by Anne Raeff
“And during all this they never said a word?” Tommy asked yet again. “Not even to complain? Didn’t you ever try to talk to them?”
“No, not a word. Talk to them? They wouldn’t have understood.”
“But you could have tried.”
“They frightened me. I think I felt that if I could come to understand them and they could understand me, then I would become like them.”
“When did you realize you were pregnant?”
“Now let’s not get ahead of the story again.”
“But don’t talk about the prisoners anymore. Their muteness frightens me more than full-fledged, ranting and raving lunacy. If I get that, the dementia, will you still try to talk to me?”
“You’re not going to get dementia.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I just do.”
“Mrs. Mondschein, the clairvoyant,” Tommy said, then began to recite, affecting a high-pitched, exaggerated British accent: “Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, had a bad cold.”
“Clara used to love T. S. Eliot,” I said.
“I still love Eliot, adolescent as that may be.”
“Perhaps she still loves him, too.”
“Perhaps. Promise me you will continue talking after I can no longer understand what you are saying. Promise you will not let me become mute.”
“I promise, although I can’t promise that you will be grateful. It would have been the ultimate act of cruelty to attempt drawing my fellow prisoners out of their silent world. In fact, I came to believe they were practicing a strange form of mysticism, a Buddhist escape from suffering. Our commanding officer would have been impressed.”
“You mean that they had somehow escaped their bodies and entered into a spiritual state?”
“I mean that they had escaped both their bodies and their minds. Perhaps that’s the purest form of spirituality.”
“I’ve always despised meditation. I had a lover who used to bore me with talk about Buddhist monasteries in Tibet. He was always threatening to leave me to pursue his spiritual inclinations. In the end, he left me for a lawyer with a swimmer’s body.”
“And did he ever go to Tibet?”
“Not to my knowledge. He’s probably dead or dying now. So, did you finally become like them?”
“Like them? Oh, no.”
“Why not?”
“I think we should listen to some music now, or we could watch Death in Venice again. I’m tired, Tommy. I don’t sleep very well here.”
“You don’t have to stay, you know. Why don’t you go back to your apartment, get some rest. Remember, tomorrow’s another day, even for a fag dying of AIDS.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so flippant about your illness,” I found myself saying.
“Was I being flippant? I’m sorry. But please, why don’t you go home, make sure everything’s okay up there in that war zone you live in.”
“No, please, let’s watch Death in Venice again.”
“Don’t you ever get sick of it?”
“No, are you sick of it? Do you hate it? You mustn’t lie to me. If you don’t like it, just tell me,” I said, although I would have been devastated if he had confessed that he didn’t really like it.
“I like it; I’m the one who wanted to see it again, but it’s not the sort of movie you watch three days in a row.”
“Then we won’t watch it. We’ll just listen to some music. I brought a recording of Sephardic music. Do you like Sephardic music? It’s very soothing.”
“I adore it.”
“My granddaughter introduced me to it. She’s a cellist.”
“I remember. I’d like to meet her. Maybe there is something of Karl in her.”
“Maybe. I have an idea. A wonderful idea. You call your parents and I’ll introduce you to Deborah.”
“That’s not what I would call a wonderful idea. In fact, it’s a terribly bad idea; moreover, it’s very low of you to suggest it. And what about your not calling Clara in almost a week? What if they’re all frantically looking for you?” Tommy said, almost raising his voice.
“They’re not.”
“And neither are my parents.”
“But yours is an entirely different case. For you, your parents are the enemy while all I need is a little distance from my daughter as she does from me. It’s healthy. We rub each other the wrong way; we think so differently. Sometimes we need a little vacation, especially since Karl’s death. We both miss him terribly. It would have been better if I had died first.”
“How can you say something like that? And where would I be, Mrs. Mondschein, if you had died first?”
“And where would I be, Tommy, without you? But I must make you understand.”
“Make me understand what, Mrs. Mondschein?”
“You will have to figure that out yourself.”
“Only if you give me the opportunity to do so.”
“Then I will; I must continue my story. Should we wait until tomorrow?”
“I have decided not to sleep anymore. I can’t bear the thought of sleeping through the last days of my life. I never have understood people who say they want to die in their sleep. Have you?”
“No.”
“Can you stay awake with me? It won’t be much longer.”
“Don’t you know that old people suffer from insomnia?”
“I thought that was a myth, like they say you get a burst of energy just before you’re going to die.”
“It’s true. It happened to Karl. We sang along with the entire Sunday morning broadcast of Carmen the day before he died. His voice was steadier than it had been for years.”
“Well, I feel incredibly tired right now, so I guess I must have some time left. You were telling me about your silent fellow prisoners.”
“You know, I never even knew their names, nor did they know mine. I wanted to tell them sometimes, scream it out in the middle of the night: ‘I am Ruth Mondschein, née Feinberg.’ Sometimes I thought that all I had to do was make them say their names and they would come out of their trance, but I couldn’t do it. So I suffered the silence. I worked in the cold. I ate only what was absolutely necessary and arbitrarily gave away what I could keep myself from devouring. No one ever thanked me, but no one ever refused either.
