To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  He squeezes my shoulder and I clamber out of the sidecar, then he roars off. But I draw comfort from his words. Max died a hero’s death.

  And now? Do I still believe that? What would Pietro think?

  Max died like a poor animal. He was defending his country, that’s true, but there was nothing brave or glorious about it. He would never have chosen to die that way. One moment he had a face, the next he didn’t. In the end he was killed by a German soldier. His death achieved nothing.

  The whole thing was madness, madness from beginning to end. Children against airplanes and tanks. The soft, pale flesh of children against hard, cold steel. Sacrifice on an unimaginable scale to sate the ambition of a nation. Yes, truly a form of madness. And yet, and yet, might there not still have been something heroic about it? Heroic not despite the madness, but because of it?

  Chapter 21

  ‘YOU CERTAINLY have a story here. You must decide what you want to do with it; that will determine your angle.’

  I am sitting in Doutor Monteiro’s office in the University’s Media Studies faculty. There are no windows but the office is spacious. The walls are lined with bookshelves. Propped on top of the bookshelves are a number of Doutor Monteiro’s awards. Some are plaques with his name on them, others are small sculptures. One is an amazingly kitsch pink porcelain unicorn, or maybe it’s a joke. Monteiro himself is a small man with leathery skin and crows’ feet. His hair is grey but thick and his blue eyes are bright and energetic.

  ‘If you want to use this for your dissertation, then I suggest that you focus on the mechanics of the Hitler Youth – the initiation, the selection process, that sort of thing. Keep it factual, back up the interview with research and plenty of references, and you’ll get a good grade. However, if you want to get something published in a newspaper, then you will have to tie it in more directly to Senhor Eisinger’s own life and pitch it in relation to the incident in the shop. But if you want to make some money from this, well, then you really have to look to television. I could put you in touch with someone in television.’

  I feel my pulse begin to quicken. ‘Really?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I know Doutor Raposo well. He owes me a favour. Well, more than one.’ Monteiro frowns as he says this.

  ‘Doutor Raposo? From Histórias Humanas?’

  ‘Yes. But you will want to be very careful in your dealings with him.’ I expect Doutor Moneiro to continue, but he appears to think better of it and remains silent.

  ‘Why?’ I prompt.

  Monteiro’s silence lengthens. He seems lost in thought. Eventually he says, ‘Doutor Raposo is a shark. Don’t be fooled by his show – he is only out for himself.’

  I have seen Doutor Raposo’s show. It airs on the History Channel. Dr. Raposo conducts an in-depth television interview that sheds light on some little known or controversial aspect of the past. There is always a scandal uncovered, a sense of righting past wrongs. I have seen him interview elderly indios from the jungle who describe how their land was taken from them by the government in the 50s, before the rights of natives were properly protected. I also saw a more recent show in which he interviewed a senior politician who is also one of Brazil’s biggest landowners. Dr. Raposo accused him of using slave labour on his plantations. It caused quite a stir.

  ‘I know you want this to be about the Hitler Youth and Siegfried and the freedom of the press in Germany, and those are all interesting subjects. Maybe Dr. Raposo will go for it – he is an intelligent man, after all. However, when Brazilians think about the Hitler Youth, they think of the war criminals who escaped here. They think of Dr. Mengele, Adolf Eichmann, Klaus Barbie. Dr. Raposo, and the mass media in general, is not in the business of correcting misconceptions; he gives the viewers what they want. If he scents blood with your Seu Otto, then he will be ruthless. Don’t think that you will be able to protect him.’

  ‘But Seu Otto is being celebrated as a hero,’ I say. ‘Did you see him attack the gunman in the shop?’

  ‘I did see that. And you are right, if the viewers want a hero, that is what Dr. Raposo will give them. But he will require Senhor Eisinger to comply absolutely. If he doesn’t, it could get unpleasant for him.’

  I cannot see why anyone would want to cast Seu Otto in a bad light, why anyone would want to bully him. Everyone has seen how brave he is. And, with a little patience, he has been willing to share his deepest secrets Even if Dr. Raposo lacks that patience, I feel sure that I will be able to provide it.

