How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  We must do that, said Helmuth firmly. See you soon, Franz.

  When Ulrich left the restaurant he could not remember if he had shaken hands with Franz.

  Our Franz, Helmuth announced solemnly when they were all seated in the car, is building a model city with matchsticks. Then, seeing his look of amusement: It’s a replica of the camp Durst.

  I find it gruesome, said Anna. Don’t you? Inexplicably gruesome and grotesque.

  You could have told me that he was working in Brumholdstein as a waiter, Ulrich said.

  What? And spoil your surprise?

  .

  7

  One need only stand on the outskirts of Brumholdstein to get a pretty good idea of what is yet to come. Rows and rows of tall, solidly built brick buildings with balconies and automatic elevators and shiny aluminum sliding window frames and flat roofs on which people—if they so wish—can sunbathe, and underground garages for the new cars, and very tall street lights that cast an eerie bright light on the street, and a sports arena, and a second power plant, and another shopping center. For miles around Brumholdstein there is nothing but a bleak, desiccated landscape consisting of scruffy-looking trees and neglected fields with high-tension wires overhead dissecting the undulating countryside and its few farms. But things are improving. Things are about to change. Here and there huge mounds of excavated earth mark the tentative beginning of a new project. Though many such undertakings are often inexplicably dropped, with the dug-out pits as a result turning into pools of stagnant brown water during the rainy season. The more rugged hilly region lies to the north. The larger and more prosperous farms are to the east. Mostly potato, cabbage, beet, and livestock. The dour farmers continue to regard Brumholdstein, despite its affluence, as an ominously alien presence and its modernism as a pernicious influence on their children. Still, they do not object at all to selling their produce to Brumholdstein. In twenty years, if not less, Brumholdstein will have grown to four or five times its present size, until ultimately, the people in Daemling predict, it will swallow them.

  Most of the cars speeding along the new highway are coming or returning from Brumholdstein. For the world at large the first mention of Brumholdstein to appear was in a guidebook in 1959. To begin with, Brumholdstein was considered a somewhat dubious and questionable architectural undertaking. But by now, whenever it is referred to in a book, which is happening with greater and greater frequency, it is regarded as a tremendous success, a venture that is, one might say, gradually entering German history as well as German consciousness, and in time this city, designed and built by Germans, will actively participate in the unique set of events that continue to shape this nation. The city is named after Brumhold. But how many know that? And how many who do have ever picked up a book by the eminent philosopher? For that matter, how many recognize in his name the unique history of German meditative thinking?

  Most of the people in Daemling—with the natural exclusion of the recently arrived foreign workers—remember Brumholdstein when it was still called Durst, and when, with only one or two exceptions, the trains to Durst would speed through Daemling without stopping. They came and went, sometimes as many as fifteen a day in either direction. Fifteen endlessly long trains traveling at a pretty fast pace, given the age of the rails and other safety factors, clippedy-clop, clippedy-clop, clippedy-clop, on their way to or coming from the railroad juncture. The only evidence of life on the passing trains was an occasional scarecrow face framed in the tiny cutout window of a freight car. A face whose eyes were riveted on the stationmaster, or on anyone who may have been watching the passing train, establishing a brief second of eye contact. Once in a while, the scarecrow face of a man or woman would be seen shaping, with its mouth a word, or several words. It could have been “Where?” or “When?” or “Why?” Some people in Daemling maintained that thousands upon thousands of people were being shipped to Durst. What they would do there was anyone’s guess. Work at the I.G. Farben plant? Who knows? Best not to ask. Best not to pry into this matter.