“I don’t know how long I lived like that. Was it a week? Was it a month? The days and nights had no distinguishing features. But one day I was called for by the commandant. The guard woke me in the middle of the night; I was sure he was taking me outside like he had done with other women, who remained silent even during that. I begged him, I screamed, waking up the entire bunker. I knew I did because I could hear them turning in their beds, but no one said a word. He put his hand over my mouth and dragged me out through the snow in my bare feet. I screamed and screamed and then as we passed where the men slept, I was quiet for fear Karl would wake up and recognize my voice. I was silent after that and obeyed.
“When we got to the commandant’s quarters, he berated the guard for not giving me a blanket to wear over my shoulders. The guard apologized mechanically and was dismissed. And then I was even more afraid than I had been with the guard. The commandant was not in uniform, which somehow made him even more frightening—bigger, stronger. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I was used to uniforms. His woolen suit, however, reminded me of my first husband perhaps. He told me to sit down, and I sat. He offered me tea, and I accepted. He bent down to poke the fire and he moved my chair closer to the flames, but I could not stop shivering.
“He excused himself and returned almost immediately carrying a tray of cakes, which made my mouth water. I would have preferred meat, but I ate all the cakes. There were eight of them. He watched me eat them
one by one without disturbing me while I tried not to reveal my hunger by devouring them too quickly. Later, my weakened stomach would rebel against those cakes, of course. When I finished eating, he sat down on a sofa on the other side of the room and crossed his legs. I noticed how large his feet were and how long his legs were. His feet frightened me more than anything, I think.
“‘You are wondering, I am sure, why I have brought you here,’ he said, and I nodded.
“‘I am a selfish man—selfishness has always been my weakness, ever since childhood. I have been here for three years—three years with little conversation or companionship.’ He stopped as if he expected me to comment, but I said nothing so he continued. ‘I want to converse with you. It would be my greatest pleasure to converse with you.’ I still had nothing to say, so I said nothing.
“‘I know you would prefer another interlocutor, as would I, but I am all you have, and you are all I have. The others are too weak for conversation.’ He waited for me to respond, but I said nothing. ‘Perhaps you would like to choose our topic. The sky is the limit. It is entirely up to you.’ Still I was silent.
“‘Very well, I will choose,’ he finally said. ‘An icebreaker perhaps. I will tell you a story, a seemingly inconsequential story, but one I am fond of nonetheless. When I was eleven, I witnessed a very strange accident. It was on the school grounds during recess. There was a group of us that always stood as far away from the teachers as possible, telling off-color stories or practicing soccer moves. We were the athletes and the scholars—handsome, intelligent boys from wealthy families. We had no interest in our younger classmates or in anything but ourselves. It’s the age, you know. But for some reason, I looked up just in time to see one of the younger boys throw a stone at another boy. The stone hit the boy’s head, and the boy fell down immediately. Teachers and students ran to help him. I was the only one who remained where I was. The boy was dead—from a stone the size of a marble. The ambulance came and took the dead boy away. The boy who threw the stone never returned to school. His name was Hans—a thin, quiet child with glasses of whom I have often thought throughout the years. You see, I envied him. Imagine being so young and so tortured. I envied his suffering. I envied his nightmares. I envied the secret he would someday keep from his wife.’
“‘And did you ever think about the boy who died?’ I could not keep myself from asking him. He had a way about him, a certain charm, which I can’t explain, just as a snake cannot explain why it dances every time his master plays the flute.
“‘He died instantly. He never suffered,’ the commandant said, leaning back in his chair as if he had just finished a delicious meal at an expensive restaurant.
“‘I would like to go back to my bed,’ I said. ‘I have no desire to converse with you.’
“‘But you can’t. I’m sorry, but that is the way things are. I would let you go if I could, but I told you I am a selfish man.’
“‘Then we must discuss something else,’ I said forcefully.
“‘Please, do you have any suggestions?’
“‘No.’
“‘Then I will continue where I left off. Are you in love with your husband?’
“‘I don’t even know if my husband is alive or dead.’
“‘And do you want to know?’ he asked, but I said nothing. ‘I shall find out,’ he said because he had to say something. ‘Tomorrow I will tell you. Or perhaps you would like to know now. I can send someone right now if you so desire.’
“Did he think he was being kind or was this part of a cruel game? I couldn’t tell. His eyes said nothing. ‘No,’ I said.
“‘Are you afraid to know the truth?’
“‘No.’
“‘I see. Of course I understand that you do not want to be beholden to me. A wise woman. Very wise. So you will not answer my question. Very well. I will tell you about my wife. I don’t love her. She is beautiful and intelligent. She plays the piano exquisitely, could have been a concert pianist if women were more respected in our world. She doesn’t love me either. And do you know why? I will tell you. There is absolutely nothing romantic about our marriage at all. Nothing at all. We were not forced to marry by our families. Neither of us is in love with someone else. Shall I tell you then? Good, then I shall tell you.’
