How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  Whenever Franz addressed Helmuth, he appeared to be slightly flustered. It was as if he were desperately trying to think of something to say that might be of interest to Helmuth. But Helmuth had a way with people. Even complete strangers confided in him. But what are you after, Helmuth? Ulrich always wanted to ask. What is it that you hope to extract from them?

  Daily, Franz and Helmuth engaged in a ritual of greetings and the flurry of confidential exchanges so natural to waiters and their favorite diners: May I suggest the turbot? Or the veal? Or the stuffed pork filet in tarragon sauce? I would, if I may take the liberty of advising you, avoid today’s sauerbraten. And the potatoes are unfortunately a trifle soggy.

  Ahhh, we can’t have that. Soggy potatoes. Ha ha ha.

  Evidently his brother had accomplished within a short time what it takes others months if not years to do. A prominent table. The best. Henceforth considered the table of Herr Architect Doctor von Hargenau. True to form, Franz cannot relinquish their von.

  Well, bellowed Helmuth, as Franz leaned forward to remove the breadbasket, when are you going to have us over? When are you going to let us see your matchstick replica of Durst? And Franz, taken aback, flustered, his face turning red, replied in a conciliatory voice: But certainly, whenever you please. Whenever it is convenient for you and your brother to visit us. Then, feeling that the mayor might feel slighted, he turned to him apologetically. And most certainly, you too, sir.

  Perhaps Franz might wish to complete the project before having visitors, Ulrich said. The mayor agreed. Yes. Yes. Good idea. Nonsense, replied Helmuth. You must see it. Just think of it, a replica of something that stood where we are now sitting. An architectural replica of something we have effaced. Franz, tray in hand, beat a hasty retreat, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with another waiter.

  And how do you like the apartment where you are staying? the mayor asked Ulrich.

  Very comfortable.

  Good, said the mayor.

  I felt that it would give Ulrich so much more privacy, interjected Helmuth.

  Absolutely replied the mayor. Come and go as you please.

  Get up late in the morning, Ulrich said.

  Invite someone up at night, quipped Helmuth.

  The mayor laughed. Let us know when you are having a party.

  He’s too stealthy, said his brother. He keeps things to himself.

  Ahh, he doesn’t like to share.

  Share? Ulrich wouldn’t share a bar of chocolate with you, let alone a female.

  Are females to be shared? Ulrich inquired.

  There you are, said Helmuth. More laughter.

  The mayor turned his head slightly to see if they were being overheard.

  Now, to the serious side of business, said Helmuth, sternly looking at his brother. Are you having a slice of the Weintrauben-schnitten or the walnut cake? What do you suggest, Franz?

  Ja, Herr Ober, said the mayor. We are in your hands.

  A tiny smile disturbed the thin crease of Franz’s lips. A certain levity was called for. The gentlemen were discussing the merits of the chocolate mousse, the apple tart with cream, the mocha cream cake, the Sachertorte, and finally the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.

  What? You have a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte?

  The mayor, delighted at Ulrich’s surprise: You see, there’s more to Brumholdstein than first meets the eye.

  Franz, holding a small silver platter, stood at ramrod attention as they left.

  A demain, said Helmuth.

  À demain, sir, said Franz.

  I have a splitting headache, complained Helmuth after they left the Pflaume.

  Take the rest of the day off, suggested the mayor. Take Anna for a walk in the woods. He winked at Ulrich. It’s the best remedy.

  Well, I might follow your suggestion, Helmuth looked undecidedly at Ulrich. You’ll find something to do, won’t you?

  I intend to explore Brumholdstein.

  Wouldn’t you like someone to show you around? asked the mayor.

  That might be nice. Some other time perhaps.

  We would have you over for dinner, explained the mayor apologetically, but we’re having our house painted.

  That’s what I must do next, said Helmuth. Paint the place. There’s only one problem. I just can’t bear the smell of paint.

