Kurt openly began making new overtures of friendship to those who were predicted to fail.
Each of the six who had scored fail marks during the semester bore the burden of his fate in his own way. Zasche didn’t seem to understand what was going on around him. Duffek, who was considered one of the worst of the grovellers and who addressed the teachers in the most circumlocutory of terms, redoubled his servility, scurried busily about Kupfer, helped him out of his coat, moved his chair to the best angle for him, even tried—perhaps unconsciously—to arouse liking by holding out his forefinger and middle finger in a painfully correct manner when he responded to the reading of the register, instead of just raising his hand like everyone else. Mertens had been felled by his fate as if a tree had fallen on him at the roadside; he didn’t know what had hit him, and why did it have to be him anyway? He went on studying and paying attention in class, but when he put up his hand to answer a question, and was called on to do so, he was so scared even to give his name that he stumbled over his words and really did deserve a reproof. Severin wrapped himself in gloomy silence, but uttered mysterious hints about influential personages who would intervene against Kupfer on his behalf, and although no one believed his chatter they listened to it readily, with much wishful thinking. Lengsfeld, who had already had to stay down in the sixth-year class, began cursing vociferously when the conversation came round to Kupfer—sometimes it amounted to a fit of frenzied rage—and had to be comforted by assurances that surely Kupfer wouldn’t keep him down again, such a thing had never happened before… and Lewy, sitting in the back row, knew for certain that if such a thing had never happened before, then it was definitely going to happen now. Whether Lengsfeld would be the victim was not sure—but he, Lewy, wouldn’t have bet a penny on his own chances.
Kurt Gerber belonged with these students. The really dim ones. They were followed, at a certain distance, by Hobbelmann who had failed in French, and Sittig who had failed in Latin. Linke, who owed an Unsatisfactory in natural history (which was of no importance) to the hostility of Professor Riedl, hardly counted as one of them.
It could not have been said that on the evidence they felt strongly bound together; they were not a company of condemned students to which Kurt ruefully returned after a brief defection. But in their smiles to each other after failing a test, their caustic jokes about their own misfortunes, their helpless grumbling about the major and minor tortures inflicted on them—yes, they had something in common here, and it was natural for Kurt to associate himself with it.
In Lewy he found a curious companion. Lewy had mastered a particularly black kind of gallows humour, intended to deprive his tormentors of any pleasure in their successful work of destruction. He was convinced, with good reason, that there was nothing he could do of his own accord to change his destiny, and that enabled him to watch his own downfall like a sardonic spectator. The impudence of his comments on his own poor answers was uncanny. And as it made no difference whether he was going to fail in only two subjects or all of them, he did not distinguish between the professors. He enjoyed it when Borchert, whose declared favourite he had been, brought himself, with difficulty, to give him an Unsatisfactory; he even managed to goad Hussak and Seelig into treating him badly. In that achievement he stood alone.
Around this time Kupfer decided to slaughter his victims in pairs. Perhaps two students would be able to answer more quickly than one, he said, and anyway it would be faster, he wouldn’t have to waste so much time on the useless students and could keep more of it for the good, interesting specimens. This identification of what was good and interesting in some students, when it meant cruelly questioning the value of their own existence in others, aroused some indignation. The construction of an angle of inclination, the calculation of a differential quotient, things that could bring a student down—Kupfer thought them good and interesting, and there were certainly some who agreed with him. The question that had a student like Lengsfeld sweating with fear offered one like Brodetzky a welcome chance to shine. Black magic with special effects laid on! The gentlemen coming up from the audience when the conjuror summoned them to check that there was no deception, had to know all his tricks, or the great magician would reach into his inside pocket and triumphantly produce an Unsatisfactory.
