How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  Still, all in all, Helmuth knew how to appeal to an audience. Had he read Brumhold? Did that really matter? Had the physicist Klinkert, who was also going to deliver a speech, or the portrait painter Hubner? Had Egon or his lovely Rita? For that matter, had the unfriendly owner of the Jonke bookstore? Admittedly Brumhold was hard to read. But, as Helmuth would say, we Germans have a metaphysical penchant, and we are not easily discouraged by the difficult.

  On his eightieth birthday, shortly before his death, Brumhold had consented to an interview for the magazine Treue, on the condition that the interview be published only after his death. It was the first interview he had given in forty years. Ulrich had read it when it appeared a week after Brumhold’s death. In most respects it was disappointing. No new revelations, no confessions, no regrets. Alert as ever, Brumhold had fielded questions regarding the resurgence of Nazism and the oppressive and nihilistic tactics of the urban guerrillas by repeatedly saying that he was not in a position to talk about these matters. I live, he stated, in a log cabin I built many many years ago in the forest. The forest, at least in our vicinity, hasn’t changed. I live simply. I do not have a radio or a television set. I have little time left, and I try to spend it speculating about things that matter. In the entire interview and in the long accompanying article on Brumhold, there was no mention of Brumholdstein, the community named after him. Whether this omission was a deliberate one could not be determined. The mayor of Brumholdstein, at any rate, remained undeterred in his decision to have a memorial service for the philosopher. Initially there were to be five speakers. Helmuth’s name was only added as an afterthought. In addition to the speakers, the Brumholdstein chamber music group, the high-school choir, the Gumpendorfer Gesangs Verein, and the municipal band performed Bach’s Magnificat. Refreshments were provided by the friends of the library and the Goethe Society. Helmuth, after a certain amount of friendly persuasion, had agreed to give the closing speech, for which he was allotted twelve minutes. Far less time than the time allotted to the school principal, or to Frau Doktor Inge Neurath, an amateur numismatician who recently had made public her intention to leave her rare coin collection to Brumholdstein on the condition that it be prominently displayed in the new museum.

  Each year since 1970, Brumhold had received an invitation to visit Brumholdstein, and each year, in more or less the same words, he had politely declined. This, given his advanced age, was not surprising. What was surprising was the mayor’s persistence. These continuous invitations which Brumhold evidently, and for good reason, had no intention of accepting. After all, why should the eighty-year-old philosopher—although he was nine years younger when he began to receive the invitations—waste a perfectly good day speaking to people he would in all likelihood never see again? And why bother with an urban community that more or less resembled all other postwar communities? Brumholdstein could hardly have held any surprises in store for a man who up to the moment of his death was wrestling with the overriding problem of metaphysics: What is thought? What is being? What is existence? It was unlikely that Brumhold would have shown any special interest in the modern red-brick apartment buildings, or the shopping arcades, or the nicely laid out tree-lined streets, the spacious parks and playgrounds, the large indoor swimming pool, the underground garages, the tennis courts, or the well dressed, well behaved inhabitants of Brumholdstein—for all these things, houses, and people seemed to correspond to houses and people elsewhere. Everything was, so to speak, familiar. But then, the intent to begin with was not to design or construct a city that would strike anyone, inhabitant or visitor, as unfamiliar.

  In the posthumously published interview which Ulrich had read, Brumhold, who spent each summer in his rustic cabin buried deep in the forest he so passionately loved, was quoted as having said: The forest continues to beckon to us. For in the forest are located our innermost dreams and desires. In order to re-establish our roots and our purpose and return to a simplicity of life that can no longer be found in the German community, we turn to the forest. We wander off by ourselves, packs on our backs, haphazardously selecting one path, then another not knowing where the forest is leading us, but willing to let our instincts and chance dictate our journey and confident that in what we are doing, we are coming closer to our past, to our history, to our German spirit.