  They parted company in the square, each going his way. When Ulrich looked in the direction of the Pflaume, he saw Franz still standing in the entrance, staring at them. What is going through his mind? he wondered.

  .

  9

  What does Franz know?

  There is really no need for Franz’s next-door neighbors to look away and thereby avoid greeting him whenever he leaves the house, but they do. This he knows. He casually mentions it to his wife, Doris. He tells her, I do believe that our dear next-door neighbors are up to something. They must have a bad conscience about something they did or said, since whenever I see them they turn their faces away in order not to see me. In order not to look into my eyes. I haven’t seen their faces in over six months. Mind you, I don’t care to see their bloody faces. I don’t wish to see the smug contemptuous expression of self-satisfaction on their beer-bloated faces, but I do get the distinct impression that by turning their faces away they are trying to communicate something to me. I wonder what it could be?

  What did Doris reply? Doris did not say much, knowing how excitable he could become. How easily something she said in all innocence would provoke an enormous rage in him. How quickly he could become incensed because of a word, a single word. So she stayed quiet. But she is most eloquent in bed. There she speaks. There she whispers in his ear. There she tells him what he has always known. But in the kitchen or in the living room she prefers to remain silent. She prefers to remain coy and, despite her age, even a slight bit skittish.

  But what does Doris know? She knows a great deal about gardening. It is her favorite occupation. When Franz is away she can always be found in the small garden at the back of the house, planting and replanting. Pruning, clipping, weeding while humming to herself. A joyful soul. When she is in the garden, the neighbors are relaxed. They cheerfully respond to her exuberant “good morning.” They even trade recipes. They speak about the lovely weather. About the latest attempt to escape across the wall from East Germany.

  The neighbors visit back and forth. One day they are all in the garden to her left, the next day they are assembled in the garden to her right. Whenever she was invited to join them she would invariably refuse. She would think of some excuse or else come over for only a few minutes. They understood. They had all heard Franz howling at night. One neighbor maintained that it sounded like a wounded dog, the other claimed that it sounded like a hyena. They agreed that it was a plaintive cry. A profoundly unsettling cry. Everyone on the street had by now identified Franz as the culprit. The howler. That is how they referred to him. The howler. And Franz stared at everyone he encountered on the street, as if to say: Go on, make something of it. I dare you.

  What else does Doris know? She knows all about Franz’s first marriage, another matter that is never mentioned. Obbie, on his rare visits, calls his father “Franz” and her “Doris.” The neighbors, who have seen him come and go, do not know what to make of Obbie. Is he a nephew? Or could he be something else? Doris is careful not to appear too motherly, too loving to Obbie because Franz would not like it. As it is, seeing Obbie reminds Franz of his first wife. Beautiful, but a whore. But he admits to being puzzled by Obbie’s grotesque appearance. Overweight, awkward, insecure. From where does he get it? My son, an oaf?

  Doris knew that her husband took the bus to Brumholdstein at eleven, just in time to walk from the terminal to the restaurant and serve lunch. The restaurant was not open for breakfast, except on Saturdays and Sundays, when they served a champagne brunch. But since he was off on Sunday and worked late on Saturday, he usually missed serving brunch. What else did she know? She knew that his waiter’s uniform fit him like a glove. She cou
ld close her eyes and see him in his well-fitting uniform, erect, partially hidden by one of the pillars in the dining room, watching the diners at his tables. Very little escaped Franz. He stood there, ready to serve the next course, ready to please his favorite few without permitting himself to become servile. He didn’t take any shit from the diners. He could have been maître d’hôtel by now, but he wasn’t prepared—as he had often told her—to take any shit. How could she blame him for that? If anything, she was proud of his independence. He hadn’t taken any shit during the war either. He was one of the few who emerged in ’45 unscathed, without having had to take any shit from his officers or the Waffen SS or the Geheim Polizei, or from his rich relatives, or from the Russians or the Americans. You could bloody well count on it that Franz did not kowtow.

