Clara Mondschein's Melancholia

by Anne Raeff

  I have reread what I have written and, really, I should tear up all this drivel because that is what it is. But I won’t. I will save it as I have saved all my other undelivered letters to you. I will file it, under Important Papers. Then you will find it when I am dead because I know you will outlive me because you have always been the stronger one. What would you do if I did away with myself right now, smashed my head with this ridiculous typewriter, sliced my neck with a paper cutter? Would that change anything? I doubt it. I wonder if Deborah would take my place, but I don’t think she would. She is already losing interest in us, and I don’t blame her. On the contrary, I wish I could have sent her away long ago.

  She has gone off somewhere. Gone off into the night. Slammed the door without saying goodbye. Did you hear it? Should I go out looking for her? But that would do none of us any good, and if she has learned anything from all this, she has learned to depend on herself. There is something to be said for that. Perhaps she will be home by morning. Perhaps she will bring us breakfast in bed. Now I am really being ridiculous. It is because I am so tired. I’m sure a little sleep will do me good. Maybe it will snow tonight and when I wake up, the streets will be covered with snow and we can take a walk and afterwards drink hot chocolate with cognac.

  S.

  PART II

  cello concerto no. 1

  in d minor

  Pribor

  When I turned to look at Tommy, he was sleeping. At first I was just going to try to get some sleep myself since it was after three in the morning, but then I remembered that he didn’t want to sleep anymore, and I thought he would be upset if he woke up in the morning to find that I had allowed him to succumb. So I tried waking him up, but he wouldn’t stir. He was breathing, though, that raspy, sickly breathing that he always has. “Tommy, Tommy,” I kept saying, shaking him gently, but he wouldn’t wake up. I felt his pulse. It was very slow. I called a nurse, and she said he was in a coma. “Call the doctor!” I screamed at her, and she was very patient, telling me that this was a hospice and no doctors were to be called.

  At first I was almost angry at him for not letting me finish. Then I was angry at myself too for believing that listening to my story could keep him alive. What would have changed once I had finished it anyway? Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be told after all. Perhaps, sad as it may be, it is necessary for some parts of history to die out.

  But I remembered my promise to Tommy to continue my tale even if he couldn’t understand anymore. It is said people in comas can actually hear what is going on around them and that talking to them and playing music can help to bring them back. I put Mahler’s Fifth Symphony on very softly in the background, turned the lights down low, poured myself a glass of water. I thought maybe there was a chance that the music and my story would bring him back again for a short time, so we could at least say goodbye. I put on Mahler’s Fifth because we both like it so much and because the Adagietto is the theme music to Death in Venice. I’ve never met anyone, not even Karl, who shares my taste in music as much as Tommy does.

  When the symphony was finished, I began to speak. At first I felt a little silly speaking without being sure he could hear or understand me, but then I realized that that’s the way it is most of the time when you tell someone about distant and complex matters.

  “I was up the entire following night waiting for the guard to come for me, but he never did. In the morning, I was tired and angry at myself for waiting up, for wanting to continue our conversation, and I almost decided to collapse mid-race during the Selection just to see if the commandant would intervene, keep them from putting me on the one o’clock train. I wanted to give him that choice, that dilemma, and I wanted to know if he would do it. Save me. But I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t?” At this point I stopped and waited for Tommy to answer, to shrug, to make a comment, but he was perfectly still. His eyes stared straight ahead into the light. “Because I had no sense whatsoever of what he would do. Not a clue. It was not worth gambling with my life just to find out something more about a person whom I did not want to know anyway. And to this day, I think that gamble might have been the only way to really understand who he was and what he felt, only by playing such a very dangerous game.

  “The more conversations I had with him, the more I was tempted to try my life-and-death experiment, but I never buckled, though there were days when I felt almost confident that he would choose my life over my death. Yet there were just as many times when I was sure he would choose, or simply allow, my death.

  “He kept me waiting for two nights, and on the third night, when I was taken to his rooms, we were not alone. There were four almost-elderly gentlemen sitting on wooden chairs holding string instruments.

  “‘We have a little music tonight,’ the commandant said as he introduced me as Mrs. Ruth Mondschein to the musicians, two Austrians and two Hungarians. They had all been professional chamber music performers in either Prague or Budapest—I can’t remember which. As they tuned their instruments, the commandant and I sat waiting on the sofa. He sat as close to me as possible without actually touching me. He offered me a cigarette, which I refused, and he lit one for himself, inhaling deeply and then letting the smoke waft slowly out of his mouth. He requested Vivaldi, so they played Vivaldi. I remember it well because I was surprised that the commandant liked Vivaldi. I would have thought Brahms or Bach, something very serious and nothing as light as Vivaldi, and was vaguely disappointed with his choice. I asked him if Vivaldi was one of his favorites or if he had just been in a Vivaldi mood. He said he loved Vivaldi and all things Italian.

