Anniversaries

by Uwe Johnson

  – as Mr. Fang Liu: Marie says.

  – As only Chinese people can act around strangers’ children.

  Papenbrock sat there like the reigning monarch of the whole affair, but a dissatisfied one, watching something disagreeable taking place under his very nose. He was not seething with rage against Cresspahl, not in the least, though Cresspahl assumed he was. The previous evening, Papenbrock had left Avenarius Kollmorgen and his red wine for the Lübeck Court and Lindemann’s Mosel, and stayed past closing time, just to brood silently in Cresspahl’s presence. Cresspahl thought he might as well endure the uncomfortable silence if it helped Papenbrock get over his defeat; not in the least did he suspect that the old man was mentally comparing him to Horst Papenbrock, to how Horst spent his time, and was seriously considering changing his will. Here Papenbrock was not entirely paying attention. He was not so absentminded that he failed to notice the moisture in the inner corners of his eyes, but instead of dabbing at it with pleasure, like Louise, he roughly wiped it away as one more annoyance. He didn’t hear the child sneeze, they had to tell him that later. He’d started early that morning. He’d waited to see if Horst would come to breakfast in his SA uniform. The moment he caught sight of the brown boots, he’d started yelling, to Horst’s amazement—Horst didn’t think anyone was paying attention to him at all. Horst insisted he’d wear the party uniform to church. Papenbrock pushed his plate away, very slowly, with obvious regret. Horst was now in the wrong for forcing his aged father to let his fried eggs get cold. When Papenbrock rose to his feet, he started yelling. Cresspahl had kept his head down, like everyone else at the table, and had almost admired the old man. He roared effortlessly, one imprecation after another occurring to him for people who don’t respect the dignity of a religious ceremony, who don’t do their work, who don’t understand anything except idiotic schoolboy pranks (– Idiotic schoolboy pranks? said Horst, pale, composed, outraged, feeling that the symbols of the new state were under attack. – Yes! Papenbrock roared: Holding hands with shoemaker’s daughters!), all in his fast Plattdeutsch laced with obscenities, so that Horst didn’t even have the courage to mention in Elisabeth Lieplow’s defense that despite being from Kröpelin, the cobbler city, she was certainly not a shoemaker’s daughter, she was a tax collector’s. When he left the room, the bang of the door echoed behind him. When he came back, dressed in a black Sunday suit, Papenbrock sent him out to feed the horses, and this time Horst showed no rebellion or threat even in his face, and it’s harder to stomp off loudly in dress shoes. Now, next to the old man in the pew, admittedly still under observation, he signaled his independence with a bored demeanor, because he thought he had weathered Papenbrock’s bad mood. He continued to think that through lunch, although he did notice that while the dish with the roast goose was regularly passed to his place, the white wine was not. In fact, Papenbrock was acting peaceable, almost hedonistic. He gave three speeches: one for Lisbeth, one for Hilde, one for the child sleeping off the hardship of the outing at a safe distance from him. Her second middle name, Albertine, was more than he could have hoped for, he apparently said (according to Mrs. Brüshaver). Then he posed the question: Does one have to forgive one’s children for everything? Not even Louise Papenbrock wanted to answer that, but she saw something coming. She hunched forward a little, folded her hands in her lap, to be ready to pray if necessary. Papenbrock, meanwhile, insisted on an answer. Eventually, he even turned to Brüshaver point-blank, and the new pastor, caught by surprise with a half-raised glass in his hand, again acted as though he knew all about this family’s internal disputes. He gestured at drinking a toast, nodded slightly, but in such a way that his assent gave Papenbrock the springboard he’d been looking for. Papenbrock reminded his family of Reformation Day 1931, when everyone had accused him of “hard-heartedness” just because he had not wanted to bring his son back from “Rio de Janeiro.” Now Brüshaver was looking down into his glass, and Semig would rather have not been in the room. – Lisbeth has a child, Hilde’s about to have one: Papenbrock said, not without taking a certain satisfaction in his logical line of argument. – Youre gonna go get im: he said, not even looking in Horst’s direction. Then he sat down, listening to none of his youngest offspring’s objections. On the contrary, he started a conversation with Semig about the effects of the spring rain on clayey soil, about whether Meyer’s estate wouldn’t have to be re-plowed. He brushed off what was coming from Horst’s end of the table like an annoying insect.

