by Thaisa Frank
Do all these belong to Heidegger? he said.
Just one, said Elie.
How do you know?
Because it’s marked, said Elie. She pulled the box close to her.
Does Heidegger have any eye problems?
He might, said Elie, who knew he was only nearsighted.
Then we have to bring him his glasses.
But not without the letter, said Elie. Or Frau Heidegger will have a fit.
What does she have to do with it?
Goebbels met with her, said Elie. That’s why they wrote these orders.
Goebbels met with Frau Heidegger? He’s much too busy.
But he did, said Elie. They had a very long meeting at the Office.
The tick started again, and Stumpf put his hand on his forehead to press it down. But it kept skittering and jumping as though his forehead was on fire. And now he remembered that all five Scribes should answer the letter—a matter that seemed urgent since he’d heard about Frau Heidegger’s meeting with Joseph Goebbels.
The more Elie went on about needing an answer, the more Stumpf’s tick skittered and jumped. Finally he turned to the Scribes and shouted:
I need to see the five philosophers.
For heaven’s sake, said Elie, leave them out of it.
Letters are their job.
And soon, to Elie’s dismay, Gitka Kapusinki, Sophie Nachtgarten, Parvis Nafissian, Ferdinand La Toya, and Niles Schopenhauer were standing around her desk, and Stumpf was reciting the letter and ordering them to answer it.
But we only answer letters to the dead, said Parvis Nafissian.
Or the about-to-be-dead, said Gitka Kapusinki.
Or the almost dead, said Sophie Nachtgarten.
Heidegger’s different, said Stumpf.
Which is why we can’t answer the letter, said Ferdinand La Toya. It’s against the mission.
Then all five leaned on Elie’s desk and began to talk about Heidegger as if Stumpf weren’t there.
He’s all about paths and clearings in the Black Forest, said Niles Schopenhauer. There’s no way anyone can think about that in this dungeon.
Except you need a lot more than fresh air, said Sophie Nachtgarten. He’s a mystic tangled up in etymology.
I don’t agree, said Gitka Kapusinki. He got a lot of things right. But he has no idea how they work in the real world.
This baffling conversation made Stumpf’s tick jerk and jump. He pounded Elie’s desk and recited the beginning of the letter so loudly the whole room could hear:
With regard to your recent remark about the nature of Being, I wanted to emphasize again that it was the distance of my glasses that made me close to them.
The Scribes laughed, and Niles Schopenhauer said they should translate the letter into their invented language, which they called Dreamatoria.
Stumpf waved his hand at Niles. It grazed him on the cheek.
Remember your place, he said. You’re nothing but a fucking Scribe.
Don’t pull them into it, said Elie. It’s not their fault. If anyone catches us bringing a letter, we’re in trouble, and if we don’t bring one, we’re in trouble.
A paradox! said La Toya.
Indeed! said Gitka.
The notion of paradox was too much for Stumpf. He went over to Sonia and asked her to come upstairs. But she said hearing the letter had made her thoughtful, and she wanted to sit at her desk and think about distance.
Dearest Xavier,
I had a safe journey, with plenty of food. It’s night now. The sky is so bright I can’t see the moon or stars, but I’m sure if you came, we could take walks at night, the way we used to.
Love,
Marie-Claire
The tick continued when Stumpf went back to his shoebox, skittering in tandem with his brain. With great misgivings and second thoughts, he decided to disobey a strict order and approach a Scribe who was forbidden from answering letters written in German: this was Mikhail Solomon.
When he designed the Compound, Hans Ewigkeit had clustered most of the rooms using the mineshaft as a reference point. If one stood with one’s back to the mineshaft, the kitchen was to its left, the guards’ room and officers’ quarters to its right, and the main room directly opposite. But the cobblestone street went on for thirty meters to dead-end in a wall that concealed an underground passage to the nearest town. And a stone’s throw from this wall was a little white house with four pots of artificial roses, an artificial pear tree, and a lead-paned window. The street had no name, but the house had a number—917—engraved in bronze on the door.
Mikhail Solomon lived in this house with his wife, Talia. They had been designated Echte Juden, pure Jews, in charge of answering all correspondence written in the Hebrew alphabet—letters from people the Reich decided were pious. To be sure the letters were in keeping with the motto of Like Answers Like, the Solomons lived in a house like the one the interior designer Thor Ungeheur imagined they’d lived in before they were sent to the Lodz ghetto in Poland. They had two small kitchens, impossible to cook in, and were allowed to observe their customs, which adhered to the Reich’s vague understanding of menorahs and a candle in the shape of a braid. They were forbidden from working on Saturday.