  “‘My favorite paintings are Italian, my favorite music, my favorite countryside. I suppose I’m not a very good German,’ he said and laughed, putting his hand on my thigh and then removing it almost instantaneously. He clapped then, very vehemently. ‘Let the music begin,’ he said.

  “The musicians played for about twenty minutes. I was surprised at their strength because they had seemed so tired, so bored before they started playing, as if the physical act of running their bows across the strings of their instruments would require more energy than they could ever have. But they played well, not brilliantly, but beautifully and without making one single mistake.

  “They finished playing and bowed. The commandant and I clapped.

  “‘And do you like Vivaldi, Mrs. Mondschein?’ he asked very seriously.

  “‘I do, but he is not one of my favorites. I prefer more melancholy music.’

  “‘And you see, I don’t. There is enough melancholy in the world as it is. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?’

  “‘Yes,’ they all said, nodding their heads agreeably as if he were asking them whether they wanted more dessert.

  “‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ the commandant said. ‘It has been a charming evening.’ The musicians bowed deeply and a guard appeared to escort them back to their barracks. When they were gone, the commandant said, ‘I often regret that I never studied music more seriously and have even contemplated asking those gentlemen to give me lessons, but I’m afraid this is not the place for pursuing hobbies.’

  “‘Have they been here long?’

  “‘The musicians? Yes, since ’42. So far I have managed to hold on to them for my entertainment, but my orders are to increase the daily shipment numbers. Two hundred a day is what they are demanding now. We’re losing the war, you know.’

  “‘I’m not exactly in a position to know such things,’ I said.

  “‘No, you’re not. Well, we are. Our armies are in retreat everywhere.’

  “‘You don’t seem terribly upset,’ I said, trying to get a sense of his feelings on this matter.

  “‘Not terribly. It will mean going home, though. I don’t have much reason to go home. If I believed in God, I would pray that the war would last forever.’

  “‘If I
believed in God, I would pray that the war would be over this minute.’

  “‘So you can return to your home?’

  “‘Perhaps.’

  “‘Nothing of what was will remain after this is over.’

  “‘And why do you assume that I would like things to be the same as before? You know nothing of my life before I came here.’

  “‘This is very true. I apologize. If you don’t mind my asking you a question?’

  “‘I cannot say until you ask.’

  “‘Then I shall take that risk. Do you sometimes wish you believed in God?’

  “‘No. I come from a religious family and was once a good Jew. Do you know where my sisters went after the Anschluss?’

  “‘To Poland,’ he said.

  “‘How did you know?’

  “‘So many of you went to Poland, as if Poland were the promised land.’ He laughed.

  “‘They went to Poland because they believed in God,’ I said. ‘Those who didn’t believe went to England or the United States or China—anywhere but Poland.’

  “‘And you and your husband stayed right where you were.’

  “‘Not exactly.’

  “‘Not exactly, but almost. Why didn’t you leave?’

  “‘There were personal reasons which I cannot explain.’

  “‘Perhaps some night you will,’ he said, shifting yet a little closer towards me so that now his leg was just barely touching mine.

  “‘No,’ I said emphatically, shifting myself discreetly away from him as I spoke. The commandant smiled, but he did not move again to regain the territory he had lost.

  “‘So you believed in something else? What was it? I will die of curiosity.’

  “‘There are certain things you will never get me to explain.’

  “‘Nor should you. You are absolutely right. It would be unbecoming, and I would despise you for it.’

  “‘Then perhaps I will tell you after all,’ I said and laughed.

  “‘A laugh. A miracle,’ he said, laughing too.”

  I was staring at the shadows from passing headlights as they moved around the walls of Tommy’s room like the ghosts of crowded boxcars perpetually on the way to Auschwitz. And that is when I thought I heard Tommy laugh. I responded without thinking, “Why are you laughing, Tommy?” But when I looked at him, he looked exactly the same—eyes open, staring ahead into nothingness, no sign of laughter on his lips. Still, I will swear to this day that he laughed. I only wish I knew why. Perhaps I should have stopped talking right then. Perhaps I should have held Tommy’s hand in silence, but something was pushing me to the end of my story, even though I tried to stop myself from continuing my futile exercise. So, once again, I spoke.

  “When the commandant finished laughing, he dismissed me, and part of me, I must admit, was disappointed.”

  I stopped briefly and watched Tommy for signs of life, but his eyes were as blank and frightening as a doll’s. And when I spoke again, it was because I was afraid of the silence.

  “One night we talked again about the young boy and the rock. He brought it up since he always directed our conversations. I asked him if he knew now, from personal experience, what it was like to be tormented by guilt like that young boy.

  “‘You will not believe me, but no one has ever been slain by these hands.’

  “‘And does that make a difference?’

  “‘You tell me.’

  “‘Those guards who use us for target practice are less guilty than you are,’ I told him.

  “‘That is certainly something to think about, as is your frankness. Not that your answer is a revelation to me, obvious argument that it is. Have I told you that I appreciate your frankness? No one is ever frank with me here. Do you play backgammon?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘Then I shall teach you.’ He took an inlaid backgammon board from a shelf. ‘I bought this in Cairo, a very interesting city. You must go there if you have the chance ever—after the war, of course. There are some who think backgammon vastly inferior to chess, but I don’t like games that rely completely on the powers of the mind. One must leave a little to chance, don’t you think?’