“‘I have not agreed,’ I said.
“‘But I shall tell you anyway. We don’t love each other because we are both too selfish. She is my perfect match and I hers. We never argue. Never. Everyone thinks we’re the perfect couple. We dance beautifully together. We stroll arm in arm. We laugh at each other’s jokes. People wonder why we have no children. Our one blemish. We smile and say we are too busy enjoying each other’s company, and the old ladies shake their heads; the others are envious, although they would never admit it. We vacation in Italy. We attend the opera and the symphony. Of course all that has changed now because of the war. We haven’t seen each other in three years. We never write letters. The German army is impressed with my dedication. They all think I’m terribly dedicated to the Third Reich.’”
“Why did you listen to this guy?” Tommy cut in angrily, in a way that I had never heard him speak before. I had heard him sarcastic and bitter too, but not angry.
“How could I not listen? I was facing him and he was facing me.”
“You could have screamed.”
“And who would have come running? Besides, he was only talking. I had expected so much worse. I won’t tell you any more if you don’t want to hear it.”
“I have to hear it, Mrs. Mondschein. It’s part of the story, isn’t it?”
“There are many ways to tell a story.”
“You better be telling me everything. I refuse to listen if you don’t tell me everything.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” Tommy said and leaned back once again, waiting for me to begin. I took a deep breath, and I could hear the commandant’s voice in my head as I spoke.
“‘So here I am, my dear lady,’ the commandant said. ‘I try not to go out much. I have never liked the cold and have always been prone to depression. If I stay inside, things are easier. I have plenty of Sliwowitz, and my guards are quite dedicated to the Cause, so I know the work will get done.’
“And that was when I couldn’t hold it in any longer, which, I realized later, was exactly what he was waiting for. ‘Don’t you know that people are starving to death here? Do you know that every night someone dies of hunger and cold? Do you know that every night another woman is raped? Do you know that your dedicated guards use us for target practice?’
“‘Aah, so you have finally agreed to converse,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased; however, I’ve had enough for tonight. We’ll continue our conversation tomorrow.’ And that was it. A guard appeared as if by magic and took me back to the bunker, where I was up all night paying the price for eating those eight delicate cakes.
“The next night it was the same thing. A guard came for me, only this time I wasn’t as scared, which is not to say that I was completely without fear. It didn’t take long to learn that the Nazis thrived on arbitrary and completely irrational cruelty. There was something about this commandant, however, that almost made me trust him, not trust him as a friend, but trust him as an enemy. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking about our conversation the entire next day. It kept me busy, our little talk, so I didn’t notice the cold so much or the hunger or even the silence.
“‘How are you, my dear lady?’ the commandant asked, and I decided to tell him the truth.
“‘The cakes didn’t agree with me, so I was a little sick. I’m feeling much better now. Thank you.’
“‘Perhaps you would prefer some soup then?’
“‘Soup would be lovely,’ I said, not too eagerly. So he brought soup and bread from the kitchen and watched me as I
ate.
“‘Would you like to listen to some music?’ he asked after a while.
“‘Please,’ I said and he put on Haydn. I remember it was The Chicken Symphony, and we laughed about the name.
“‘Haydn is superior to Beethoven, don’t you think?’ he said and I had to agree.
“‘I never really liked Beethoven,’ I said, and he laughed.
“‘I have some news for you. Your husband is doing very well. I told one of the guards to give him some extra bread, but he refused it. A brave man, your husband. A doctor, if I’m not mistaken?’
“‘Yes,’ I said.
“‘When I was young, I often thought of studying medicine, but I’ve always been on the lazy side, so I never had any real intention of pursuing such a career. Will you tell me how it was that you and your husband managed to avoid the Gestapo for so long?’
“‘No.’
“‘I assure you that the information will not leave this room.’
“‘I still will not tell you.’
“‘So you are trying to protect someone. How noble of you.’
“‘It’s not a question of nobility but of common decency. But that is something you would never be able to understand,’ I replied angrily.
“‘You are wrong there, Mrs. Mondschein, although I realize it would be impossible to convince you of it at this point in our friendship.’
“‘Nothing short of freeing us all would convince me.’
“‘Free you so you can be captured again and sent to Auschwitz? That truly would be an act of mercy,’ he said sarcastically.
“‘You have a very limited concept of freedom, Herr Kommandant.’
“‘Perhaps I do. Or perhaps you do. I am a prisoner too, you know. We are all prisoners of the Reich.’
“‘Some of us more so than others.’
“‘This I will certainly not dispute. But let’s talk about something else, something more personal. I told you last night I was married. I lied. I often lie. It is one of my few entertainments. You see, I have never been married. In fact, I have very little interest in living in such close proximity to another human being. Do you have any children, Mrs. Mondschein?’