  Brumhold himself, according to what had been written about his personal life, which was little, followed an almost undeviating daily routine. An uneventful life. Early each morning a long walk in the forest accompanied only by his dog. Then three hours at his desk, followed by a brief respite, then an hour or two answering letters from colleagues, former students and admirers—the time set aside for this task, as he admitted, was inadequate to deal with the increasing flow of mail. Letters from abroad and from such places as Brumholdstein. Offers, requests, invitations, thanks. Brumhold preferred to use a pen. A secretary typed his letters and manuscripts. In his last letter to Brumhold, written shortly before the philosopher’s death, the mayor of Brumholdstein, still hoping to induce Brumhold to visit, lovingly described the apartment in which the philosopher and his wife, should she wish to accompany him, would stay. The mayor even described the pleasant view from the apartment in which Ulrich, it so happened, was presently staying. In closing the mayor appropriately described himself as a great and devoted admirer of Brumhold. But to this last letter there had been no reply.

  Are you by now beginning to feel more at home in Brumholdstein? Vin asked Ulrich after the memorial ceremony.

  More and more, he replied. And when he thought about it later, he concluded that it was true. He did feel more at home, but that did not mean that he liked it.

  Sometimes it can get a bit lonely out here, Vin had said. Always the same faces, the same conversations, the same disputes, the same outings … What I like to do is to drive to my favorite spot, a wooded area about six kilometers from here, and then just walk and walk … She looked at him disarmingly. If you behave, I may even reveal to you my secret place one of these days … But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone … She looked searchingly at his face for a signal, a response, a sign that would indicate an eagerness on his part to join her on an outing, a déjeuner sur l’herbe.

  .

  28

  Brumhold: Does what we don’t know—explain being?

  Ulrich did not know how much time Helmuth had spent on his speech. Knowing Helmuth, he probably jotted it down on his way over from his office near the city hall. Introduced by the mayor, Helmuth—by now an already familiar figure in Brumholdstein (Das ist der Architekt Hargenau, ja ja)—received a sustained round of applause. It was not the polite clapping that preceded the other speakers, it was a genuinely enthusiastic response. A response to what? His presence? His appearance? His self-confidence? His humor? And Helmuth? From the playful manner in which he tested the microphone, Testing, one, two, three, to the mock bow to the mayor and the other speakers, and then turning to the audience: Can everyone hear me… You in the back, can you hear me?—Helmuth made it known that what he would have to say would be far more significant than anything that had been said so far. Ulrich wondered how Helmuth had arranged to be the last speaker, as Helmuth modestly stated that he planned to speak briefly—flashing a smile at the mayor, a public reassurance that he would not take up more than his alloted twelve minutes on the significance of Brumhold’s philosophy and on the broader implication of Brumhold’s metaphysical writings to this community, named after the late great thinker whose work, most likely, was only familiar to a handful of the people sitting patiently on the hard wooden folding chairs (laughter from the audience) in the midday sun through hours of speeches.

  In speaking of Brumhold, said Helmuth. In speaking of a man I greatly admire, I am also, to a degree, explaining or attempting to explain Germany. For aren’t we all mirrored in the metaphysical speculations of Brumhold? Not that I wish to imply that we all equally shared his thirst for truth and knowledge. No. What I wish to say is that because we
are Germans we are closer to understanding Brumhold, closer to grasping what he meant by Dasein, for Brumhold’s confrontation with this term Dasein or“Being” became most tangible, most unresistant to understanding when he, Brumhold, in his mind or in actuality, wandered through the thick forest, his beloved forest, a forest—I must emphasize—that is and remains spiritually close to us. For it was not just any forest. And again, yes again, it was not necessarily one specific forest: it was the German forest in which dwells our spirit, our ideals, our cultural past, our poetry, our truth. What I wish to say is that although we may not understand him, he represents us. But to make myself clearer, I will put it this way: each year, several hundred thousand foreigners come to explore, and also enjoy, Germany. Though, it may not be their foremost priority, they have also come to get a better idea of us and of our society and our culture—our Dasein. But how can they possibly understand Germany without appreciating the richness of its language, for only the language will enable them to comprehend the nature of that German restlessness and that intrinsic German striving for order and for tranquillity as well as for perfection. It stands to reason that only someone speaking German from early childhood can follow the circumlocutionary writings of Brumhold, the greatest German philosopher of our era. It must also be pointed out that although Brumhold clearly had a universal being in mind, what emerges from his metaphysical quest, from his deliberations, from his intense exploration of the German language and its roots, is a shape of being that cannot be divorced from the German passion for exactitude and abstractions: a passion that surfaced in the creation of those splendid Gothic and Baroque churches and palaces, and in the exquisite art of the fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. An intense passion that reached its sublime apex of achievement in Bach, in Grünewald, in Hölderlin. So ultimately, to understand Germany it is necessary, it is essential to speak, read, and think in our mother tongue. It is the language that Brumhold, our great Brumhold, used daily, while sitting at his worn oak desk in his cabin in the Black Forest, used daily to designate the framework of a culture which has, let’s face it, ever since the beginning of time had more than its share of adversity. Without access to the intricacy, the nuances, the shades of meaning in our language, the visitor’s ability to understand and appreciate the complexities of our customs or the manifestations of our creative impulse will be severely limited. Without German, how can they hope to understand the cobblestone streets in Daemling, or the rules and regulations, or the schedules of our railroads, or our stress on punctuality, or the obsessive order, or the passion for beauty, for serenity, for cleanliness and, certainly, our literature and our history. Without a thorough understanding of our language, our visitor will be deprived of that one element that serves and still functions to generate the German uniqueness, the German genius of a Brumhold, after whom this community—long may it live—has been named. Let me remind you that the naming of a new urban community in Germany after a philosopher, unusual as it may be, and irrelevant as it may appear to our foreign visitor, is not something that can be lightly dismissed and overlooked. In adopting the name of Brumhold we have also, in all seriousness, embraced his lifelong claim to the questions: What is being? What is thinking?