  Brumhold would have been the first to acknowledge that the word “idea” stems from the Greek … and in Greek it means to “see” or “face” or to be “face to face.” And doubtlessly, he also would have acknowledged that one, for example, could get a fairly accurate picture of Brumholdstein without actually taking the trouble to visit it. One need only pick up a pocket atlas, preferably one published after 1963, and locate Brumholdstein on one of the many small maps to get a fairly accurate idea of what it must look like. A small but rapidly growing new urban center, not quite a town and not yet ready to be called a city. New buildings inhabited by new people who had moved to Brumholdstein from the larger overpopulated cities in order to be closer to the countryside and live in a community with better schools and fewer foreigners and new job opportunities. The inhabitants, their average age is twenty-nine, all share the same concerns. They are concerned with the quality of education and standards of air pollution and the problem of crime and alcoholism and the quality of the medical care, that is to say good doctors and good medical facilities, and they all are pleased with the close proximity of the mountains, the skiing in the winter, the fishing and boating and swimming the rest of the year. Not to overlook the wide variety of entertainment, the monthly opera, the theater, the latest American films. Essentially, these are the things most Germans strive for, but the people of Brumholdstein, being largely managerial, professional, middle class, and better educated, more articulate and quicker to voice their dissatisfactions or, at any rate, quicker to acknowledge and formulate their dissatisfactions, are in a better position to obtain what they want—within certain limitations, of course.

  The people who live in Brumholdstein, which is—now that the new highway has finally been completed—only twenty minutes by car from Daemling, are always quick to voice their democratic opinion that nothing in the world prevented the people in Daemling from coming to Brumholdstein to attend the weekly chamber music concerts of Mozart, Vivaldi, Haydn, or performances of the Gloriana Opera, now playing Hugel Kaminstein’s The Dream of All Nations, or the lecture series on the excavations in Outer Mongolia by Professor Paulus Herdner, or the performance of the Braudwitz Puppet Theater, or the annual Foreign Film Festival with works by Polanski, Fellini, Bergman, and Ford. Yet for some reason the people in Daemling prefer to seek their entertainment elsewhere. They avoid Brumholdstein, unless they happen to work there, they avoid the cheerful-looking casually well-dressed young people in their brand new homes, they avoid their outdoor festivals, their dances in the new school’s auditorium. If it comes to dancing, they prefer their own rundown dance hall. They may work five or six days a week in Brumholdstein, but no one can compel them to like the place.

  The old-timers in Daemling still speak of Durst with a certain nostalgia, but it is not the Durst of the war, but the Durst of the ’50s. Who would have dreamed that only twenty years later dozens of eight- and nine-story buildings and two-story garden apartments would replace the efficient grouping of the military barracks and the vast warehouse complex that had been protected by two and sometimes even three rows of (formerly electrified) barbed-wire fences, with the railroad station, the only building still left standing, equidistant to the barracks and the former I.G. Farben plant, which was destroyed shortly before the end of the war. It had been a huge complex of buildings, including tennis courts, officers’ mess, officers’ recreation rooms, several prisons, two gas ovens, a crematorium, also several huge kitchens, a bakery, and the omnipresent watchtowers, made of wood, all now gone, except for the empty and desolate-looking railroad station and the rusting tracks overgrown with weeds.

  How could anyone have envisioned what was to come. The city hall with its green glass exterior, or the colorful fountain in the sunken-tiled courtyard of the civic center, or the special accoustics in the symphony hall, or the Olympic-size indoor swimming pool, or the special walk for dog owners, or the bridle path, or the marble exterior of the museum now under constru
ction, to be named, as the town was named, after Germany’s greatest contemporary thinker, Ernst Brumhold.

  In the early ’50s Durst was still a favorite meeting place for the kids. By that time it was easy to enter the camp, since the barbed wire had been cut in numerous places and there were only two elderly, easygoing guards assigned to watch over the property; and since both men were from Daemling, they did not raise a fuss if the kids, who also came from Daemling, used the old parade ground, some say it was the prisoners’ assembly area, to play soccer. By then most of the buildings that had remained standing were missing windows and doors, and the walls were covered with graffiti, but not a single word painted on the gray wooden slats referred in any way to the past or to anything even remotely political.

  For the kids going to Durst was an adventure. Once in a while the police would drive slowly through the abandoned grounds, headlights ablaze, simply to show a presence. But already by that time everything that had not been bolted or nailed to the ground had disappeared. All that was left were the buildings and the former electrified fences and several guard towers with the old rickety ladders just able to carry the weight of a twelve-year-old. The sides of the barracks were strewn with smashed bottles, broken electrical fixtures, and debris. All the apertures, doors and windows, were nailed shut, but that did not prevent the kids from entering the buildings. In the early ’50s people from Daemling still drove to Durst whenever they needed lumber for that extra room or wood for the furnace. And the kids. They were everywhere one looked. Some liked it so much they even spent their nights there as well.