  ‘You could make a tidy sum with this interview, I don’t deny that,’ says Monteiro. ‘And it could certainly open up some doors for you once you graduate.’

  ‘And you would be willing to put me in touch with Dr. Raposo?’

  ‘Yes. But shouldn’t you speak to Senhor Eisinger first, just to make sure he knows what he is letting himself in for?’

  ‘I don’t need to do that,’ I say. ‘Senhor Eisinger wants his story to be told – the truth behind his best friend’s death and the censorship of the expedition.’

  I hear my own fine-sounding words. But am I telling the truth? Is that really what Seu Otto wants? Or is it just what I want him to want? Doutor Monteiro looks searchingly at me. He allows the silence to build. The silence makes me feel uncomfortable. Eventually he says, ‘Well, Pietro, you must know how things stand with Senhor Eisinger. I will leave all that to you. No journalist ever got anywhere without ambition. I would be happy to arrange a meeting between you and Dr. Raposo.’

  *

  I leave Doutor Monteiro’s office and make my way to the campus carpark. The sun is shining and I walk past a group of girls in short skirts who smell like mint tic-tacs. Usually this would make me feel happy to be alive, but for some reason it doesn’t.

  Doutor Monteiro says that I could make up to ten thousand reais for this interview, so long as Dr. Raposo accepts my role as a co-producer. Even splitting that 50/50 with Seu Otto, it would solve all my current financial difficulties. And yet I feel no joy. Maybe I am apprehensive because I still need to get Seu Otto’s consent. Of course, the money will not mean as much to him as it does to me. He may not wish to offer up his own past in exchange for financial gain; he has enough as it is. Maybe I shouldn’t mention the money at all. But then how do I get him to agree to be interviewed?

  Didn’t Seu Otto say that the hardest part was not being able to tell people what really happened on the Matterhorn? He was forced to lie to his friends, to let them believe that Siggi died of pneumonia when in fact he had climbed solo to the summit. But isn’t this interview the perfect platform for Seu Otto to announce the truth to the world? Even though there’s probably no one left alive who knew Siggi, it is the principle that matters. The truth will be out there, and it will be thanks to Seu Otto.

  Chapter 22

  I WOKE up late the following morning. Sunlight fanned across the floor of the ward. I had slept very deeply. I didn’t remember falling asleep but it must have been some time during the afternoon. I certainly did not remember being awake at dinner. Nor did I even remember saying goodbye to Pietro, or how we had left things. Then I caught sight of the intravenous morphine drip still hanging above my head. It was empty. I must have finished it all during Pietro’s visit. No wonder the details were hazy in my mind.

  ‘E finalmente,’ came a voice from across the room. ‘You sleep like a baby.’

  I looked around. The patient who had been on my side of the room had gone; the bed was empty. However, the gaunt man opposite – the one who had devoured the tasteless feijão – was staring at me with interest.

  ‘Bom dia,’ I said.

  ‘Boa tarde,’ he replied with the smugness of those who have woken long before you.

  I looked at my watch. The man was right, it was indeed past midday. It was many years since I’d slept past midday. And even now I did not feel fully awake. My limbs were very heavy. At the same time it dawned on me that the pain in my hip was no more than a dull ache. Really it had been a most beneficent night’s sl
eep.

  The long conversation with Pietro must have tired me. Although the details were hazy, I knew that I had now told him more about my life than I had ever told anyone. I began to feel a little uncomfortable about this.

  My sense of uneasiness was cut short by the arrival in rapid succession of Fernanda, Anna-Maria and Dr. da Silva. Within moments there was a little crowd around my bed. Dr. da Silva informed me that the bandage would now have to be removed from my head since my first hour of physiotherapy was scheduled for that afternoon and I would need my other eye to help me balance. Fernanda immediately began untying the bandage with the result that my head was within dangerous proximity to her voluminous bust and I feared for the access to my airways. Anna-Maria busied herself straightening the bed sheets and piling even more cards and letters on the table beside my bed. I didn’t notice the arrival of the physiotherapist until Dr. da Silva introduced her to me – she was a small, mousy woman called Linda Pereira.

