Kingdom of Twilight

by Steven Uhly

  I waited, for years I waited for grass to grow over everything, just as my superiors demanded. I held still so that I could finally become active again. But in this so-called democracy the grass never grows over the past. The one thing that grows here is Jewish influence over public opinion. What about the state? And us, the state’s henchmen, what are we doing? Nothing! Nothing at all! We let everything happen. The Jews cut us short, wherever and however they like. They work feverishly to give us a bad conscience, paralyzing our national development, keeping us small. Why? Because they’re afraid of us, because we taught them to be afraid. Their revenge is not open; they don’t offer us any fight. They incite the world against us whenever we dare express our opinion freely. And they hunt! Their Mossad is snuffling around everywhere, they’re hunting us, the dinosaurs, the guardians of the German spirit, they wish to wipe us out, gag us so we can no longer defend this country against them, so that in the end only weaklings remain, sons who . . .

  He broke off. He had given such free rein to his anger, he had pressed the fountain pen so hard into the paper that his fingers had started to sweat. And all of a sudden he realized that he was in danger of abandoning his unswerving resolution never to let himself get carried away, not by women, not by the dead, not by Jews, not by anyone or anything at all. He had to stick to a middle path, to moderate all his feelings. He had to avoid loving or hating with excess passion. Why had he ordered the Jewish girl to be fetched from the train? Precisely so he could have the perceived mortal enemy before his eyes at all times, study him, recognize his mimicry of human behavior, his playing along, his capacity to exploit every opening to his own advantage. Knowing is not hating, he thought. I must not lose my composure. What good will it do me to hate the Jews in Israel just because they’re on the hunt for mass murderers like Eichmann? Just because they killed him? All it has confirmed is that the Jews are just as the Reichsführer S.S. described them. It was still necessary to remain decent, still necessary to maintain his poise. In any case he, Josef Ranzner, was no simple mass murderer like Eichmann, this brains behind the crimes, who with such an appearance could have been Jewish himself. No, he had nothing to do with the Holocaust, he had fought against partisans behind the front lines, he had only killed Jews when they posed a threat to his Reich. Anna was the best proof of his ethical stance. Although he could have had her killed just like that—no, he could have strangled her with his own hands had he felt like it—he had not. On the contrary, he had given Anna her life, life and freedom, like a well-loved dog you let free from its chain because you cannot take it where you are going.

  He leaned back, exhausted. I don’t have to justify myself, he thought. There is no judge here. And if I act smartly, if I continue my boring civil servant’s existence, then one day maybe the Germans will have a better understanding of what we did, men like me. Perhaps I ought to follow Silberbauer’s advice after all and train as a specialist interrogator, it might give me a change of scene, who knows? Silberbauer was a colleague from Vienna, he had noticed Ranzner’s dissatisfaction and said, I know all about this, I’ve led interrogations myself in the Reich, I know who’s right and the qualities that are needed. It’s no easy job, and certainly not for weaklings. They were in the canteen and Silberbauer had said, Live your life, don’t let the system get you down. Silberbauer’s right, he thought, recollecting their encounter now.

  He was about to get up and leave the study. It was late, and tomorrow life would go on as before.

  But then it struck him that it might be a good idea to seek out the Jewish woman, so she could corroborate his testimony. Yes, looking at it more closely, he could even be regarded as her savior. No one, not even the woman herself, would be able to dispute that she would most likely have died in Auschwitz had he not protected her from that fate. She would reveal the truth and finally he could emerge from this hiding place.

  The thought was so intensely present in the room that now he saw Anna lying on his desk, just as beautiful and naked and defenseless as back then, just as seductive, just as sweet smelling and overwhelming in her womanliness. His body reacted as it had back then and ever since when Anna sought him out, and this happened often, sometimes daily. Ranzner’s gaze wandered to the door. It was quiet outside. The children must be asleep. And Emma? Probably in bed, reading and waiting for him, as she had every day for ten years. Ten years that showed. Ten years and two births. And this maternal nature she had developed.

  His erection subsided. But that was not what he wanted now. He wanted to feel tumescent, tumescent and strong and manly, which is why he banished thoughts of his wife and focused squarely on the Jewish woman.

  80

  On Monday, September 29, Anna was lying on her narrow bed, reading old newspapers to stave off boredom. While Shimon was somewhere in the camp with Lisa, Sarah and Frau Kramer, she was becoming incensed by the Guardian, which claimed the Jews had used tear gas to attack the British soldiers who had boarded the ship. She became incensed that the British press regarded the pioneers as victims of the Zionists during their three weeks in Port de Bouc, even though they had thought long and hard about what they would do and each of them had been able to make their own decision. A stillness unfurled in her head when she read about the disembarkation in Hamburg in the Lübecker Nachrichten: “The last time we saw such people was years ago—how many, actually?”

  Anna ran over recent events. On the evening of September 8 they had arrived in the port of Hamburg. The British had smuggled them through a corridor screened by barbed wire, transported them in closed army lorries through nighttime northern Germany. Early on September 9 they had arrived, exhausted, in Pöppendorf.