  Durst, of course, is listed in the catalogue in the new library in Brumholdstein. After all Durst was, so to speak, Brumholdstein’s antecedent. However, there are no books to be found on Durst. And Durst, accordingly, has no official history; that is to say, no one has as yet taken the trouble to assemble it in any coherent form. Not that anyone has tried to hide or conceal the fact—a futile task really—that it had been a forced labor camp for God knows how many thousands of foreigners, aliens, prisoners of war, political detainees, and other undesirables, including, of course, Jews, who presented a clear threat to the continued survival of Germany. Some claim that almost the entire population of inmates consisted of Jews. All this had been amply documented, and some of the material is even available upon request by scholars at the library. After all, what are libraries for? They are repositories of information. Durst is even mentioned in books on Brumholdstein but, with one or two exceptions, only as a point of reference. Durst, the former railroad juncture built in 1875, enlarged in 1915, and further enlarged in 1937 shortly after the Durst labor camp was constructed. The critical date for Durst remains 1956, when the giant bulldozers arrived to level the camp and huge trailer trucks came to haul away the gas ovens and other machinery for scrap metal. The library in Brumholdstein carries the complete, revised 1974 edition of Brumhold’s work, it has also an extensive collection of books on the Second World War, but nothing on Durst is on the shelves, since Durst, as the librarian will explain, was by comparison with other concentration camps quite small and in terms of the number of people it contained quite insignificant. It should be pointed out that in the opinion of people in Brumholdstein, the Germans were not the only ones to blame for the death camp. For if the Americans and the English did not approve of these death camps and the so-called extermination policy, why didn’t they lift a finger to prevent the shipment of people and material to the camps? It is a farcical argument. The library also prides itself on its extensive collection of atlases, maps, and guidebooks, all of which are much in demand—Germans being avid travelers and explorers. As yet, however, there is only a single guidebook on Brumholdstein. It was written by the principal of the high school, Hermann Venreich. Published in 1972, it is less than comprehensive, although it contains several maps and a number of illustrations. It also lists the more prominent inhabitants as well as the architects and planners who worked long hours to meet the January 1962 deadline for the completion of the first group of houses. Mentioned are the physicist Klinkert, the portrait painter Ilse Hubner, the authors Linfor, Albert and his wife Ilge, who write mysteries, and Bernard Feig, the author of eighteen books of travel and adventure. Bernard Feig is our hope for the future, the mayor, Albert Kahnsitz-Lese, once remarked at a dinner for the local chapter of the V.D.S. (Verband Deutscher Schriftsteller). His novels, the mayor said, are not immersed in the past, and the characters in his books are all happily free of that all too familiar obsession with the 1940–45 period of our life. Great applause.

  .

  8

  There is no reason why I should not be able to get anything I want in Brumholdstein, Helmuth complacently told his brother. And he was right. Everyone was prepared to make that additional effort to please Helmuth, to provide him with the cigars he liked, the imported wines, the shirts, the Bally shoes, the foreign magazines, the records, the cakes and pastries, everything that made life a bit more tolerable. All he had to do was say the word, and the shopkeepers would move mountains. No wonder that after only a few weeks in Brumholdstein he felt at home. As if he had lived here all his life. In fact, the people here were much more solicitous, much more attentive to his needs than they were in Würtenburg.

  12:30 lunch at the Pflaume. Helmuth did not select the Pflaume because of Franz but because it was by far the best restaurant in town. Lunch, a serious matter. Helmuth and he met at the mayor’s office. The mayor pointed out on a map for Ulrich’s benefit the location of the museum his brother was building and the location of the city hall. 12:20. Time to go. A little joke with a sexual innuendo for the benefit of the mayor’s secretary, who ate at her desk. Yogurt. A wedge of cheese. An apple. Everyone was still laughing, good-humored laughter, when they left the mayor’s outer office. Good crew, said the mayor. Good humor, remarked Ulrich. Helmuth and the mayor laughed at this. Ulrich understood this to be part of the daily ritual. Jokes, obliging laughter.