  The removal of the head bandage did not live up to my expectations. My eye was still so swollen that I was unable to see any more than a faint luminous blur through it. However, I was aware that Dr. da Silva, Fernanda, Anna-Maria and Linda Pereira had all taken a step back to evaluate my damaged physiognomy. Anna-Maria appeared a little shocked – I could see that with my good eye – but in general the consensus appeared to be that the swelling was going down and the injury healing satisfactorily.

  Fernanda and Linda Pereira together lifted me into a wheelchair that had been brought to my bed. I was astonished at how strong Linda Pereira was, despite her slim frame. She began to wheel me out of the ward and told Anna-Maria that a nurse would bring me back from my first session in an hour. She wheeled me along the corridor, into the lift and out again, through the lobby and the crowded waiting room.

  As we entered the waiting room I had the distinct impression that a hush descended. There was a television mounted in the far corner of the room showing a football match. Most people’s attention was fixed on this. There was one young family right at the back who seemed particularly interested in the game. However, when one of their boys caught sight of me, he started tugging on his father’s shirt and whispered something in his ear. The man pretended to scan the room; his eyes alighted briefly on me, then he whispered in his wife’s ear. A few seconds later she turned round, also pretending to scan the room. Their attention soon returned to the football match and only the youngest of their children stole another furtive glance in my direction. This time I nodded my head ever so slightly towards him, a gesture that he seemed to appreciate. He beamed delightedly at me and I realised that, within the walls of this hospital at least, people knew who I was.

  I also had the impression that Linda Pereira was pushing the wheelchair very slowly through the waiting room, in what was almost a stately manner. Once we were outside she sped up considerably. I had not been outside since the fight. I found myself enjoying the warm sunshine and the sight of green bushes and palm trees, which cast a pleasant shade on the gravel paths along which I was now hurtling. I asked Linda Pereira to slow down.

  ‘Of course Seu Otto.’ Then she added, ’O seu nome, your name – Otto Eisinger – what does it mean?’

  ‘What do you mean, what does it mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, what do the words mean? My name, for example, means beautiful pear tree.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose it does.’ This suddenly struck me as very amusing. I did not want to offend the poor beautiful pear tree who was still whisking me along the gravel path at breakneck speed, but at the same time I found it hard to restrain my laughter. It was a sensation I had not had for, well, for a very long time. In the end I was unable to stifle the sound, but it came out in so contorted a fashion that Linda Pereira thought I was choking and slapped me forcefully on the back. This distracted me sufficiently for my phlegmatic nature to re-establish itself.

  ‘I’m afraid my name doesn’t mean anything,’ I said. ‘It’s just a name, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, but a famous name,’ replied Linda Pereira.

  ‘Yes, perhaps. Famous once again.’

  *

  During my first hour of physiotherapy, I realised that I would have to learn to walk all over again. The healthy do not realise the true complexity of the most mundane actions. But Linda Pereira turned out to be a very patient, gentle and encouraging physiotherapist. The even, dignified stride I now possess is in no small part due to her. Despite the difficulties and challenges of the rehabilitation programme, I never dreaded the sessions in the way that, I have heard, other patients do.

  *

  Anna-Maria was waiting for me back in the ward. In her hand she was holding her portable telephone, cradling it as if it were a Fabergé egg.

  ‘I have just spoken to Pietro,’ she said. ‘He would like to talk to you. I told him to call back in half an hour.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  ‘Will you speak to him?’ pursued Anna-Maria.

  ‘If I’m not asleep by then.’

  ‘But it is only 3 o’clock.’

  ‘My sleep patterns have become very irregular.’

  ‘You need to come home,’ pronounced Anna-Maria.