  “There were some nights after that when all we did was play backgammon. He insisted we take off our shoes and sit on the carpet with the backgammon board between us. He brought me a clean pair of wool socks each time we played, and he always watched me carefully as I took off my shoes and old socks and put on the new, clean ones. The commandant was always extremely pleased with himself when he won. Perhaps it was precisely because his victories were not entirely his own doing that he took such pleasure in them. We were a good match, though. I grew fond of the game too and got to be quite a backgammon master, priding myself on my speed, which could surely have impressed even the champions of Cairo’s cafés. I haven’t played since, although I have often thought of challenging one of those overconfident Washington Square Park players. But they probably cheat. That’s one thing about the commandant; he never cheated. A man of honor, he would say.”

  I feel as if I’m racing against time. How long can an AIDS patient stay in a coma? How long before all the bacteria and viruses and infections in the world throw their last New Year’s bash in the withered flesh that is Tommy’s body? Try as I might to speed up my story by skipping less relevant details, it only seems to get longer and longer. I find that I’m repeating myself, getting confused in my effort to tell it exactly as it was. Is that what happens when a story remains untold for so long? Does it get long-winded and full of unnecessary details that would otherwise have been purged over the years of telling and retelling? Or is it truer than it would have been after years of practice and embellishments and tiny stretchings of the truth?

  “Funny how I wish I had kept that photograph the commandant had taken of the two of us together,” I resumed. “I would like to know if I remember him correctly. I promised to keep it, but I knew he knew I wouldn’t. ‘We all do what we think we have to do,’ he was so fond of saying. There were all those years when I tried so hard to forget his face, his eyes, his hands, his feet. And now that I realize I was successful in forgetting, I feel something is lost—the fear, the anger, sadness. I can describe him with words, quite accurately I think, but I have no complete image of him, just the pieces—green eyes, large feet, glasses, long legs, hair that was neither blond nor brown. If I could draw, I would try to sketch one of those police composites to see if it would come out looking familiar. Then I would tape it to the wall directly ahead of you. Can you see the wall? Do you see light, or is everything dark?

  “If only I weren’t so tired, then I wouldn’t feel this great urgency, but I’m afraid to sleep, afraid that if I sleep for just a few minutes, close my eyes just to regain my strength, if I stop talking just to sigh or listen to the cars swooshing by in the rain, you wouldn’t have the patience to hold on.

  “What I’m going to tell you now is the most difficult part. It would be so much easier if you would help me, ask me your questions, make your snide remarks. It would make it so much easier.

  “One night, about a month after I had arrived, he offered me some cognac. I was afraid to drink it since I ate so little; even with his offerings I was undernourished. I had sores in my mouth. I was afraid the cognac would make me faint or vomit, but he insisted. ‘We have to discuss something very serious,’ he said. ‘Cognac is in order.’ He poured two glasses from a crystal decanter and brought them over to the couch where I was sitting. He sat down close to me and looked into my eyes. I did not avert my gaze because I felt that he was expecting me to do just that. ‘A toast,’ he said and raised his glass. I raised my glass, but did not say a word.

  “I sipped very slowly, and the taste reminded me of the cabaret in Vienna, which made me want to tell the commandant about m
y life before the war. As always, these yearnings to tell the commandant true things made me angry at myself for this sign of weakness, and I had to struggle against a strong desire to throw the glass at his head or pounce on him and scratch his face.

  “‘Why do you agree to converse with me whenever you are called for?’ he asked.

  “‘Agree?’ I said. ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  “‘I see. Perhaps that is true, perhaps it isn’t, but I’m not in the mood to discuss metaphysical matters. What I am going to ask you now will be your choice entirely. Is that clear?’

  “‘You are asking a favor?’

  “‘You could call it that. I like the term. Yes, a favor.’

  “‘Well?’ I said.

  “‘You understand that you can refuse or agree. Your decision will not affect your safety or your husband’s.’

  “‘I understand.’

  “‘I want you to have my child.’

  “Now it was my turn to laugh, but I didn’t. I didn’t even smile because I knew he was being serious, and I was afraid my laughter would turn his mood, though I had always seen him in the same slightly detached, slightly amused condition.

  “‘You don’t have to answer now. Sleep on it. Take as long as you like.’

  “‘I want to know why,’ I said, leading him on. For I believed that now my turn to play with his emotions had come.

  “‘Why?’ he repeated.

  “‘Is it such an odd question?’

  “‘No, but I’m afraid I can’t answer. But you have my word that if you agree, you will know. I promise.’

  “‘You are asking me to believe in you,’ I said.

  “‘Believe in me? I would never ask that of anyone, not even myself.’

  “‘Why would you want to bring a child into this world? It would be like knowingly giving birth to an orphan.’