  Down at that end Horst had a lot to say. He didn’t know Brazilian. He was then informed that it’s actually called Portuguese and can be learned. His work on the estate and in the warehouse would have to be left undone. That was a bad move. Now he got another talking-to, never mind the presence of guests for the christening. He’d had other people doing his work for three months now, and any single one of them would probably do it better than he would, not with an eye to an inheritance but to a well-earned wage. It wouldn’t be easy finding the long-lost eldest. Well then he’d better look hard. It could take a year. If it took two, Papenbrock would survive. It would cost a mint. That’s what Papenbrock had money for. Horst couldn’t get out of it. His sisters gave him no support, partly to pay him back for numerous insults and partly because they were taken in by Papenbrock’s generosity. They were touched, too, and found Horst’s attempts to refuse the job disgraceful. Louise cried because tears seemed called for. Cresspahl stared across the table until Semig finally admitted with a glance that he had smiled into his wineglass. Cresspahl was, almost unwillingly, on Papenbrock’s side. The old man had no faith in the new government and no desire to let Horst’s SA activities get him involved if the regime collapsed. He may even have been trying to protect Horst by sending him halfway around the world. It was amusing to watch Horst, who seemed to think the choice was between staying and going; in fact, he was being offered the choice between the Nazis and his inheritance, and if he decided in favor of bourgeois property then he would probably get only half of it, long-lost Robert Papenbrock getting the other half, and Horst helping him get it, in Portuguese. And Horst didn’t dare try to seriously bring up the SA, in which he would miss out on rank and fame while away. It was amusing enough, but sometimes the people around this table seemed alien to Cresspahl. He didn’t feel like he belonged there, and in fact his bag was standing packed by the front door and he was once again waiting for the connecting train to the line 2 express to Hamburg. But this time he was traveling alone, and for the last time.

  Well youve gotten your way, Lisbeth.

  Well youll get yours for the rest of your life, Hinrich.

  The business owners along Fifth Avenue have organized a parade on Fifth Avenue to protest against parades on Fifth Avenue. They lose a half a million dollars per parade and want them moved to a street west of Central Park, either West End Avenue or Riverside Drive. We’d have an earful to give them about that.

  November 20, 1967 Monday

  In a move designed to protect the dollar in the wake of Britain’s devaluation of the pound, the Federal Reserve System announced a new discount rate of 4.5 percent, an increase of 0.5 percent. Once again, The New York Times does not want any of her readers to neglect the news simply because he or she does not understand it, so she explains, once again: The discount rate is the amount commercial banks pay to borrow money from the Federal Reserve System. She repeats the lesson on her contents page. We’ve taken courses in political economics at Columbia University for this! The Spanish government, too, has devalued its currency. Work at the bank this week will be even heavier than last week.

  Major General William R. Peers, the commander of the Fourth Infantry Division in Vietnam, comments on the fighting near Dakto in the Central Highlands: “There’s no use fighting him (the Vietcong) man to man: You make a contact and let him have it with air and artillery.”

  It started yesterday morning. Marie was talking on the phone in the living room. She said little in response to the person on the other end of
the line; it sounded like “Yes” every time. Her obedient tone of voice was incredible. Then she was inaudible, but so was the click of hanging up. When I looked in she was standing with her back to the phone and holding the receiver straight out in front of her. She let out a deep breath when we took it from her. It was emitting the dial tone. She kept her eyes lowered, she kneaded her knuckles, she was trying out what she would say. – It’s Karsch: she said.

