So I think, it’s something I could be ashamed of, probably I should be, but I don’t know why. You could almost say, I’m ashamed for not being ashamed. It was the other people. They should be ashamed.
I shouldn’t have even started this. This is what happens, you start something, with the best of intentions, and then what happens? I tell you, I’m going one way and my mind’s going the other. There. I’ll just say it, in one word: Ute. Ute is what I’m ashamed of. You can figure out the rest.
“But Mother, Herr Bruno says you can go to the country. The restrictions are lifted. We can get somebody to drive us out there. It’s less than an hour.” This is Holly again. She doesn’t let up. She doesn’t stop.
Finally I put my foot down. What can you do? You have to put your foot down. Who’s the mother, after all?
I said to her, these words precisely, “Holly, if you mention the country one more time, I’m going home right now, straight back to Walnut Creek, no questions asked, the first flight.”
“Fine,” she said. Of course she would say that.
She went on to say that she didn’t feel this city was too attractive anyway, in fact she said it was as ugly as something, I don’t remember what exactly, but as ugly as something that’s ugly, that much I do remember, and so if I wanted to leave right now, this instant, fine, it was fine by her.
“Eat your hamburger,” I said. It was a twelve dollar hamburger, even if we weren’t paying, if she ordered it, she should eat it, right?
Anyway we didn’t leave. But we also didn’t go to the country. The next day we went to where Mama used to take me, on special occasions, I’d get dressed up and we’d go to Kranzler, the old Kranzler, for cream puffs. Every birthday, anything like that, or if we went to a museum or to buy new shoes, afterwards we’d go there. It wasn’t the exact same, of course, this was the new Kranzler, they had a new modern building. I believe the old location was bombed. But we had cream puffs and they were so delicious. Mama used to say to me, it was like tasting a little bite of the moon. Everything came back to me, like in a flash. The day after that we left. Everyone was so nice, I just wanted to thank everybody. Herr Bruno was especially nice, a true gentleman. He was the one who showed us around and drove the van. He went where anyone wanted to go and he knew everything, even the old places that were gone.
OKSANA KOZLOVA
Wedding
HERBERT WAS A BIG CHEESE. His construction business was among the largest in the city. He was a trustee of the Jewish community. He was said to be among the city’s richest men. He was sixty-four years old and had never married and so it was only expected that he would have a big cheese wedding.
He hoped to introduce me to Berlin society. He perhaps even hoped that I would find myself at home in it, or help him to find a home in it. This was unwise fantasy on his part. I don’t condemn him for it, but it was unwise fantasy. I had only a passing, sociological interest in the kind of wedding he planned, in his villa on Schwanenwerder, with the Brazilian band and thousands of strung lights and all the men with their stomachs and wives with frosted hair. It would have been better if it had been in a movie. Then I could have walked in and out. But there I was, the star of the show.
I would say that while our marriage was
not an altogether unlikely thing, yet, for all the logic in its support, it was strange. That is to say, there was an irreducible strangeness between Herbert and myself. We could come close, we could almost touch, you could even say that we understood each other, and then there would be a falling off, as back to our respective places we tumbled, with who knew what sort of divide or gulf or electrified fence between us. Surely part of it was due to our age difference. I have heard a Muslim rule of thumb that a wife should be half her husband’s age plus seven years. In that case, I should have been thirty-nine or Herbert forty-six. If you do that little math puzzle, you will know the actual difference in age between us. And we came from different, if equally illegitimate, aristocracies. Herbert’s one might call the aristocracy of suffering. He came out of the camps weighing forty kilos, an orphan of the war. This pedigree became a kind of virtue. If nothing else, it proved to the American occupiers he was not a Nazi. And he spoke English, and was not afraid of dirty work, and soon he was running a string of bars for the Americans. These bars, not surprisingly, specialized in prostitution. But Herbert was an honest whoremaster – on this I must take his word, yet I do. He has remained an honest man, from that day to this. It has been always a matter of honor with him, to show the Germans something, to refute the old lies. And, of course, that too brought him business. He bought up buildings that were still destroyed. He worked with his bare hands beside his workmen. He fashioned a life out of dust. Now enters into that life, many years later, the Soviet princess manquée. What else shall I term myself? My grandfather, my mother’s father, was Comrade Brezhnev’s munitions minister. It was he who raised me, after my father disappeared on a trade mission to Switzerland and my mother took flight to Finland. I led almost exactly the life that our criminal regime was instituted to abolish. I worked little, I flitted around embassy parties, I gained preferential entrance to university, I married a fellow child of the nomenklatura who believed only in Count Tolstoy, so we settled in a government dacha and lived a life of “purity” in the birch woods. Russian hippies, if you can believe such a thing. Our marriage, my first marriage, ended, but it was not because we were not bound at the hip. Quite likely it ended because we were. And then all of it ended, the regime, the privileges, the lies, and I wound up here, and with Herbert. I won’t trouble you with certain of the details of how this came about. There was no “cute meet.” But I will say this, about what divides us. Part of it has to do with “the Jewish question,” or rather, the fact that Herbert perceives that there is a Jewish question, perceives it quite acutely, in Berlin in 1991. Whether he denies it or not, and sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t quite, Herbert’s life achievement is bound up with being a Jew in Germany, and with the peculiar wrestling with history that this begets. It’s as though he’s constantly saying, with his achievement, his power, his money: you haven’t defeated us, not quite. Here I am, flying a certain kind of flag, the flag of Herbert, he seems to say. Whereas I, with my decades of Soviet education not all of which was lies, and perhaps even my inability to shed parts of it which probably were, don’t particularly blame the Germans for anything, despite being what the Nazis would have called a “mischling.” I continue to see the world as full of structural defects, historical defects, which produced the catastrophe of Germans killing Jews but many other catastrophes as well. The numbers matter to me, but I don’t keep count that way. The Soviet Union was evidently not a competent instrument to correct these defects, but to deny the critique is to invite all such future catastrophes elsewhere. And so this business of “the Germans this,” “the Germans that,” as if fascism and the technical mastery of butchery were simply their homegrown crops for export, I don’t buy it. I think it’s sentimentality and hogwash and people whistling past their own moral graveyards. Well, much of it, anyway. There are some Germans I could do without.