by Walter Abish
What precisely are you looking for?
I am building a model … a … a replica of the Durst concentration camp, and need the architectural plans … for it to be quite accurate … it’s like an architectural model … the thing I am building.
No, I don’t see how we can help you, she said after one quick glance at his face.
I looked under Durst in the catalogue, he said. It listed Brumholdstein, and Railroads, and Concentration camps/Germany. She stood up and, without excusing herself, walked away. Baffled, he lingered in front of her desk, waiting for her to return.
At least she could have been polite, said Franz to his wife Doris when he returned home that night. She could have said, Sorry, and she could have walked to the catalogue with me to look for herself. I believe that’s the procedure.
Sunday: This is the introduction to the German Sontag. This is an introduction to the German tranquility and decorum. People out for a stroll, affably greeting their neighbors. Guten Morgen. Guten Tag. Schönes Wetter, nicht wahr? Ja, hervorragend. A day of pleasant exchanges. A day of picnics, leisurely meals, newspapers on the sofa. Franz sitting in their small garden, reading his Sunday paper, his back to his noisy neighbors next door, his back to the familiar scene of the neighbors playing cards, his back deliberately turned to their Sunday. Doris, wearing the green dress she made on her sewing machine … cheerfully waving to him from the upstairs bedroom window. Hallo … Franz … waving and calling to him as if the neighbors could not hear. In an hour or two he might feel tempted to go down to the basement and put in a few hours’ work on his model of Durst. But it depends. Depends on his mood, on what he was reading, on what was being shown on the TV. It depends if Obbie and one of his idiot friends would drop in.
Sunday: Coffee in the garden. Franz talked ceaselessly about the bus driver Hagen whose daughter had just given birth to a hefty baby boy.
Sunday: In the bedroom. Franz stationed at the window, thoughtfully staring at the houses across the street. Doris was in the bathroom, humming to herself. A sign? She had left the bathroom door open. Another sign? She had nothing to fear. She was humming to indicate her fearlessness. Her spirited fearlessness. The signs accumulated. In his day Franz had seen his share of undressed women. Women undressing for him. Removing with a certain docile charm their dresses, their skirts and blouses, their black underwear for his sake, and for the sake of what was to follow. The thrill of expectation. Women laughing expectantly as he approached their naked bodies. That much was clear. But few had been as spirited as Doris. All that he now had to do was to turn around and see his Doris undressed, waiting …
Well, let her wait for a little while longer.
If Franz persisted in staring out of the window, it was to refresh or, at any rate, to energize the memory of his hatred for his neighbors. He observed Obacht, the policeman next door, a red-haired man in his late forties, newspaper under one arm, emerge from another neighbor’s house and then proceed to his own without once looking in the direction of Franz’s garden.
Can only revolutions undermine the tyranny of the familiar day-to-day events?
A quiet Sunday: Franz in the basement, carefully gluing another matchstick into place. He was not merely replicating a period of disaster. Or replicating what had ultimately been destroyed to make room for Brumholdstein. He was not merely replicating in every detail, and to scale, something that in its day had been as familiar to the people in Daemling as the cows in the barn. What he was doing was to evoke in the people he knew a sense of uncertainty, a sense of doubt, a sense of dismay, a sense of disgust. That was to be the ultimate achievement. It was as if he recognized that all revolutions have in common an element of bad taste. In his case, to strive for bad taste was to strive for revolution.
But why Durst, Doris asked him repeatedly. Why not the Brandenburg Gate or the bridge across the Rhine?
Obbie’s conclusion was a simple one: Because he’s a bloody fascist. But he did not say it to his father’s face. Franz was far too unpredictable for that. One never knew what he might do.
What does Franz know?
He knows, according to Proudhon, the advantages and the disadvantages of being a waiter. One of those advantages is being privy to the casual matter-of-fact exchanges between people in a position of power. The mayor. Helmuth von Hargenau. To name only two.
Does Franz accurately mimick power when he apes the self-conscious buffoonery of the mayor of Brumholdstein?
Could it be considered an advantage to know with whom the mayor is having lunch, with whom von Hargenau is sleeping at present?