  I was about to point out to her the impracticalities of her suggestion, but then I remembered my study with its books and the perfect grass just outside the window and beyond that the fishermen wading out to the oyster nets in the bay, and I suddenly felt a great desire to return to Sambaqui.

  ‘Yes, maybe I do,’ I said.

  ‘Dr. da Silva says you can leave tomorrow if you wish, so long as you come to the hospital daily for your therapy.’

  ‘Anna Maria, I think you are right. I think it is time to go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Please make the necessary preparations, and inform Valdemar that I shall be examining the lawn the day after tomorrow. I believe he ought to be fertilising at the end of this week.’

  At that moment Anna-Maria’s portable telephone shattered the peace with its strident ring.

  She took one look at the phone and announced, ‘It’s Pietro.’ I have always believed in woman’s superior intuition; nevertheless, the confidence with which she proclaimed this amazed me.

  ‘Pietro, um momento, here is Seu Otto,’ she said, opening the phone and passing it to me.

  ‘Seu Otto,’ said Pietro, ‘please allow me to apologise. I must have exhausted you yesterday morning. Avó said you slept all yesterday afternoon and up until midday today.’

  ‘Não tem problema,’ I said. ‘I slept extremely well and tomorrow I shall be going home. I feel much better.’

  ‘That is wonderful.’

  ‘Pietro, I have enjoyed our conversations, or what I remember of them. My memories are a little hazy, I must confess. Nevertheless, when I am back home and fully recovered you must come by and we can discuss more cheerful things.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember I told you I was going to speak to my professor? Well, he thinks this is a great story. He said that the suppression of the truth behind Siggi’s death and the strangling of free speech is a theme full of contemporary resonance. And my professor is friends with Doutor Raposo, the producer of Histórias Humanas on the History Channel. He’s going to put me in touch with Doutor Raposo; if we sell him your story then maybe he’ll give me a job when I graduate. And he would pay well for an interview with you. History Channel is owned by Rede Globo so money is–’

  ‘Basta Pietro, that is enough.’ I had begun to feel increasingly uncomfortable as I listened to Pietro’s little speech. ‘I do not wish to make money from Siggi’s death,’ I said.

  Pietro was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘Of course, I understand that. But Seu Otto, you would be letting the world know the truth. Didn’t you say that the worst thing about it was that you weren’t allowed to talk about what really happened? Well, now you can tell the world: Siggi didn’t die of pneumonia. He climbed the Matterhorn all by himself.’

&
nbsp; Pietro did have a point.

  ‘Don’t you think this is what Siggi would have wanted?’

  Again, I couldn’t deny that there was truth in what Pietro was saying. But still, the idea of talking about Siggi’s death on public television didn’t feel right.

  ‘And you would be helping me,’ said Pietro. ‘It’s a very competitive industry. This could be my big break.’

  Again I didn’t reply. Pietro went on:

  ‘Please, Seu Otto, just think it over. But I was phoning for another reason too – I would like to invite you to judge a surfing competition next Sunday at Praia Joaquina. My friends are organising it and the hero of Sambaqui would be the guest of honour.’

  ‘Well, thank you Pietro, I am flattered. But I know nothing about surfing.’

  ‘Não se preocupe, Seu Otto. I’ll explain everything to you. Please do come. I have discussed it with the organisers and they were delighted that you might be there. It’s great if we can get someone famous to judge the event – it means more publicity and more spectators. So please, at least think about it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Pietro.’

  Chapter 23

  THE FOLLOWING day I went home with Anna-Maria. She wheeled me carefully out of the hospital to a waiting van. The driver opened the sliding door and pushed a button which caused a small platform to be lowered to the ground, rather like the lifts on the back of removal lorries. I was wheeled onto the platform that then raised me to the floor of the van – an ingenious system.

  Once back at home I spent the rest of the day in my study, dozing intermittently. With Anna-Maria’s help I was able to climb the stairs to my bedroom. I do not think I cut an elegant figure, wedged between the banister and her ample behind, but her own sturdy legs inspired confidence and those first few days back in my own home passed without mishap.