The Solomons were an unlikely pair, snatched from the maws of a cattle car about to leave the Lodz ghetto for Auschwitz. Mikhail was a slight, clean-shaven man who wore a skullcap. Talia was a head taller, had a shadow of a moustache, broad shoulders, and red hair in a long French braid. Before the war Mikhail taught ethics at the University of Berlin, and Talia taught English. The Solomons weren’t Orthodox. They ignored Goebbels’s orders about keeping to themselves and came to the main room every day to play word games and barter cigarettes. They also used the main kitchen.
Besides the privilege of a house, Mikhail was the only person besides Elie Schacten who could leave the Compound after midnight. Long after the lottery had been drawn for Elie’s old room, and the Scribes were making love, eavesdropping, and note passing, Mikhail alone could admit he was awake. Then Lars Eisenscher knocked on his door and led him past the main room with bodies on desks, rustling papers, and glissandos of snoring. They took the mineshaft, walked up the incline, and down a stone path to the left of the Compound where they climbed a watchtower almost twelve meters from its entrance.
The watchtower had a steep ladder that led to a platform with a panoramic view of the night sky. And on this platform Mikhail pretended to read the stars. He had explained to the Reich he was a Kabbalist, and Kabbalists need to meditate on the sky after midnight. Didn’t Hitler realize that the stars were angels and could predict the future?
As soon as the Reich heard this, they sent a memo: Let the Jew read the stars. Mikhail wasn’t surprised. Everyone knew Hitler conferred with an astrologer about the war, and Churchill consulted one to predict Hitler’s strategies. Mikhail himself didn’t believe in angels or astrology. He only craved fresh air and the boundless freedom he felt when he looked at the sky. It was impervious to war, without trenches, countries, or borders.
Sometimes he liked to imagine each star was a word, and the sky was a piece of paper. Then the stars unfurled into a phrase—a proclamation for just one night. Sometimes he announced it to the main room in the morning. The last one had been the persistence of fire.
Dear Mother,
I waited for you at the train and you didn’t come. Lots of children were on the train and some of them had mothers and fathers. My shoes got too tight so I took them off and lost them. Please come be with me. I love you.
Love,
Miep
Mikhail’s grandfather, who actually believed the stars were angels, once told Mikhail that whenever he wanted something—a pair of skates or a new coat—he lit a candle at midnight and prayed to the stars. Mikhail found this outlandish and was abashed that since the Reich came into power, he’d begun to wish his grandfather had been right. But if the stars were angels, they were mute, indifferent angels. Never once had they of
fered help.
The night after Heidegger’s glasses arrived, the stars were dazzlingly clear. Mikhail saw Queen Cassiopeia’s Chair, waiting for Queen Cassiopeia. And Aquarius bearing water—too far away for the water to reach the earth. Six Pleiades were dancing, and the seventh, as always, was hidden.
Tonight he looked at the sky for a shorter time than usual. On that day Stumpf had given him over thirty letters from children. He’d read a few, answered none, and didn’t feel like being inventive. Most of the letters had been passed over the chain-linked fence of the Lodz ghetto before a cattle car carried the children to Auschwitz. Were these children pious because they used the Hebrew alphabet? Mikhail didn’t know what the word pious meant anymore. All he felt was relief that he hadn’t recognized any of their names.
Lars sat next to him quietly. They’d built an easy friendship during nights when Mikhail read the stars. Lars could sense when Mikhail—who was about the same age as his father—needed time to think and when he wanted to talk. After a while Lars said:
Is there a message for the night?
Mikhail smiled. Lars had the same intense green eyes as his son and the same curiosity.
The angels are sleeping, he said.
But you told me they worked in shifts, said Lars.
Sometimes they do, said Mikhail. But even angels have to rest.
Lars climbed on a railing and stared at the sky. He looked younger than his eighteen years.
Didn’t they tell you anything?
Just one thing, said Mikhail. Haniel, guardian of the West Gates, said: Why bother to answer letters at all? It’s better for the dead to be curious.
I bet they’re right, said Lars. I never sent my grandmother thank-you notes, and she’s never bothered me.
You see? said Mikhail.
But what do you think? said Lars. Do the dead ever read those letters in crates?
If the dead do anything, said Mikhail, it’s plugging their ears when Stumpf starts to talk.
Lars laughed, and they sat on the wooden platform and shared a cigarette. Neither wanted to go back to the Compound. At night it gave up any pretense of being a place to live and became a mine with an overwhelming mineral smell. When they finished the cigarette, Mikhail lit another and asked Lars if he’d heard from his father.
Lars shook his head. His father was a pastor and had been jailed three times for criticizing Hitler. He was afraid letters could get Lars into trouble and hardly ever wrote.
It must be hard for him without you, said Mikhail.
Hard for me too, said Lars.
On the way back they stopped at the well to take a long drink of water from the tin dipper. Lars shone his flashlight into the woods.
Be careful, said Mikhail. You could tempt someone.
You don’t believe in ghosts, said Lars.
No, said Mikhail, but I believe in the SS.
