How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  The new power lawnmower, with blades of grass sticking to its side, stands where it had been left days ago, in a puddle of oil, on the cement floor of the garage, next to an oil drum and several gallons of deck paint, brushes in turpentine, several rolls of black roofing paper, garden tools, and old metal garden furniture from another age …

  With great daring, Obbie proceeds to give the closed door of the guest room one more coat of paint.

  The smell of cabbage cooking in the kitchen. The woman who does the cooking is brought and fetched daily by a disapproving husband who drives a panel truck. Recommended by the mayor’s wife, the woman arrives daily with fresh produce, eggs, cheese, butter, tomatoes, cucumbers … all the ingredients for good home cooking. A heavy emphasis on potatoes, cabbage, and Bayrische Leberknödel and Semmel-knödel, but no one complains. Helmuth is too dispirited even to enter the kitchen. But with each meal a bottle of champagne. Egon had brought two cases. Champagne and cabbage? Why not?

  I think I would like to go home, Gisela announces at dinner.

  No response from Helmuth.

  On Friday Helmuth pays the woman who does the cooking. He also pays Willy, the young man who is to take care of the garden, though there is little evidence to show that Willy is doing anything but smoking dope in the nearby wood. He pays Obbie, who is still striving to complete the second floor, to paint all the walls white, notwithstanding the unbearable distractions.

  Most of the day, despite the presence of all these people, the entire house remains sunk in a complete silence. Quite pleasant, really.

  Every day at five Egon studiously calls his wife. Nun Liebchen? He prefers to be alone when he speaks to her. He does not like to be interrupted or even seen when on the phone to Gisela. He seizes the opportunity when Helmuth leaves his study. When the others are in the garden. He makes little jokes on the phone … all about Helmuth who, inexplicably, was letting himself go. Of course, a woman is behind it all, a schoolteacher—Anna Heller. Helmuth was neglecting his work, his appearance, his guests, his house, his workers, his friends, his daughter … you name it. When Egon’s wife inquires who else, besides him, is in the house at the moment, he good-naturedly runs down the entire list, beginning with Obbie, omitting only Rita, lovely Rita …

  Whom have you left out? Gisela wants to know. She isn’t taken in by all that sweet talk. Is it Rita?

  Rita? Why do you keep harping on that woman? I haven’t seen her in weeks.

  Ulrich’s presence, of course, was also mentioned. Ulrich was still staying in Brumholdstein, which gave Egon something to discuss, something over which Gisela could ponder in her spare time. Yes, why was Ulrich not staying in the house with them? Didn’t he want to, or wasn’t he asked?

  So at night, it’s just you and Helmuth, says Gisela spitefully.

  No, he corrects her. There is also your namesake, Gisela. Helmuth’s daughter.

  Ah, but she’s a bit too young for you, or am I mistaken?

  Dear, I have to hang up now. Someone wants to use the phone.

  But everyone is relaxed at dinner. One large family. Even Obbie and Willy are occasionally asked to join. Dinner, a noisy affair. Helmuth shows his disdain by chewing loudly. In turn, familiarity breeds contempt. So they soon dispense with the “Thank you” and the “Please, pass the salt” … It’s everyone for himself. With Rita, as always, the center of attention.

  She was never without her Leica. If it was not dangling from her neck, then it was on a stool or side table within her reach. It led Ulrich to question this fixation, this need or necessity to photograph, to freeze on photosensitive paper what was essentially familiar and as a result quite banal.

  Yet the presence of the camera also was a perpetual reminder of her purpose. They, everyone of them, the cook, Obbie, Willy, Helmuth, Ulrich, Gisela, were to be pacified, conquered, invaded, and ultimately reproduced. They were to be captured the way she had captured Egon … what could be more humiliating than this reversal of roles … Egon lying naked on the mattress while she studied her best approach in the available light.