  But then it hadn’t actually been Karsch. A stranger had asked for him. He wasn’t here. The stranger knew that. He not only knew where Karsch was, he promised that Karsch would be staying there unless $2,000 turned up to replace him. And fast. He had called Marie “Sister,” just like she imagines the Mafia doing.

  The things children come up with. The stories children tell.

  Marie didn’t defend her story. She went straight to the green desk the Danish woman had left us, reached into the top drawer, between the passports, and took out the travel money, spreading it out on the table and starting to sort it:

  S.fr. 187.00

  £ 9/11/-

  DM 15.00

  Lire 40,000

  There was nothing missing from the story in the retelling. The stranger wanted the money in cash, in small bills, by tonight. At one point he’d let her hear Karsch’s voice over the phone: it sounded a bit unclear, like a tape recording, so Marie had asked him what he’d ordered eight days ago in the UN restaurant, and he’d told her exactly, down to the Idaho potatoes. – It’s really me: he’d said, and further instructions would be coming late this afternoon. The stranger had described himself with the word “we.” As though Karsch was sitting tied to a chair, blindfolded, under the watchful eyes of experienced gunmen. The things children are willing to believe.

  Marie had answered every objection patiently but with a preoccupied look on her face as she systematically went through the whole apartment. It seemed like she was trying to make up with her own actions for the time her mother was wasting. She took the housekeeping money from the tea canister in the kitchen cupboard and laid it out next to the foreign money. Then she brought out the box with her own savings. In the end there was about $450 on the table, foreign currency included. And where are you supposed to exchange foreign money on a Sunday in New York!

  – Kennedy Airport: Marie said. Her face had gotten very small. She was extremely worried; at least she had no doubts about her story. It was past the point of laughing, she wouldn’t even have been offended anymore, at best she would have thought it idiotic. We don’t know anyone who can lend us $1,550 on a Sunday with no questions asked.

  – D. E.: Marie said. But D. E. had left the country this morning. She’d forgotten. Now she was about to cry. Then she raised her head. Her face was resolute once again. Her gray-green eyes were very large between her ruffled lashes. The lashes were only a little damp. She didn’t care if we believed her, she cared that we hurry. Which people where have how much money in the house on a Sunday.

  Dmitri Weiszand. 110th St., but $30 to $40 at most.

  Amanda Williams, also only half an hour away, $90. Her paycheck had come only four days ago.

  Mrs. Ferwalter, three blocks from here. $9.00.

  Mr. & Mrs. Faure. $12.00.

  Mrs. Erichson. Three hours away, across the Hudson. $700. Maybe.

  – Can you give us a lot of money, D. E.?: Marie said into the phone, not shy at all, and naming a figure of $2,000 straight off. For D. E. had told us the wrong departure time again, ostensibly so that no one would be able to pester him with an airport goodbye, but we’re not so sure about that. D. E. restored Marie’s spirits, almost. She answered him in a brisk, mischievous tone; with D. E.’s help she could see a possible way out of the woods. I hadn’t been able to give her that. She said “Yes” three times, then the call was over. She brought me my coat, pushed me out the door. Everyone else believed it.