  There was also a younger brother in Argentina who, despite former disagreements, former fights, wrote long letters to Franz. The younger brother was married to an Argentinian woman, a divorcee with two children from a former marriage. She spoke some German and he a little Spanish. They were living in a suburb of Buenos Aires. But what does he know of life? Franz asked rhetorically. There he is in Buenos Aires, living a sheltered life. Nonetheless, Franz looked forward to the amusing letters and the enclosed snapshots of his brother’s family more than he cared to admit. His younger brother was a foreman in a glass factory and an avid soccer player. He was captain of his team, A.H.V.—Die Alte Herren Vereinigung. He never failed to include his fondest regards to Doris and kept urging Franz to come and join him. Franz could always get a job in the glass factory. You’ll love Argentina, he wrote. You can stay with us. Sure, I miss Germany, but all my friends over here are Germans. We play soccer every Sunday. We expect to make it to first place this season. What went through Franz’s mind as he read these letters? What does he write? Doris always asked. The usual, he would say, then reluctantly read a few lines to her, always concluding with: Anyhow, the food would never agree with me. All that spicy Spanish food. No way.

  .

  10

  Set back in a densely wooded area, Helmuth’s large sprawling house was reached by a narrow side road that intersected the highway near the old and now partially destroyed railroad station. In order to take the side road one had to drive over the rails. The station itself was surrounded and partially obscured by trees, trees that may have grown since the war. The drive from the station to Helmuth’s house was a pleasant one. Anna had picked Ulrich up at eleven in front of the house where he was staying. She apologized profusely when she stopped abruptly for a red light, and he, jolted out of his seat, almost hit his head against the windshield. While she was driving he kept glancing at her, as if to read on her face something pertaining to his brother’s present state of mind, for in a sense, didn’t she represent Helmuth’s most recent selection or choice?

  Are you enjoying your stay? she asked.

  He was the visitor, and they were—to a degree—responsible for his well-being. All he had to do was sit back and wait to be transported from one place to another. All the same, he had expected to be staying with his brother. His staying in town—the reason Helmuth provided was laughable—must have appeared as outlandish to everyone, including Anna, his present chauffeur, who during the short drive spoke about her class at school, of a trip she had taken to Greece, of a recent performance by the Stuttgart Philharmonic, which had visited Brumholdstein two weeks ago. On the narrow country road not another car. For some reason he decided against asking her about her reported encounter—was it a meeting?—with Paula in Ohlendorff. He spoke of his own dislike … well, disinclination … to travel. Once I arrive somewhere, a place I like, I make myself at home and don’t want to leave. Why did he say that? It wasn’t really true. What did she think he meant by that statement?

  You’re still in Geneva?

  Yes. For the time being.

  They parked next to a large black Mercedes and skirting the house walked along the path that led to the tennis court where Mayor Kahnsitz-Lese, who waved jovially in their direction with his racket, was playing singles with his brother. Well? Shall we call a halt? asked Helmuth. Absolutely not, said the mayor. I insist on a rematch. Helmuth, eyes narrowed, served. Calm, in control, clearly the superior player, he deliberately kept the heavy-set mayor running all over the court. Anna introduced Ulrich to the mayor’s wife, Vin, who was sitting in the shade of a large elm, sipping a tall iced drink. Lemonade? Gin and tonic? The house was larger than Ulrich had expected. It would appear to predate Brumholdstein. When Helmuth joined them after the game, his first words to Ulrich were: Bet you didn’t expect anything like this?

  Except for Ulrich, everyone was relaxed … everyone felt at home. They behaved as if they had known Helmuth for ages. Anna, without being asked to, went inside for the drinks.

  He was the visitor.

  Upstairs, in what appeared to be the main bedroom, instead of a proper bed Helmuth had placed a large mattress on the polished floor. The doors to all the rooms on the second floor were missing. Why had they been removed? Somewhat self-consciously, Ulrich urinated in the doorless toilet upstairs.