  No, that’s not true. She is simply a photographer on a vacation-, a vacation with all expenses paid. Not the first by any means. Not that she simply took without contributing something in return. At Helmuth’s she assisted in the kitchen, during the cook’s absence prepared a few meals, and together with Egon drove every two days to Brumholdstein to pick up a few Leckerbissen: caviar, brie, pâté, and delicious pastries, Rumkugeln, Marzipankartoffeln, Obsttörtchen, gecdekter Apfelkuchen, Weintraubschnitten, Windbeutel, and Eclairs. Egon, the proud sharer of her bed, walked about with a smug face, as if to indicate that he was privy to something that no one else could possibly share. And Helmuth, in silence, raged.

  Why?

  Because he had never felt so helpless. So defenseless without Anna. Because, for the time being, he was marked by a state of sexual deprivation. Because, at present, he could not match or compete with Egon’s triumph. Nonetheless, he deserved a certain credit for refraining to score a point by bringing another woman into the house.

  When asked what had happened to Anna, Helmuth replied: We had a slight falling out. Does that answer your question? Does that satisfy you? Or is there anything else you would like to know? For instance the nature of the falling out? And who walked out on whom? Did I, in other words, give her her marching orders, or did she slip out, determined not to return?

  Rita in a short denim skirt, blouse unbuttoned, was lying on a reclining chair in the garden, eyes shut, sunning herself. Could there be anyone staring at her from one of the upstairs windows? Ulrich was clearly at a disadvantage. He did not have a room of his own in this house to which he could retire.

  Obbie, Helmuth and the others discovered, was only too eager to discuss his father over a bottle of beer. He thinks of himself as a Marxist, said Obbie disparagingly, but he’s really a bloody fascist.

  Willy was forever skulking behind the trees.

  A beautiful summer.

  On Tuesday morning Helmuth announced that he would be gone for most of the day. He returned wearing a new linen suit, new shirt, new tie, new shoes, his hair cut, cheeks smoothly shaved, smiling broadly. Willy helped him unpack his acquisitions. Folding chairs for the garden, a new stereo, a dozen records, also a few essential delicacies picked up in Daemling. A change of heart, or simply a change of strategy?

  It was about time, what with the museum behind schedule and the mayor’s sudden incommunicability. Nothing he could put his finger on. But it was unnerving. Why was the mayor suddenly less forthcoming, less exuberant, less friendly? Suddenly, no invitations, and none of the ones he extended were accepted. So there it was. No friendly handshakes. No hearty claps on the back. All the things that Helmuth had begun to take for granted. Could it be that the mayor had heard something? But what?

  Something involving the mayor’s wife, Vin?

  Helmuth confided to Ulrich: God knows what the mayor’s been told. I knew something was up when he said he was too busy to have lunch at the Pflaume last week. Too busy for lunch. He has to have lunch somewhere. Then, on top of it, I have Egon and his current girl friend going at it like rabbits. Do they really have to be so conspicuous about it. Do they have to let everyone know? Poor Obbie stays glued to their door …

  Why don’t you get rid of him? asked Ulrich.

  What makes you think that another painter would be any better?

  What really happened between you and Anna? Ulrich asked.

  I don’t want to talk about it, said Helmuth. She claimed … it’s quite absurd … that I have my eyes set on Rita.

  And what about Rita?

  She kept photographing everything in sight. The interior and the exterior of Helmuth’s house, the nearby farms, the railroad station, the disused railroad tracks, the approach to the station, the signs at the station, the angry and impatient Egon, and the annoyed Helmuth, and the sullen woman in the kitchen, and Obbie’s curious walk as well as the uncertain infantile smile on his idiot
face, and the sly calculating look on the face of Obbie’s friend Willy …

  Egon, on the phone to his wife: But darling, of course I want you to come here. But now? It’s hardly worth it. I’m about to leave. I have to see someone in Frankfurt. Who? You want to know who I am going to see?

  Did you ever ask Anna Heller about her encounter with Paula? Helmuth asked his brother.

  No, I never did.

  Helmuth regarded him with amused condescension. You astonish me.