Lewy developed a different idea of the situation. In time it became a sport; he collected bad marks as an athlete collects winners’ medals. One day the fancy took him to compare the way Kupfer tested them in pairs to tennis matches. When he and Gerber were called up together, he whispered to Kurt on the way to the board that Kupfer, the world champion, was about to contest the men’s doubles, with Lewy and Gerber on the other side of the net. “I forgot to practise at home,” he whispered, adding, when he reached the lectern, “so we’ll give him a two-point lead. Thirty-love to Kupfer! Ready?” And so it went on through the test; Kurt often had trouble in suppressing his laughter. If he gave the right answer, Lewy would whisper behind him, “Well played, Scheri! Nice ground stroke! Advantage striker!” Kupfer asked him something, and without stopping to think Lewy murmured, “Good drive, I’m outplayed!” Kupfer ignored a correct answer, and Lewy whispered, “The ball was in! We protest!” It usually ended with one of the two doubles partners retiring from the game after an unreturnable service from Kupfer, whereupon Kupfer would deliver a mighty smash to win game, set and match. Those in the know were particularly amused when Kupfer noticed the whispering and dismissed it with a scornful, “If you please, what did you want to tell someone?”
But unlike Lewy, who genuinely enjoyed this game, Kurt was sometimes overcome by discomfort. His father would appear in his mind’s eye, the train to Paris, the maliciously grinning faces of Schönthal and Nowak and Altschul… Then he would pull himself together; he didn’t want to do this, he was thinking hard about a question that Kupfer had asked, disregarding Lewy’s giggles, he was thinking, thinking, he had found what he wanted—but Kupfer was already growling, “Thank you, sit down, someone else!” And perhaps he would have managed to save himself with a good answer today, if Lewy hadn’t disturbed him, and then he hated Lewy and the arrogant smile on his wry mouth, he felt he could have murdered him, he hated him so much… then Mertens would be next to be tested, standing in front of the board, very pale, trembling and still stammering helplessly when “someone else” had already replaced him… and then the Headmaster would come in to inspect the class, and Mertens would be called out; only five minutes ago Kupfer had sent him back to his desk, the problem was still on the board, unfinished, and now Mertens was to complete it, the same exercise he had failed to complete five minutes earlier… and at that Kurt would turn his hatred on Professor Artur Kupfer alone.
So he became closer to Lewy, and that did not go unnoticed. In time it was obvious that when short-sighted Prochaska asked, “Who’s missing at the back there?” the answer was nearly always, “Gerber and Lewy”.
“Those young gentlemen shouldn’t stay away!” said the old teacher, shaking his head in concern. “Mind you, I have no objection, and if my subject doesn’t interest the young gentlemen let them stay away—but someone might see them outside the classroom, and then the damage will be done.”
The two of them heard about this from the others. Lewy said, “Thanks for the information.” Kurt said, “It might be just as well if at least now and then we—” But Lewy interrupted him. “You stay here if you like. I’ll find someone else to play a game of billiards.” In an indifferent tone with nothing caustic in it. And yet in the next history lesson the same two were absent again: Gerber and Lewy.
One day Professor Seelig took Kurt aside.
“Gerber—it’s none of my business really—you can mix with anyone you like, but I don’t think it’s to your advantage to be so close to Lewy.”
“He’s cleverer than the others!” said Kurt defiantly.
“Yes, that’ll be why this is his ninth year in the school.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I could fail th
e Matura myself.”
Professor Seelig looked hard at him. “If that’s what you have in mind!” he said quietly. And as Kurt did not reply, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. It was a clear defeat for Kurt.
There was another defeat, and again because of Lewy. He attracted Kupfer’s attention during the maths lesson by suspicious movements under the desk. God Almighty stormed over, delighted to have irrefutable evidence of cheating—and had to withdraw abashed. Lewy had had nothing under the desk, nothing at all.
“Good fellow, Lewy!” Kurt murmured to Weinberg when the bell had rung, as it soon did.
Weinberg turned away with unmistakable displeasure.
Suspicion, annoyance and above all the lust for battle that he had damped down for so long irritated Kurt into asking outright whether Weinberg was deaf, or was there some other reason for his very odd behaviour recently.
Weinberg’s answer was evasive.
He’d better come out with it, Kurt demanded.
Weinberg said he didn’t think that would help.
“Oh,” said Kurt indignantly, “so you’ve given me up for lost. Well, admittedly you don’t like to mix with a candidate for failure.”