Franz knows where the mayor lives. Public knowledge. As a waiter he also knew the mayor’s preferences at lunch and dinner. But all this knowledge was easy to come by. And the preferences of the mayor’s wife, Vin: Hirnsuppe, Lachs in Weisswein mit Champignons, Spargel Cocktail mit Hummer. Franz had observed her at the table, eyes fixed on Helmuth von Hargenau. He had also caught the rapid exchange of looks between the architect and Vin that conveyed a complicity, an understanding. A competent waiter, one worth his salt, soon becomes an accomplished interpreter of such exchanges.
More than once Franz had heard the mayor say to someone he knew: You must meet Hargenau. The architect. A good friend of mine.
Franz also knew where Helmuth von Hargenau was staying, although he had never seen the house. He knew what car the architect was driving and also something about the architect’s female companions. Aside from a possible liaison with Vin, the mayor’s wife, the architect was also frequently seen in the company of the schoolteacher, Anna Heller. But in the kitchen of the Pflaume someone maintained that she was simply a diversion or, more to the point, a stratagem intended to conceal the real passion. According to the prevailing opinion in the kitchen of the Pflaume, Vin, the mayor’s wife, was the true ball-breaker.
No reason to attack her just because she is sexy, said Doris, not concealing her indignation, her outrage.
Franz was working on one of the guard towers when Doris came down the basement stairs. From her walk he could tell something was up. Franz, Franz! A slight constriction in the area of his solar plexus when she said: you had a call from Herr von Hargenau. He inquired if he and his brother, Ulrich, could drop in to see us tonight. He was ever so polite, and kept asking if I was certain that they would not put us out. Naturally, I asked them to join us for dinner.
And naturally he agreed, said Franz.
He did, she said.
I don’t believe it, said Franz flatly. You don’t know Helmuth von Hargenau as well as I do.
But you admire him?
What has that got to do with his being a shit?
.
26
What else is there to know about Franz?
Ulrich caught the 7:15 to Daemling. He did not mind taking the bus, he told his brother. The bus terminal was within easy walking distance from where he was staying. The driver pulled out on the dot of 7:15. Only two other passengers on the bus besides him. He sat up front, next to the driver, who when asked if he remembered Durst said, Sure I do. Real mess. Let me tell you, when all those half-starving people behind bars were suddenly released … most of them descended on Daemling. They didn’t threaten anyone. They just walked around, peering into windows, half dazed … then, once they were gone, our people descended on Durst. He smiled to himself. There was all this lumber and furniture. Some of the camp guards and administrators had lived quite comfortably.
I know someone, said Ulrich, who is making a model of Durst out of matchsticks.
The driver responded with a noncommital, Oh yes.
A scale model, emphasized Ulrich.
You must mean Franz, the waiter at the Pflaume.
It occurred to Ulrich that by mentioning the model of Durst the driver would conclude that he was on his way to visit Franz. What else? Presumably, that he, Ulrich, was a relative, or a friend of the family.
When the driver let him off at a bus stop in Daemling, he said: Say hello for me to Fra
nz.
I will.
The driver waved to him. Not a soul on the road.
Sunday evening with Franz, his wife, Doris, his son, Obbie, and Willie Hubner, Obbie’s friend who was hired by Helmuth to take care of the garden. The dining table was set for seven. Helmuth must have said that he was bringing someone else along. Wineglasses, silver, plates with a blue border, plates that were identical to the ones used at the Pflaume. Does he walk off with them, Ulrich wondered. Franz, who had answered the door, kept regarding him with a pained look of reproach, as if to say: How could you do this to me. This evening had been imposed upon him. Poor Franz.
And Doris who rushed toward Ulrich with an eager, half suppressed shriek, hands outstretched, running like some ungainly bird about to take off: Aber Herr von Hargenau … Herr von Hargenau … causing Franz to retreat to the far corner, a frown on his long face. Disapproving of her shrill insecure call. Disapproving of her posture as she stood on their purple carpet, her dress brushing against the teak coffee table upon which, next to a gigantic ashtray, stood a glass bowl containing cashew nuts and raisins.