  While on the one hand we cannot very well separate our understanding of existence from our understanding of history, from the specificity of historical events, we can comprehend with Brumhold that this search for meaning, this metaphysical quest for Dasein is not linked to this or that event, to one year or another (after all, we are not more or less German because of the events of 1914 or 1945, to take two years more or less at random), but to a universal history, a history of human awareness. Basically we remain German because our language permits us to glimpse what our ancestors saw when they climbed a mountain or entered a forest or undertook a difficult journey. The building of this community, especially at this time, should be understood in those terms. We have undertaken a difficult journey. There is no turning back. Whatever the outcome, Brumhold has enabled us to see ourselves as we truly are.

  After the prolonged ovation, Ulrich, overcoming an initial reluctance, walked to the speaker’s platform, where Helmuth was surrounded by a group of admirers. Helmuth, catching sight of Ulrich, came over and embraced him, saying: By all rights you should have been the one to give the speech. After all, you’re the writer in the family.

  Afterward, Rita-Tropf Ulmwehrt photographed them standing next to the lectern. Helmuth’s arm resting on Ulrich’s shoulder.

  Afterward Erika, the mayor’s daughter, said to her mother: He said that Brumhold lived in a cabin. Why did he live in a cabin? Was he too poor to live anywhere else? And Vin replied: I don’t know dear, but I wish you would stop jumping up and down everytime you ask a question.

  Afterward, the mayor and his wife invited all the speakers and their friends to the Pflaume for refreshments. Ulrich watched Franz hesitantly approach the mayor to express his deep regret at the death of the mayor’s father-in-law. A good man. A fine decent human being. And the mayor, in the best of humor, responded heartily: Why thank you, Franz. Of course, you had known him. Yes indeed, it’s a blow to us. Especially to Vin. And then, as if the idea had just occurred to him: By the way, since the painting of our house was not completed, I wonder if you might know of someone …

  Afterward, Ulrich kept looking for Anna; but after the ceremony she had slipped away.

  When Ulrich found himself standing next to the mayor at the Pflaume, he could not resist inquiring what was happening on the street where the mass grave had been uncovered. My dear fellow, said the mayor, don’t ask. It’s a mess. I just pray that I can put this matter to rest, no pun intended, without awakening the curiosity of our large city newspapers.

  Afterward, Ulrich went for a stroll that took him past the house where Anna was living. When he ran into her on the street, she asked: Out by yourself? Not with the others?

  Actually, I was hoping to run into you.

  You’re not bearing a message from your brother, are you?

  Hardly.

  Well then, would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?

  .

  29

  For one reason or another?

  Did anyone in Brumholdstein, the mayor, Jonke, his brother Helmuth, Vin, Egon, Franz, Obbie or his friend Willie, or Rita Tropf-Ulmwehrt, have a clue as to what happened when he visited Anna?

  Could they see him, for the first time, in Anna’s apartment, in one room then another, measuring the distance between them, without, however, making any effort to decrease that distance? If anything, it was she who had decreased it, or signaled to him that he could safely decrease it—which he then promptly proceeded to do.

  Could any of them, the mayor, Jonke, his brother Helmuth, Vin, Egon, Franz, Obbie or his friend Willie, have possibly caught the signal, as she let her cool hand touch his, while the two of them were talking about something quite inconsequential?

  The window shades open, wide open. Anyone could have looked in that late afternoon when many of them were still at the Pflaume, or just about to head back home. There was absolutely no sense of hurry, no rush, as she carefully unbuttoned her blouse, and then just as patiently unbuttoned his shirt. It was understood that there was no haste. There was all the time in the world. It was also understood that there were no accidents. No accidental encounters. That he had gone to look for her. He said as much. I looked for you after the speeches, but you had gone.

  For once, Ulrich did not feel the slightest necessity to question the degree to which something was or was not familiar. The extent to which, for instance, her unbuttoning her blouse and exposing her breasts was something he had anticipated.

  To what extent did anyone in Brumholdstein foresee this event? Did Jonke have an inkling? Was he the one who kept calling her repeatedly? Every fifteen or twenty minutes, until she became exasperated, burying the telephone under a large pillow. Was it Jonke or perhaps Ulrich’s brother who later, that same
afternoon, rang her doorbell? An insistent ringing. Distinctly not the ring of a visitor, but the prolonged heavy hand of someone with a proprietary feeling toward her. As if this were not enough, the door was then put to a test, a key inserted and the door opened as far as the door chain would permit, wide enough for a man’s hand to be inserted—actually only the fingers were visible from where they stood inside—and the chain touched. The hand was then withdrawn and the door noiselessly closed. Not a word said. How would she have responded if the man had called her name?

  If Ulrich refrained from asking her any questions it may have been because, for one thing, he did not feel that he had the right to. For another, he might have feared that his questions would only lead to further questions. And that, finally, what he would be told with respect to Jonke, or the mayor, or his brother might make him wish to leave.

  Was anyone in Brumholdstein aware that shortly after she had drawn the curtains in the bedroom of this freshly painted apartment with its six windows and its little-used balcony overlooking the meadows and the highway to Daemling, she, the occupant of the apartment, die Frau Lehrerin, who was regarded with great respect by everyone in Brumholdstein, would be lying naked on her bed—incidentally, the bed she had personally, after a certain amount of deliberation, selected at the local furniture store, picked along with a number of other more or less equally essential pieces of furniture: a chest of drawers, a round kitchen table with four chairs with cane seats. Who else could see her lying naked with her legs parted—not for the first time—to accommodate (is that the right word?) in this initial sexual encounter another Hargenau, one who only an hour earlier, after having talked with her about everything under the sun except what was on his mind, had watched an attempt being made to enter her apartment, an attempt which may have triggered the calm, quite unself-conscious unbuttoning of her blouse. But this may be incorrect. Sitting next to her on the couch, he may have put his arm around her and kissed her first. He may even have unbuttoned the first button of her pale green blouse. When she invited him up and he came, much of this was understood, inasmuch as these things are ever understood, although nothing could be taken for granted, this being the first time, and the first time is always fraught with a certain uncertainty: the uncertainty that the contemplated act might, for one reason or another, not be consummated. There was the danger, at some point, that the man—why did it always have to be the man?—as they embraced, as they kissed, etc., might become aware of some irritant, something so aesthetically disturbing, something she may have said, or some disquieting imperfection, that would make him frantically search for an excuse to leave. Any pretext would serve. Invariably, a quarrel. Of how much of this was she aware when she invited him, another Hargenau, to see her apartment, and discover her taste for, was it Magritte? or de Chirico? Letting him also have a glimpse of the bed, upon which she shortly, an hour or two later, would compliantly, or was it hopefully, part her legs—this act, the very first time it happened with someone being much more than just the necessary and somewhat mechanical response, but an exquisite motion of understanding, that absolute moment of vulnerability on her part and awkwardness on his as he crouched between her legs involved with the almost mechanistic insertion while his mind like a well-trained athlete was already prepared to take that wild leap that would carry him well beyond any uncertainty, any possible doubt or hesitation that the unfamiliar interior, the unfamiliar woman, the unfamiliar body might cause … and thereby remove, for the time being, any further need on his part to evaluate and respond to what was principally a question of taste, her taste, his taste.