“You’re wrong,” said Weinberg calmly. “I just don’t admire Lewy’s jokes as much as you do.”
“Then you’re an arse-licker like the rest of them!” Kurt’s indignation was growing. He felt a hit had been scored on him. It was a fact that Lewy impressed him; he just didn’t want to admit it. Now he was hearing it.
Weinberg shook his head. “You’re crazy. Do you want to be on a par with Lewy?”
“On a par with Lewy—on a par!” Kurt mimicked him furiously. “Wonderful rhetoric, that! You ought to be a class teacher!”
Weinberg obviously had no intention of continuing this argument, and indeed did no such thing, but sat in silence through the next lesson. In secret, Kurt had hoped he might say more—but Weinberg was consistent. Kurt envied him that.
And he was not the only one he envied. In a way they were all superior to him. All of them sitting here had a sense of direction. Just one. Even the ultimate crawler went in something like a straight line, even if it led him to lick the professor’s arse. He was a crawler, that was why.
And what about him, Kurt Gerber? What was he? Did he think he was above such things? There was hardly a student in the class who wouldn’t have claimed the same for himself.
But he had to prove it, prove it!
I, Kurt Gerber, will prove it. They can give me as many Unsatisfactories as they like, and I’ll just laugh. Ha, ha, ha.
Then Hippo will stand up and say: “I’m laughing too, or rather I would be laughing if—. But there you are, no one gives me an Unsatisfactory. Just my luck.”
And anyway, are you really laughing, Kurt Gerber?
Don’t you ever sit at home for hours and hours on end, studying, studying, studying?
Why?
Because you must, Kurt Gerber. Let’s drop the pretence that it’s not worthwhile. If you’ve been sitting around here for seven years, you want to end the eighth with a success. Obviously. And if you don’t know enough to do that, then you must just learn it, and that’s that.
Yes—but then you must study hard, really study hard. Are you studying hard?
No, you are not. Only too often you’re too lazy, or you feel too indifferent, or you have some other empty reason to back out of it, and then you’ll get Unsatisfactory, and you’ll imagine you’re a martyr to your own temperament. A dismal pretence.
Haven’t you ever found yourself, having intentionally done no preparation, making efforts to pass a test all the same? You suddenly take fright in break, and you begin swotting it all up, and getting the students you despise to slip you answers during the test, don’t you? And if none of that is enough, and the professor has told you to go and sit down—have you never regretted it, Kurt Gerber? Haven’t you ever gone pleading to a professor, and haven’t you felt flattered by the different tone of voice he adopted in such a private conversation?
Yes, you’ve done all that. And much more. You’re a spineless poseur, Kurt Gerber.
Moral platitudes? The others don’t do any better? Success is what carries weight. Have you succeeded, then?
No, you have not. And as you’re not stupid, there must be some other reason.
They wish you ill. They have the souls of petty tradesmen, so they persecute you with hatred and disfavour. They are unjust. That’s it.
There’s something fine about being hated by everyone. Then at least you’ve succeeded in one way, in your own estimation.
But you haven’t even done that, Kurt Gerber. Even, did I say? As though there could be any greater success!
You’re always excusing one kind of failure by another, Kurt Gerber, and then vice versa again. You’re playing a pitiful game. You lack backbone, composure, honesty. You despise school, do you? It’s yourself you ought to be despising…
And Kurt did begin to doubt himself. He felt he was the most degenerate person in the world, worthless, useless, superfluous, unable to do anything for himself or anyone else.
Or for anyone else? Was that necessarily true? Maybe doing something for others might help him, too? That was supposed to be the incentive for rendering almost any kind of aid: afterwards you could say, “See how powerful I am! I can help people!” Altruism as deception, pleasing in the eyes of God. Even the most anonymous would-be benefactor turns his eyes to heaven: maybe someone up there has noticed… Yes, well, long ago Kurt had been able to devote himself to the interests of those who had suffered some kind of injustice. A mistaken admonishment, perhaps not really given with any bad feeling, an entry in the register for which the professor concerned could answer in any forum, a sharp word, an unfair mark: ah, then Kurt Gerber stood up and fought to the last, took blame on himself without another thought, and without another thought made someone else’s cause his own. Because he did it for the cause.