  But D. E. didn’t make it seem any more real. Nor did the racing subway trains, empty on a Sunday. Even someone like D. E. can’t get a personal check cashed on Sunday. A family was sitting on the West Side express, pressed close together, father mother son and little girl, all brushed and spruced up, the girl with tight braids braided for her half day at the movies on Forty-Second Street, the most affordable outing for the unemployed, for the Negroes. At least they could believe where they were going. The cavern under Times Square was empty and as quiet as a small-town market square. As we ran for the shuttle, a group of schoolgirls helped me by taking half the looks of amazement that had been aimed at me upon themselves. Then it wasn’t amazing at all, the doors banged shut on this train too and it was off. In the Grand Central concourse, all the homeless people and policemen seemed to wake right up. For a moment I saw myself from the height of the blue dome, a tiny figure running from the General Electric corner, across a piazza, veering around the axis point of the information booth, until the escalators whisked the figure up into the Pan American Building. There were British people with golf bags in the offices of New York Airways, startled shabby old men who made way for us. The elevator shot up as though it meant to break through the sixtieth floor into the sky. On the flat roof above the other rooftops, the sea wind battled the gusts being thrown off in all directions by the helicopter blades. Even when eye to eye with the top of the Chrysler Building, a thousand feet up from the street, no simile occurs to us for the half-rounded, overlapping surfaces; how could we ever have been reminded, from down below, of slices of an onion? Southern Brooklyn was buried under identical square flat roofs, each surrounded by leafless hedgerows. To the south, the Atlantic crocheted wispy fringes onto the shore, arms behind levees, eyes separated by seawalls behind peninsulas, curved marks like writing in the marshlands. A streak of sunlight flitted across the cemeteries, flipping the pages of the gravestones like a sped-up top-secret film. After nine minutes, Kennedy International Airport compliantly composed itself under the copter. Our only fear was for Marie. If Karsch wants to play games with Mafia people, why does he have to give them our phone number!

  Our meeting was set for here at the southwesternmost corner of the Pan Am Terminal. Who’d ever believe it. The fourth helicopter to come bouncing in through the stubborn wind was from Newark Airport. With his blue cloth hat perched all the way up on the top of his head, like a joke, D. E. looked as if in disguise. But his expression was grim; he looked around downright ferociously. It was the first time we’d ever seen him anxious, confused, worried.

  – Thanks for the great weather too: D. E. said.

  Am I doing this for you, Gesine?

  No, and thank you for asking, D. E.

  I just wanted to say I’d be happy to.

  I’d believe that more if you didn’t say it out loud, D. E.

  The whole time in the bus to the SAS Terminal, he told us about his obstacles getting here, and not in his usual quick jokey way. He spoke slowly, with bad-tempered pauses, as if thinking in a writing rhythm. The other passengers might easily have taken it for a goodbye conversation between a bored married couple. So: On the way to the airport he’d stopped by Oscar’s, to get something he’d forgotten. (Oscar ran the “booth” at the junction and has often illegally sold D. E. alcohol on Sundays, and will likewise have lent him cash.) D. E. had also filled up his tank “where we always get gas.” (That’s another one of his friends, who would cash a personal checks. In other words, unmarked bills, above suspicion.) He had, unfortunately, parked his car rather carelessly at Newark Airport and really needed someone to go get it. On the sidewalk outside SAS check-in, D. E. handed us an airmail envelope to mail and a key ring with car keys. He wouldn’t leave without giving us a hug, which he did in the Russian way, like a quotation, but he took more time with it than a quotation needs: both arms around my shoulders, one cheek, the other, the first again. – Take care of the kid! D. E. said grumpily before heading off joylessly to Copenhagen, a powerful man laid low with his dislike of traveling. He always says Copenhagen; he says Reykjavík too; it’s probably more like Baffin Isla
nd, if not Greenland. Come back soon, D. E. Have a good trip, D. E. No one answered at SIX-AUKS, Manhattan. Marie picked up only after the fifth ring. She was speaking easily again, impetuous and excited, like a child. – I’ll be waiting for you at New York Central Railway, third window from the left: she said and hung up before I could give the answer she didn’t want to hear. She wants to come too; we’ll have to get that idea out of her head. The helicopter back to Manhattan had few passengers. Concealed by the seat backs, I opened the flap of the airmail envelope. It was a wad of bills, all fifties or lower, most of them so dirty they might have been used to wipe the floor. It was not $2,000, it was $2,400. That’s D. E., too much of a good thing every time.

  – We’ll mail it to ourselves: Marie said in the Grand Central concourse, a jittery kid who kept looking over Gesine’s shoulder, looking sideways for anyone watching, and wishing she had eyes in the back of her head. – An airmail envelope from New York 10017 to New York 10025? I said. But Marie wouldn’t let herself be distracted. She said: – If I don’t tell you the address then your Karsch is in the soup, as D. E. so rightly says.