  They crossed the square. Helmuth in the center. Helmuth the tallest. And Helmuth not the mayor was the first to enter the Pflaume. Ulrich close behind the broad straight back of the mayor, halting only briefly to speak to Franz. Has it really been fifteen years? Ja, Herr von Hargenau. I was just telling Doris … Large wood-paneled dining rooms, waiters in spotless white rolling dining carts from the kitchen. The headwaiter inclined his head. They were expected. Table set for three. Half a dozen bright red roses in the center. The somber, almost grave attitude of the diners suggested the total seriousness with which food was being consumed in the spacious dining area illuminated by five enormous crystal chandeliers. The mayor, Helmuth, and Ulrich carefully studied the large menus, while Franz, their faithful Franz, attentively hovered at Helmuth’s left, prepared to offer suggestions should these be requested. It was Ulrich’s second encounter with Franz. Could he really find nothing to say to him?

  On first seeing Ulrich enter the Pflaume, Franz had rushed forward, greeting him effusively. But it was lunchtime, and Franz was less relaxed, for he was under the sharp eyes of the headwaiter. We have been eagerly looking forward to your return, Herr von Hargenau, he said somewhat stiffly. We? Ulrich tried to remember the man in the red suspenders sitting at their large kitchen table. He tried to remember the name of Franz’s wife. And your dear wife? Well, I hope?

  Franz had the sense, or was it tact, not to inquire after Ulrich’s wife.

  They took their time selecting what they would like to eat. There were even one or two last-minute changes. No, no. I think I’ll have what the mayor is having, but not the string beans. When Franz finally left with their orders they knew he could be relied upon to look after their interests, to pass the word to the kitchen staff: It’s for the mayor’s table, or did he say, Hargenau …? In any event, afterward, they—that is, the mayor and Helmuth—resumed their conversation on boar hunting. Hunting the wild boar? As far as Ulrich could remember, Helmuth, like himself, had been a most indifferent hunter: the Hargenaus were far too finicky to be anyth
ing but reluctant participants at these blood sports. But now—was it to please the mayor?—Helmuth spoke rhapsodically of their past outings in the forest. Helmuth even maintained that Ulrich had been a good shot. Helmuth looked at him, smiling broadly, challenging him to dispute the statement. Daring Ulrich to contradict him. And the mayor? Did he sense anything wrong? No … not in the least. It was taken for granted that Ulrich would also share the thrill of following a wounded boar, with pounding heart following the spoor of blood, and then, on cornering the animal threshing in the undergrowth, that unforgettable moment of triumph as the animal’s forehead was shattered by the gunblast.

  Helmuth turned his attention to the wine list. He studied it with a frown. Their help was enlisted, but they, the mayor and Ulrich, were able to offer few suggestions. They were only too glad to accept his selection. They gave their approval. Excellent. Yes, ’73 was a good year. A solid year. They turned to watch the wine steward approach with the bottle, present it label upward to Helmuth, then with great care proceed to uncork it. A painless performance. Helmuth tasted the wine. Clearly, Ulrich concluded, their table must have been reserved in Helmuth’s name, not in the mayor’s.

  A very precise man, his brother. Precise and demanding. But also affable—teeth showing as he smiled winningly at everyone, too winningly—and above all, a democrat. One must live in one’s time. Implying, so to speak, that we are all essentially the same under the skin. Bullshit. Helmuth mentioned having spoken to Franz about Durst. The mayor was at once on his guard. One did not, no matter what the circumstances, mention Durst in a crowded restaurant. The magic name of Durst. But disregarding the mayor’s silent appeal, his brother recalled having had a provocative exchange—that is what it was—with Franz. Yes, provocative. In that respect, Helmuth had always been without restraint. Fuck what other people think, as long as I find it amusing, or interesting, or rewarding. Helmuth had also been able to elicit from Franz, as he let it be known, what was generally disputed in Brumholdstein, namely that in Daemling, where Franz lived, people despised Brumholdstein. Now really, said the mayor. That is going too far! Well, resent then, said Helmuth, agreeably settling for a less forceful word. Why, we are their main source of revenue, protested the mayor. It’s too absurd. What can they possibly resent? The buildings, the middle class, the new opulence? Perhaps, offered Ulrich, resentment is interchangeable with envy?