  Two days later some Haganah men had cut a hole in the fence. Ephraim Frank and Peretz had been waiting on the other side, with new forged passports, with new illegally loaned lorries, with a new escape plan and a new ship that had set its course from somewhere for Marseille.

  With her large, heavy belly, from which came a gentle tugging that ran up her back and to her head, Anna had not dared risk the stress and strains of another flight and had stayed behind in Pöppendorf. They had parted company in silence. Nobody felt like a pioneer anymore, they had been defeated, and if they were now making another attempt to get to Palestine it was only because of a lack of alternatives. In the shelter of the corrugated iron hut they had embraced each other. Then Ruth and Aaron, Mr. and Mrs. Abramowicz, Ariel, Marja and her doll, Dana, and old François had gone out, one after the other, and Anna, Shimon and Sarah had stayed. She had not seen Peretz at all.

  Anna had wanted to say to Sarah, You go too. But thinking of Shimon she had kept quiet, and Sarah had looked at her gratefully. For her it was proof that she really had become Anna’s daughter.

  In mid-September the British had instructed the German guards to open the gates so that the Jews could settle in Germany. They handed out leaflets and promised a permanent place to live, a job and a German passport. The pioneers had read the leaflets in disbelief and asked themselves, How can they believe that we’re willingly going to stay in the land of murderers?

  And now yet another week had passed without anything happening. Just the tugging in Anna’s belly had become stronger. She stayed lying on the bed and told Frau Kramer and Sarah that she had a headache.

  On Tuesday, September 30, the weather turned. Banks of cloud chased across the sky, gusts of wind whooshed through the trees, rattling the gates and the barbed wire fences. The temperature dropped and in the corrugated-iron huts a damp chill crept into people’s beds. In the afternoon Anna was feverish. Her stomach pains grew more intense, a doctor came, one of the Jews from the ship. He examined her and did not say much. An hour later he returned and gave her something to bring her temperature down.

  On the Wednesday Anna woke up bathed in sweat. She had a high temperature, her belly was burning. Frau Kramer did not move from her side. The doctor came accompanied by a German, the two of them examined Anna together and concluded that in her condition s
he could not be transported anywhere. Two camp inmates brought a stretcher. When they lifted Anna to transfer her to another bed, she screamed with pain. Luckily Shimon was not there; Anna had told Sarah to go and play with him and Lisa.

  They took Anna to a hospital barracks, a wooden hut where the air was not so damp. It had large windows that let in plenty of light. The two doctors administered her a liquid and exchanged glances that Anna did not see. But Frau Kramer saw.

  “What then?” said Lisa into the rain that was still falling, as if intent on burying everything under water, washing everything away. Now the light really was fading, darkness set in rapidly.

  Frau Kramer looked at the grave again. She said softly, “I had to bring this child into the world, Lisa. The doctors couldn’t do it, they’d given up on the mother and she would have died too.” She looked at Lisa. “They called the rabbi, but I sent him away, and then . . .” She paused and looked at the grave.

  “Then I heated up some water and got towels ready. I told myself, This is a normal birth, I told myself, Don’t think about it, tell yourself it’s Lisa, you’re bringing Lisa into the world again. But Anna was so weak! She could barely help me. I had to find out how the child was lying. Of course it was the wrong way round so I had to turn it. I’d never turned a child before! I pushed and pushed until Anna screamed. She screamed for me to stop. I yelled at her, If I stop you’re going to die! The men didn’t dare come in. Everyone was scared, I think the entire camp was gathered outside.”

  She fell silent and saw images she would never be able to describe, and feelings that would not fit into any words and phrases. She had brought a dead child into the world, with all the force she could muster, a small, gray, desolate child that would never get to glimpse that world. She had held it in her hands, and the pain she felt was so severe that she burst into tears. Howling noisily, she had laid it in a tub and then, still howling and sobbing, she had pushed her hand inside Anna, who was screaming, and pulled out everything that no longer belonged there. She had done it without knowing whether she would be able, the people outside the barracks could no longer distinguish the sounds of the two women, Who’s howling, who’s screaming? When the pain became too much for Anna she passed out and it became quieter. Frau Kramer washed her, moved her to another bed, and only when she had done everything she could to remove death from within this woman did she collapse and call for help.

  81

  Who was this woman? Heinrich was lying on his bed, listening to music. Three days earlier his father had given him a Nordmende record player and an L.P. of German folk songs for his birthday. They were lovely songs, but Heinrich could not concentrate on them, because this woman had turned up in the latest diary entry. Heinrich hated her. She was like an evil spirit wanting to steal Father away from him. If he could he would seek her out himself and kill the woman, so that Father would be left in peace before he made good his threats and left home to be with her. Heinrich did not know what the woman was called, for his father avoided mentioning the name. To begin with he had thought his father was worried someone might read it. