How German Is It

by Walter Abish

  Very … not a village exactly … but very pleasant.

  Except when we appear, remarked Egon.

  How do you mean? Politely smiling, Dietrich waited for an explanation.

  We, the tourists, said Egon. The summer people.

  Of course.

  An annual invasion.

  But economically, a necessary one for them, said Dietrich.

  Does she like Gänzlich, asked Ulrich.

  Well, it’s quiet. Nice people. Friendly people. They play bridge in the garden … coffee and cake with the neighbors. It’s out of another age …

  I take it she rents an apartment, or is it a house?

  She mentioned buying a house. Must have come into some money, he said with a smile. She’s still fixing it up.

  You saw it.

  No, but she described it.

  Overlooking the beach?

  No, no, just a few minutes’ walk from the drawbridge. It’s in a group of similar houses. But it’s the only one with yellow shutters, she said.

  Yellow shutters, mused Ulrich. I can just see it.

  Well, if you find yourself there, why not look her up? You might find that you remember her. That would be a surprise.

  Yes, it would be a surprise.

  How different?

  What was all that about? asked Egon after Dietrich had left.

  I think he would like me to stand on my head, for a change.

  And will you, asked Gisela.

  I am going in for a dip, said Ulrich. Join me?

  .

  5

  The purpose of an antiterrorist film

  Basically to identify the terrorists and to depict on film, explained the chief of police in Würtenburg, their faces, their slang, their gestures, their preferences, their way of dressing, their friends and contacts, their disguises, their methods, their weapons, their techniques, their political rhetoric, their retreats, their arrogance, their press releases and publications, their hit-and-run tactics, their jargon, their alliances. Depict as accurately as possible the threat they pose to the stability of this society. Clearly, the decision, taken in advance, to minimize or to exaggerate the strength, the fanaticism, and the callousness of the terrorist is a decision with far-reaching consequences. Whatever the public response, that is if the film will ever be shown to the public, the film is the logical, the reasoned response of the State. It is the bureaucrat’s well-intentioned response. Its primary aim is to engender the men engaged in the bitter fight against terrorism with a sense of their historic role, and provide them with a better understanding of their dynamic organization, as well as—it is hoped—underline the camaraderie of this courageous group of men—all volunteers—who face considerable danger each day, each hour, each minute they are on duty. If the film falls short of its aim—always a possibility—it may at least succeed in defining the rules, the bureaucratically, legalistically defined rules that govern the procedure by which the terrorists are to be eliminated. Only a blunt word like “eliminated” will serve in this case. Admittedly, the film is also an attempt to further escalate the continuous overreaction and overresponse of one side to the actions of the other. Clearly, the actual methods of infiltrating and fighting the terrorists are glossed over in the film, since in celebrating the procedure of law the film attempts to make coherent what is not necessarily so. In order to clarify, to make evident a terrorist threat, the film has to distort, fabricate and often lie. But no matter how great these flaws are, the need for the film is self-evident. For implicit in its production is the conviction that the film—whatever its success—will strengthen the anti-terrorist units by authenticating their role and their need for more sophisticated equipment, greater support from the government, more men, and greater freedom to respond to the terrorist threat with measures we consider appropriate. Measures that would not necessarily receive support from the general public or the press.

  .

  6

  How else to describe Gänzlich on a rainy day?

  It was raining. Not a downpour but a slow persistent rain. A police car pulled up in front of the control tower on the drawbridge. The man next to the driver got out, slammed the car door and then, leaping over a puddle, sprinted to the green gate, which as usual had been left ajar. The driver let the motor run as he stared into that wide V-shaped space being cleared by the windshield wiper, while listening to the repeated squeal of the rubber strip as it traversed across the slightly curved windshield with a hypnotic effect. The first policeman, having entered the tower without the slightest trepidation, without any apprehension that he might be in any danger, called out: Hallo, Gottfried, as he rapidly mounted the circular metal stairs. For Gottfried these periodic visits from the police were not unusual. If anything, he welcomed the diversion. It was a chance to speak to someone. On the part of the police, the visit was a routine check as well as a social call. By and large, the exchange was always the same. But then, what reason would there be for it to have changed. The men briefly—there is a problem of time—touch on the weather, fishing, a recent accident, the latest soccer score, and a run-in someone in the village may have had with some summer people.

  The policemen who drop in on Gottfried are all locals, and they know Gottfried from way back. They may even know him from school. They meet occasionally in bars. All this to say that Gottfried is accepted. He is almost one of them. Almost as good as a fireman, and certainly better than the mailman. More respected. They know they can loosen up in front of him. Speak freely, knowing that it will not be passed on.

  Everything O.K.? the policeman asked.

  Been listening to the radio, said Gottfried. In this weather, only the fishing boats are going out to sea.

  Well, I’ll see you later, said the policeman. We’ve received a report that someone might blow up this bridge, so we have to keep a lookout.

  Blow up this bridge?

  Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

  Why didn’t anyone get in touch with me about it? I mean, I’m the one in charge here, Gottfried said irately.

  I’ve just been in touch with you. Now you know. If you notice anything unusual, call us.

  You’re making it up, said Gottfried. Bloody shitheads … they just love a little panic … gives everyone something to do … Blow up this bridge. What next?

  When the policeman turned to go, Gottfried pulled his old service revolver out of his pocket and without a moment’s hesitation shot the policeman twice in the back of the head. Then, when the other man, having heard the shots, entered the control tower, Gottfried called to him, Come up quick. As if he had been shooting people all his life, Gottfried shot him in the face, and then followed the man’s body as it slid down the metal stairs, shooting him once more in the head for good measure when he came to rest. Having shut the metal door, Gottfried pushed the body, which was now blocking the narrow stairway, to one side and rushed back up, just in time to open the drawbridge for an incoming fishing trawler. The man behind the wheel on the bridge waved to him. Gottfried waved back. Only then did he notice that there was blood smeared on the control panel.

  .

  7

  What does Gottfried’s wife really know?

  She knows that in another nine years and seven months he will retire on a pension. She knows that despite Gottfried’s grumbling, they will visit his brother next Sunday. She knows that it is a Thursday. Stew for dinner. She knows where he spends most of his day, atop the squat concrete tower on the bridge. She also, more or less, knows what people think of him. A nice harmless man who likes to talk. It is true. First chance he gets, he will strike up a conversation with perfect strangers. Anyone. He is indiscriminate. Whenever they go anywhere he will always talk to someone the moment her back is turned. And then, with a deceptively shy smile Gottfried will introduce the stranger to her, saying, This gentleman collects cigar boxes and his son is living in Australia … or, This gentleman comes from Hamburg, last August returning from the East Frisian Islands, he took the coast
al road … and so on … looking at her expectantly, as if expecting her to share his enthusiasm for the stranger. Perhaps extend an invitation: If you ever happen to be in Gänzlich, look us up. These random encounters are the only things that Gottfried remembers of their outings. He remembers word for word what he said and what the other man said. But let her try to say something, anything that interests her, and Gottfried will turn a deaf ear. Suddenly he has developed a hearing impediment. What? What? Once in a while, she asks him: Gottfried, tell me, now, this instant, what are you thinking? I want to know. I want to know. But as yet, she has never received a satisfactory reply. I’m not thinking of anything special, is the usual answer. Nothing special. Or, I was just thinking that … Yes? Well, that if … Yes? If it didn’t seem to cause … Yes? Oh, nothing really.

  .

  8

  As Ulrich was driving to Gänzlich along the coastal road he witnessed the explosion and felt the shock waves of the three detonations surge through his body. The first explosion blew out the heavy metal door of the control tower and all its windows, a split second later, the second and third, originating at the center of the bridge, shook the entire structure, and then as the two halves of the bridge folded inward in a cloud of dust, the police car stationed in front of the tower started its downward slide. Ulrich, shaken by the thought that he might have been crossing the bridge when the explosion took place, got out of his car and walked to the side of the canal, where he was joined by other motorists, all staring at the destroyed bridge, at the tail section of the police car, which was still above water, at the spectators, mostly motorists on the other side of the bridge. A man at Ulrich’s side, cigarette in his mouth, had trouble lighting a match. Someone spotted a man in a yellow fisherman’s slicker scrambling down the steep bank of the canal, to where a tiny motor-powered boat was bobbing up and down in the water. Ulrich watched the man pull the boat closer to the bank, jump in, and cast off. Head lowered, the man started the engine and without looking at either bank headed at full speed down the canal to the open sea.

  I just can’t believe it, said the man next to Ulrich. Can absolutely nothing be relied upon any longer?

  What’s the best way to Gänzlich, asked Ulrich.

  I guess we’ll have to take a boat across, said the man.

  The best way to Gänzlich by car, said Ulrich.

  You must be kidding.

  .

  9

  When Ulrich decided to visit Dr. Ernst Magenbach, the Würtenburger Neue Zeit that morning carried an article on the mysterious explosion that had partially destroyed a drawbridge in Gänzlich. At least a dozen large fishing vessels and twenty pleasure boats remained trapped in the inland waters, unable to head out to sea until the spans of the bridge now blocking the canal were removed. In the control tower the bodies of the two policemen who had been making a routine check of the tower had been found, both shot to death. The drawbridge attendant, who may have been involved in the destruction of the bridge, had been seen heading out to sea in a small motor-powered boat. The coast guard was continuing its search for the motorboat. Local authorities seemed to believe that the drawbridge attendant, Gottfried Mühler, may have had accomplices. His wife said that he owned a pistol and that the weapon, his old service revolver, was missing from the drawer where he had always kept it. He was well liked in Gänzlich, which is a small community five kilometers north of Jüngers. According to his wife, Inge, Gottfried had been dejected of late. Several months ago he had an encounter with a leading member of the Einzieh Group who may have recruited him. A former member of the group now residing in Gänzlich was brought to the police station for questioning but later released. The funeral for the two policemen—both were residents of Gänzlich—was attended by the entire Police Department and Fire Departmnt of Gänzlich and the adjoining township of Jüngers. In a leaflet sent to the newspapers, Zeit, the Einzieh Group applauded the heroic action of a German worker who, on his own initiative, forcefully expressed his rejection of a system of government in which the worker is kept in a permanent bondage, without any hope of improving his life or the life of his children. One day, the German workers will lose their patience. In an editorial, the newspaper mentioned that the Einzieh Group had neglected to mention that the two policemen killed in the bizarre destruction of the drawbridge also were working class, as were the fishermen whose boats were now prevented from reaching the North Sea. But nowhere was there any mention of Paula.

  When Ulrich entered the doctor’s office, Dr. Magenbach stood up to greet him and then motioned him to sit in the chair at the side of his desk. It was a leather armchair, similar to the one on which Dr. Magenbach was seated. The only seeming difference was that the doctor’s chair swiveled, whereas the one on which he was seated did not.

  How did Ulrich broach the reason for his visit to the doctor?

  Circuitously.

  Indirectly.

  Yes, said the doctor, I won’t deny that in some cases it might be desirable to regress a patient back to his childhood, to let the patient—so to speak—re-experience his childhood. And then to instruct the patient under hypnosis to recall what he had just experienced. Did the patient also have to be a good hypnotic subject, Ulrich wanted to know. A good hypnotic subject was preferable, but not absolutely essential. But before we proceed with your inquiry into hypnosis and age regression, said Dr. Magenbach, I think it best that you tell me something about yourself.

  And Ulrich quietly began: I was born in Würtenburg, in 1945, after my father had been executed by the Nazis the year before. Sometimes I actually believe that I remember the end of the war. Probably what I remember is what I have been told about it by my mother or Doris, our servant, or Franz, our other servant, who returned in 1948 or ’49 to stay with us for a number of years.

  I grew up in a large old house in the country. A house that after the war was gradually emptied of its contents, its furniture, its paintings, its silverware, its carpets, anything that was of value. People from all over came by to see what we had to sell. At one time I actually believed that we were living in a large store in which everything, even my own possessions, my toys, were for sale. I was also under the impression that everything in the neighboring houses was for sale as well. Yet, despite the impermanence of all the objects in our house, we lived comfortably. We ate reasonably well, and Doris, our faithful Doris, managed to keep the house in some sort of order.

  My mother was a very beautiful woman who had been dreadfully spoiled. Prior to the war she and my father had led an active social life, and she was accustomed to entertaining a great deal. All of this came to a halt. My father was executed, and she—this is before I was born—was shunned. Being sequestered in the country—our house in Würtenburg had been totally destroyed—couldn’t have been much fun for her. Everyone knew that her husband had been killed, but not fighting the enemy. Executed by Hitler. In the first few years after the war people had not yet come to terms with that sort of situation. My father’s family remained aloof. I remember as I was growing up having a certain ambivalent feeling with respect to my father, not knowing if he was a traitor or a hero … Once in a while we had visitors. I remember deeply resenting the men who came to visit. Resenting the attention she received. I rarely saw our neighbors. We had few friends. I played mostly with my elder brother or by myself. My mother was spending more and more time away from the house. She had new friends. Slowly our house was once again being filled with objects. They arrived in boxes, in crates. Who was buying them? Who was sending them? But when I think back, despite my mother’s prolonged absences, life proceeded unchanged with a strict attention to order, to doing things the way they were supposed to be done. Our household was run by the clock. Breakfast at a certain hour, then lunch, then dinner. Finally I was old enough to go to school. Most of our teachers were men who had taught school during the war. They had not changed their political beliefs. Not really. And quite a number, I gathered, detested the name Hargenau, as if blaming the Hargenaus for the
outcome of the war.

  But then, I must also confess, at the age of seven or eight, I can’t exactly remember when, I came to realize that I wasn’t, that I couldn’t be, a Hargenau. It might have been something my brother had told me. Or perhaps it was Franz. Certainly not my mother. The information was easily confirmed … I had been born too long after my father’s imprisonment and execution for me to be his son. I pretended that it wasn’t true. I practiced a sort of self-deception. I still don’t have the slightest clue as to who my father could be … and I almost prefer it that way, prefer it to discovering that my father was someone in the Einsatzkommando. Of course my mother knows, and presumably Franz and Doris and, quite possibly, my brother Helmuth who, incidentally, almost succeeded in having me killed quite recently. But that is past history. I am a bastard. Perhaps an appropriate role for a writer … I can’t deny that I am afraid to find out who my father may be … afraid to discover what role he played during the war. In that respect I don’t quite trust my mother’s judgment in men … her ability to discriminate. She was always attracted to power and to glamor, something my father—you see, I still call him my father—possessed when she married him. I haven’t seen my mother in a great many years, and I don’t deny that I continue to blame her. You may well ask, blame her for what? For not telling me? For not taking me aside and saying: Look here Ulrich, you really are the son of so and so … She’s married to a retired German banker who, I believe, was a high officer in the Wehrmacht … and for all I know he might also have been her former lover, or one of her lovers, but I doubt it. I don’t believe he is my father, for if he were she would hasten to tell me, hasten to repair the damage. I mention this because you said, Tell me something about yourself. I must also add that I do not find it difficult to speak about this. In general, if I have not done so in the past it was because I felt hampered, constricted by convention, by a question of good taste … I would also like to add that each time I am introduced, each time I say that my name is Hargenau, and people recognize the name and know that I am the son of Ulrich von Hargenau, I am actually practicing a kind of deceit. It cannot have been an accident that my mother chose the name Ulrich for me. Granted that it is not a deliberate deceit. Perhaps I should have told Paula before we were married. Perhaps I should have told the Einzieh Group … Is it possible that I agreed to work with the group because I wanted a role that would, in a certain respect, parallel the role my father played in ’44? He was not cut out to be a conspirator, and I … I let down the group. Was that a deliberate act on my part? I should add that my brother, Helmuth, didn’t think very much of my father’s heroics. In his place, Helmuth said, he would have hightailed it to Switzerland.