Mikhail and Lars reached the hut, walked down the incline, and took the mineshaft to the cobblestone street, where Elie and Stumpf were on a wrought-iron bench. Stumpf wore his wooly bedroom slippers and was extending his hands in a pleading, importunate gesture. Elie was shaking her head.
I need those glasses, he was saying. Heidegger deserves to see.
You’ll only bury them, said Elie. And you’ll never send the letter.
Anyone who finagles a talk in Paris knows you can’t expect an answer from a Jew, said Stumpf.
Lars hurried Mikhail down the street. He thought it was hard enough that Mikhail worried about reading letters from people he knew and didn’t need to hear Stumpf bemoaning Heidegger’s glasses and the damned Jew-optometrist. But Stumpf raced to catch up with them, and all three walked beneath the frozen stars.
What do you think? said Stumpf to Mikhail, not pretending he needed to explain.
There are a lot of good Aryan optometrists, said Mikhail. Heidegger must have new glasses by now.
I’m tired of hearing about Aryan optometrists, said Stumpf. A man orders a pair of glasses and never hears a thing.
Heidegger likes the unknown, said Mikhail.
We aren’t talking about the unknown, said Stumpf. We’re talking about glasses. Besides, they were friends. They wrote letters.
How do you know? said Mikhail.
I did research.
Stumpf was always telling Mikhail he did research.
They’d come to the white house with the four artificial rose bushes, the artificial pear tree, and 917 on the bronze metal plaque. Mikhail walked around a flowerpot and opened the door. Stumpf shoved Lars away and touched Mikhail’s shoulder.
Can I come in?
Stumpf’s face appeared pinched, the way people look when they think they might be shot. Mikhail knew that look. He’d seen it in Talia’s eyes when the SS raided their house. He’d seen it in his son’s eyes when the ghetto police pushed him to the front of the Lodz square.
For a minute, he said. But first let me say goodnight to Lars. You know he worries about me.
Dear Ania,
I have waited to write to you for days because the trip was long. But the countryside is beautiful, and there are woods and places for children to play. Please come and join me.
All my love,
Christofer
Oil lamps from the 19th century, a time to which the interior designer, Thorsten Ungeheur, thought the Solomons were still confined, lit a room that both Mikhail and Stumpf had seen only in engravings—a room of dark wood, polished brass, and velveteen furniture. The living room had purple velveteen chairs, a purple velveteen couch, a rocking chair with a crocheted antimacassar, and tables with copper-based lamps. The walls had pictures of bearded men in skullcaps—supposedly pictures of ancestors—painted by order of Thorsten Ungeheur who didn’t know orthodox Jews don’t allow graven images. There were also footstools covered in needlework with Hebrew letters that didn’t spell anything. Talia was sleeping in an alcove off the right-hand corner of the living room.
Mikhail lit one of the lamps, and the two men sat on tufted velveteen chairs. Stumpf sat stiffly with his wooly feet on the floor. Mikhail sat casually with his legs crossed. Stumpf offered him a cigarette. Mikhail lit it and said the end was brighter than the stars.
Agreed, said Stumpf. But you can’t snuff out stars.
With the right kind of smoke you can, said Mikhail.
Stumpf didn’t comment. Instead he handed him a reproduction of Heidegger’s letter, which he’d written from memory.
Mikhail nodded when he read about the Reich not understanding the Being of technology and looked bemused when he read about the importance of German root words. When he was finished reading, he put the letter on a piecrust table.
What mental embroidery, he said.
But you can embroider back.
I don’t think so, said Mikhail.
Why not? said Stumpf. The letter is straightforward.
Really? Then you answer it.
I’m a practical man.
Mikhail smiled at Stumpf.
But I’m an Echte Jude, he said. I only answer letters in Hebrew and Yiddish.
But you can write a good letter in German, said Stumpf.
Really? said Mikhail. Do you think someone who’s studied the Talmud can take any topic and stand it on its head and rattle out a bundle of words that would make any philosopher happy? Besides, my handwriting isn’t the same.
Stumpf waved the end of his cigarette: a shooting star.
The letter can be typed, he said.
Goebbels decided Echte Juden shouldn’t know how to type.
I’ll decide differently, said Stumpf.
Mikhail began to talk about typewriters: How so many were brought to the Compound. How they lined the main room in hedgerows. How over fifty people typing sounded like artillery.
Stumpf listened without understanding, until Mikhail said the issue wasn’t typewriters, but a bargain. Indeed Mikhail had a condition—something only the two of them could know about, and he would write the letter only if St
umpf would meet it.
THE BARGAIN
Dear Uncle Johannes,
I’m writing to you after a wonderful journey to Theresienstadt. It’s very beautiful here. There is a place where I can play hide-and-seek with other children and we are going to be in an opera on a real stage. We all miss you. I haven’t seen mama and papa for days, but the beds here are warm, and mama and papa have told me to tell you that there is also a lot of tobacco so you can smoke your pipe.