  When he returned, Helmuth and the mayor, the latter perspiring heavily, were still on the court, both laughing uproariously at something Vin had said. Some comment, it seemed, on the mayor’s flamboyant and eclectic game. Helmut, in the best of spirits, kept shouting encouragement to the mayor. Ulrich sat down next to the mayor’s wife. You don’t think much of their game, do you? she said.

  The nearest house to Helmuth’s was visible from the driveway. It was a farm house built on the rise of a low hill. Once Ulrich heard the sound of an automobile and, looking up, saw a car with two or three men in it slow down to a crawl as it passed Helmuth’s house, with the driver intently staring in their direction. Quite likely Helmuth’s was the only tennis court for miles around.

  Helmuth had always excelled at serves. Each one, when he really tried, was a supreme physical effort. His grunt as he served was audible to all. It was an obscene sound, resembling an animal grunt. The hard, sharp, devastatingly accurate serves were actually wasted on the mayor, who kept making brave but ineffectual attempts to return them. In a sense, the serves belied Helmuth’s friendly and casual stance. No matter how much he kept encouraging the mayor, Helmuth could not, and did not even try, to conceal his determined effort to win a point. But the mayor was not the least bit competitive. At least not on the tennis court. A large, self-deprecatingly clumsy man who, when he missed a ball, as he frequently did, would poke fun at himself, at the same time glancing at his wife to see if she too was participating in the laughter.

  In the large dining room the table was set for six. Helmuth was mopping his face with a white towel when the phone rang inside the house. Anna glanced at him, awaiting his instructions. He nodded, and she obligingly ran to answer it. Ulrich, from where he was standing, could see her holding the receiver, speaking into the phone, all the while looking at Helmuth through the French windows.

  It was Jonke, she announced when she rejoined them. He sends his regrets. He is unable to make it.

  He never does, said Vin petulantly.

  Where’s Gisela? asked Ulrich.

  Oh, she’s at our place, said Vin … Explaining to Ulrich, she’s our daughter’s best friend.

  We must drink to that, said the mayor boisterously. Evidently having decided to adopt the role of a buffoon, the mayor’s self-conscious clowning was primarily directed at Helmuth, who remained oblivious of it, or so it appeared. Anna, not Helmuth, refilled their glasses and then, after they were seated at the table inside, wheeled in the food from the kitchen on a small serving cart. Vin, the first to sit down, sat poised on Helmuth’s right, not concealing her boredom, not concealing the fact that she was here against her will.

  In the bathroom upstairs Ulrich spotted three toothbrushes, several bath towels, all damp, a woman’s dressing gown. In the medicine cabinet next to Helmuth’s aftershave, perfume, eye shadow, lipstick, etc.

  A
ren’t they nice people? Helmuth said to Ulrich when they found themselves alone for a minute in the garden.

  During dinner Helmuth played a Schubert sonata on the stereo. Ach, said the Mayor, for some reason deliberately exaggerating his response. Don’t you just love Schubert?

  Wasn’t that also the name of the Ortskommandant in 1944? asked Helmuth.

  What? Ulrich looked at him in disbelief.

  A distant relative, I believe.

  Vin excused herself, and then, when she returned to the dining room a few minutes later, complained that there was no soap in the bathroom downstairs.

  Anna immediately left the room to fetch some soap for Vin.

  You need a housekeeper, Vin said to Helmuth.

  Oh, we manage. He smiled at her.

  I wouldn’t be surprised, she replied. And then, spitefully: You do tend to bring out the maternal in women.

  My secret weapon, agreed Helmuth. His smile broadening, challenging her.

  The mayor placed his broad hands on the table as if to detect a tremor. He looked thoughtfully at Helmuth and then at his wife, who was standing near the door, waiting for the soap.

  All in all, a beautiful summer day. Cold salmon, pheasant, paté, spinach salad, eel with dill, oysters, and in Ulrich’s honor, four bottles of champagne.

  Vin left the room, having been assured by Anna that there was a fresh supply of soap in the bathrooms.