It’s been such a long time, Herr von Hargenau.
Far too long.
Why just recently Franz was talking about your dear family.
What a pleasant little house, said Ulrich.
We try to make it comfortable. After all, when Franz returns from Brumholdstein he needs a cozy and warm room in which to relax.
Franz, looking more pained than ever: Doris, isn’t there something you have to do in the kitchen? And she, staring at Franz uncomprehendingly: No, no … It’s all set.
Ulrich could hear Obbie talking to Willie in the next room.
Franz, said Doris, you haven’t offered Herr von Hargenau something to drink. And Franz, somewhat stiffly, reverting to his waiter’s role, asked: What can I offer you?
Sunday: Eight-thirty. They return to the dining room after the obligatory tour upstairs, every single room was open for his inspection: And this is the guest room where Obbie stays whenever he comes to visit, and this, as you can see, is the toilet, and this is a closet, and these stairs lead to the attic, but I don’t think you want to see that, do you? Doris, agitated, cheeks flushed, whispered in Franz’s ear. And Franz: Yes, we might as well begin, otherwise the dinner will be spoiled. Ulrich was seated between Doris and Obbie. He apologized to Doris: I’m awfully sorry, but my brother is never on time.
They had reached the main course when the phone rang. Obbie who, to his father’s evident dismay, ate grunting like a pig, obediently got up from the table when Franz said, Obbie—telephone!
I don’t know who would call us at this time on Sunday, said Doris. Franz mournfully stared at her without saying a word.
A most delicious dinner, said Ulrich to Doris.
Obbie returned to the room. For you, he said to Franz. Herr von Hargenau.
Doris avoided Ulrich’s eyes. Picking up her plate, she murmured an excuse and left the room. On the phone in the hallway, Franz’s voice was audible to Ulrich. It’s quite all right, Franz said. I understand. Silence. Yes. I understand. To Ulrich it was clear what Franz understood. Franz said, It’s quite all right, and then hung up. When Doris approached him in the hallway, saying, Oh Franz, Herr von Hargenau just mentioned … Franz brushed past her and walked to the kitchen. She returned to the table, and seeing Franz’s plate, said: Oh dear, he hasn’t finished his chicken. Then, as Ulrich was describing to her his first impressions of Brumholdstein, he could hear the unmistakable sound of Franz smashing plates and glasses against a wall or on the floor. Doris half rose out of her seat, and then thought better of it. He had so much counted on your brother and Miss Heller coming to dinner.
I didn’t know that he intended to bring Miss Heller, said Ulrich.
Such a lovely lady, said Doris, while Obbie snickered. Obbie, stop that at once, she said.
When Franz reappeared, he was holding a bottle of wine in one hand, an opener in the other.
Care for some? he asked Ulrich.
Obbie asked Ulrich if he knew how to set a car on fire.
You are asking the wrong man, Ulrich replied.
Obbie’s friend Willie could not control his smirk. It’s quite simple, said Obbie seriously. You open the gas tank, tip the car on its side, for that you might need two men, and then toss a match into the spreading puddle of gas.
Pow, said Willie enthusiastically.
My son, the half-wit, Franz said condescendingly. I believe he has aspirations toward some kind of revolutionary role.
At least I don’t spend half my life carrying a tray and the other half playing with headless matches, replied Obbie, looking at Ulrich for approval.
Get out, shouted Franz, with both hands gripping the table, as if to restrain himself from leaping at his son. Leave, this minute.
Oh dear, said Doris, as Obbie and his friend left the table. They’re always quarreling. His hand quivering slightly, Franz poured himself another glass of wine, and then standing up, leaned across the table to fill Ulrich’s glass, spilling wine on the tablecloth. Doris looked at him reproachfully. Franz, you are forgetting your manners.
Franz sat down, staring fixedly at Ulrich: Well, what do you say to our mass grave?
For a moment Ulrich was not certain if Franz was referring metaphorically to his home and family or to the grave uncovered near the school in Brumholdstein.
It’s a mess, isn’t it? Franz said.