But now he would fight for himself, now he wanted to show that he was right. If it was also for the cause, well, that was a nice extra, and he would pat himself on the back afterwards: hey, look, we’re in this together.
As for the others, however, the reptiles who made all this possible in the first place, they wouldn’t spot the difference, they wouldn’t notice, appreciatively, that even if no one had asked Kurt Gerber to intervene in any way, he had done what he could…
If Borchert had not also been teaching German at this time, standing in for Mattusch, who was off sick, it would all probably have turned out differently. As things were, however, the timetable for that day had German from nine to ten, and French from eleven to twelve.
Borchert’s vanity led him to all kinds of extravagant fancies, and the eighth-year students, whom he was teaching only as a substitute, did not go along with them as he wished. They didn’t take him seriously when he taught this subject, they even mocked him slightly. Borchert had soon had enough of this, his highly strung nerves brought him to the verge of hysteria; and suddenly, before most of the class realized what was going on, an argument between the Professor and Schleich, not usually a pugnacious student, had degenerated into a shouting match. Borchert descended to vulgar abuse, Schleich rejected his remarks vigorously, threatening to complain to the Headmaster, and Borchert, now entirely out of control, responded with more abuse. Schleich tried getting past him and marching to the door. Borchert, whose twinkling eyes looked extremely comic in his scarlet face, barred his way. Whether Schleich had tried to push him away was not to be ascertained—but at any rate he suddenly got a resounding slap in the face. The class was baffled, and even more baffled when Schleich turned without a word and went back to his desk. Borchert, pale and trembling, laboriously went on until the end of the lesson, and concluded it when the bell began to ring.
The class was in turmoil. Some of the students were offering to go to the Headmaster with Schleich at once, but Schleich himself resisted the idea; he had changed his mind, h
e said, it would probably be better if he sent his father to do it. He could say no more, because all the others were giving their own advice at the top of their voices. Kurt tried to calm the tumult down a little, and since the eighth-year students—as he discovered to his surprise and pleasure—would still listen to him on such matters, he succeeded. But then the bell rang, and old Professor Prochaska entered the classroom.
One thing was certain: something had to happen in the next lesson. From time to time Kurt thought that all eyes were fixed on him, and it went through his mind, again and again, that they expected something of him. Yes, action of some kind was called for; the eighth year must show that they wanted something out of that damn rite of passage the imminent Matura besides just the duty to swot for it. Now or never!
How different this was. There was no sign now of the petty self-interest that he had expected to govern his conduct. Whether it had really gone away or only retreated far inside him he didn’t know. Nor did he stop to think about it; it was all the same at this point. Full of an impetuous desire for action, he surveyed his troops.
Prochaska was standing at the front of the class, as usual, between the two front rows of desks, supporting himself on them and leaning slightly forward as he ploughed through the details of the new Bohemian constitution of 1627. The students in the front rows were busily writing it all down, in the middle rows they were just taking brief notes and at the back of the class no one was taking any notice of what the old man said—the seating order there also changed with every lesson, and with his poor eyesight Prochaska didn’t notice a thing. Today, for instance, Altschul and Lewy were sitting side by side, their heads propped on their hands, and in a melancholy mood setting out the chessmen of a travelling chess set. In line with an unspoken agreement, they always played game openings that forced them to exchange pawns at once, so that the absence of two pawns each wouldn’t impede the rest of the game. Rimmel and Sittig were solving crossword puzzles, Kaulich had his legs stretched out and was almost lounging at his desk; Mertens was reading a fat book which he had concealed, with excessive foresight, under his atlas, so that he had to lift the atlas whenever he wanted to turn a page, and a French textbook, a French dictionary and a book of exercises and lists of vocabulary lay on Severin’s desk. He was obviously doing French homework ready for Borchert. Kurt remembered that he, too, had really meant to spend this lesson in the same way, that he should really be doing French exercises now—but wouldn’t it be shameful, when a man had slapped your comrade’s face so recently, to try impressing the same man with what you knew in the next lesson?
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