  .

  24

  Does Gisela really crouch in the corner of her room? Helmuth’s daughter wanted to know. And Helmuth, after weighing the significance of her question, replied: Yes, sometimes. But I would rather that you did not mention this to anyone. I’m not even going to inquire how you heard of it.

  I heard you speak of it to Uncle Ulrich.

  Oh.

  Why does she crouch in a corner?

  I don’t know. I expect she likes the corner. A kind of security blanket.

  Have you ever crouched in a corner? she asked her father.

  If I ever did, I have forgotten it.

  Does she crouch in any corner, or is it a special corner?

  I don’t know. I don’t see that it matters. Perhaps she has a favorite corner.

  Why?

  Why? We all have favorite things. We have favorite chairs, favorite rooms, favorite parks. Even favorite streets. I don’t see why, under the circumstances, she wouldn’t have a favorite corner. Does that satisfy your curiosity?

  I still don’t understand why she crouches.

  Ask Miss Heller.

  Does Egon make her crouch in a corner?

  I should hope not.

  Has Miss Heller ever crouched in a corner?

  You are becoming quite obsessed with the subject, aren’t you? If Miss Heller has crouched in a corner, she’s never mentioned it to me.

  Would it make you happy to see her crouch in a corner?

  Enough. Helmuth looked at her sternly. Enough.

  If you no longer love Mother, and you don’t love Anna, do you love Gisela?

  No. I don’t love Egon’s wife. She’s too thin and too neurotic.

  You have to love someone.

  Who says so?

  You have to love someone.

  You have been reading too many books.

  I bet you are in love with Rita.

  Do you like her?

  She’s fun.

  A bit too much, wouldn’t you say?

  Gisela looked at him slyly. Sometimes she also crouches when she takes a picture.

  .

  25

  It was unusual for Franz to get the front seat on the 11:25 to Brumholdstein. It was also unusual for Hagen to be the driver at that hour. Didn’t expect to find you driving the bus, said Franz.

  I switched with another driver, said Hagen.

  Once they had left Daemling, and the driver could relax a bit behind the wheel, Franz mentioned that he was planning to use the library on his break at three p.m. I’ve been meaning to use it for some time, he said.

  Don’t read much, replied the driver. I like to relax outdoors, under a tree. I can sit there for hours. I forget time … forget everything.

  In the library, said Franz, returning to the subject occupying his mind, they have a reference room, and they have another room for periodicals, and another one for listening to music. Listeners are provided with headsets. You can bet your life that we are not going to see a library like that in Daemling.

  On the whole, said the driver, without raising his eyes from the road, I prefer soccer. I can sit for hours watching soccer on TV. Hagen was wearing his American aviator sunglasses. Dark green glasses with a gold metal rim. On the fourth finger of his right hand he wore a large opal ring. Had he inherited it, was it a gift, or had he bought it somewhere? Reluctant to question the driver about it, Franz confined himself to saying that it was a striking ring, a remark to which Hagen did not respond.

  Hagen was taller than Franz, but he did not hold himself as erect as the latter. Somewhat arbitrarily Franz had decided that the driver must be at least five years older. Like most of the older drivers, the drivers of Franz’s generation, he was absolutely dependable, a top-notch driver who did not easily get upset. Not the sort of person to be drawn into an argument. Oh no. In fact, whenever any of the passengers complained about something, Hagen would withdraw into his shell. Not a peep out of him.

  Funny, mused Franz aloud. All these years in Brumholdstein, and this will be the first time that I have decided to use the library.

  I saw them build it, commented Hagen.

  Somebody made a pile of money on that, said Franz.

  I also saw them put up the city hall and the old shopping center.

  Buckets of money.

  And now that odd-shaped building, the museum.

  That’s different, said Franz, quick to jump to the defense of a Hargenau. After all, it’s a repository for culture. A warehouse, so to speak, of history.

  That may be, said Hagen, but buckets of money.