Terrible.
They should have immediately covered it with a ton of cement. But no, our mayor has to go by the book.
While Doris was in the kitchen sweeping up the broken plates and glasses, Ulrich tried to engage Franz in a conversation. But Franz, gloomily staring at his wineglass, refused to respond to Ulrich’s cheerful recollections: Do you still have those red suspenders? I’ll never forget you, in the red suspenders sitting at the kitchen table, neatly arranging your scallions and radishes, herring and sausages, and potato salad and sour pickles, and the Liptauer.
You’re making it up, said Franz.
No. I’m not. Ulrich leaning toward Franz, as if to envelope Franz in his own enthusiasm for the details of the past that he, Ulrich, was eagerly prepared to impart.
Did your brother actually tell you that he would be coming here? Franz suddenly asked.
Yes. But something must have come up … I should be leaving soon.
Not before you have some cake, said Doris, entering the dining room with a large freshly baked cake on a platter.
I can’t believe it, said Ulrich with a forced exuberance. I can’t believe it. It’s my favorite. A Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. I haven’t had Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte for years … not since …
Last week at the Pflaume, said Franz.
Sunday: At ten-thirty Ulrich walked back to the bus stop without having seen Franz’s scale model of the Durst camp. He managed to catch the last bus back to Brumholdstein. The same cordial driver at the wheel. Had a nice time? he asked Ulrich. Oh yes.
Nice people, said the driver.
I can’t seem to locate Franz, Doris had said when she and Ulrich were standing at the door. Hallo, Franz. Franz! No answer. Franz?
They both stood waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, she said: I hope that the next time you visit, with or without your brother, you’ll be able to see the model of Durst. It’s almost complete. Franz can’t seem to decide whether to leave it the way it is or paint it a dark gray.
Sunday: On the return trip, the bus driver mentioned the Pflaume. I go there for a beer every once in a while. But one of these days I plan to take my wife …
Yes, the food is quite good.
And their cakes and pastries, the bus driver said. They even make a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.
Have you ever had it? Ulrich asked politely.
.
27
At the large outdoor memorial ceremony for Brumhold, held in the ornate garden at the back of the library, the mayor read the somewhat
wordy speech he had prepared for the occasion. In it he had tried to establish a link, admittedly a tenuous one, between the philosopher Brumhold and the town named after the late metaphysician, the greatest German thinker of the twentieth century. The mayor, a practiced public speaker, spoke with great warmth and with what the audience understood to be a genuine enthusiasm for the man whose work he had always admired but, as he confessed, never been able to master. It was a beautiful summer day and there was a decent turn out, despite the discovery of the mass grave, which initially prompted some people to advise the mayor to cancel the ceremony. Anna Heller was there, and so was Jonke, the bookstore owner, and the mayor’s wife, and their friends Egon and Helmuth, as well as the photographer Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt, who was taking photographs of the speakers. Helmuth kept glancing at his watch. Gisela, his daughter, sat next to Erika in the first row, whereas most of the schoolchildren were seated in the back rows. Helmuth also kept scribbling in his little notebook, adding to the notes he had prepared for his impromptu speech. Of course the entire library staff and all the schoolteachers were present for the occasion. The large bronze plaque bearing the name of Brumhold was still draped with a white sheet. For the occasion, all of Brumhold’s books and articles in the library’s collection and a number of books and photographs on loan from other libraries for this special ceremony were on display in the main hall.
But who reads Brumhold today? the mayor, reading from his prepared text, asked rhetorically.
Gisela had more or less taken it for granted that her father would also be asked to deliver a speech on Brumhold. To Helmuth’s surprise the invitation had come so late, only one day before the ceremony, that he had felt tempted to refuse. Seated beside Helmuth, Ulrich tried unsuccessfully to catch the eyes of Anna Heller. Although earlier he had seen her in conversation with his brother, she had chosen to sit with her students in the rear. Helmuth was still disgruntled at the last-minute invitation to speak on Brumhold. But why, wondered Ulrich, had no one even considered asking him? Did they really prefer an architect to a well-known writer? Would Brumhold have made the same choice?