  It’ll be open to the public, argued Franz. It’s being built by Helmuth von Hargenau. Old family in Würtenburg. I once used to work for them. Big house in the country. 1948, 1949. The old man was shot in ’44.

  The driver looked benignly at the road ahead. Nice day. They said on the radio that it would rain …

  How many times do you drive back and forth a day, asked Franz. It was not the first time that he had asked the question. As usual the driver did not reply.

  The driver smiled to himself, and then seeing Franz look at him inquiringly, explained: I just passed a house in which I once stayed for an entire summer, long before I ever dreamed that I would become a bus driver.

  Did this road exist at that time?

  Not in its present condition. It was a narrow road.

  What were you doing here?

  Oh, just staying with some people I knew.

  Are they still in that house? Franz could not conceal his disappointment at having missed seeing the house in question.

  For all I know they might still be there.

  I wonder if they know that you are passing their house all hours of the day?

  They might, and then they might not.

  I didn’t see the house, Franz said. By the time you mentioned it, it was too late. Is it that large gray building with the two chimneys?

  No.

  Nearby.

  Not too far. It’s just a house.

  You ever see the people who live there? Franz wanted to know.

  My daughter’s giving birth today, the driver announced.

  Her first?

  Oh no. They’ve got three.

  In Daemling?

  No, they didn’t care for Daemling. Too old.

  Is he a farmer?

  No, a mechanic.

  Automobile?

  No. A mechanic in a typewriter assembly plant.

  See you tonight, said Franz when they arrived in Brumholdstein. Not tonight, said Hagen. I’ll be at my daughter’s. He then waved good-bye, but so diffidently that Franz found it difficult to believe that he was the man to whom he spoke five and sometimes six days of the week. The man he had come to consider as something more than just a casual acquaintance. Must one read the writing on the wall? someone had scrawled with a black crayon on the pale yellow brick wall of the library. Franz read the sentence feeling enraged at this deliberate desecration, this attack on the institution. He held open the plate-glass door for a woman who preceded him into the library without saying “Thank you.” The young woman behind the information desk was watching him. Something about her sharp, angular face, the chin … the severe expression on her face, made him pause … discouraged him from approaching her. No reason why he couldn’t locate what he was looking for on his own.

  For no matter how new or modern, the library presented a familiar picture, and in that respect a reassuring one: People at tables intently reading newspapers and magazin
es, one or two old geezers talking to themselves. Readers walking to or coming from the stacks, books under their arms. It took Franz less than five minutes to locate the catalogue. A small triumph. Brumholdstein was listed in the catalogue, and so was Marx, and so was the German army, and so was Paris, and so was Resistance: see France, see Italy, see U.S.S.R., see Poland, see Austria, see Germany. Sex was also listed in the catalogue under Sex, with dozens of separate listings under that subject: Sexual education, films on sexual education, sexual discrimination. Sexual deviation. Sexual crimes. Sexual customs. A number of books by Ulrich Hargenau were also listed in the catalogue, and so were Helmuth Hargenau’s architectural designs. The catalogue listed the books on Architecture in which his work could be found. Franz looked up Durst. The card stated: see Brumholdstein, see Concentration camps/Germany, see World War II War Effort, and see Railroads/Germany. Franz peered into the music room and into the reference room and finally into the periodical room, but no sign of another information desk. With only twenty minutes left before he had to return to the restaurant, he took the elevator down to the first floor, hoping that the woman behind the information desk had been relieved by someone else. But she was still there. He then walked to the stacks and looked to see if any of Hargenau’s novels were on the shelf, but they were not. When he finally approached the information desk, the librarian was on the phone—to his astonishment her face animated, less severe. Franz stared at her, but she refused to acknowledge his presence. Finally he turned away, muttering “Bloody bitch” under his breath. She was making a private call on public time, on his time. Ten minutes left. He turned around. She was staring into space. Hesitantly he explained that he needed some information on the Durst concentration camp. She looked at him appraisingly.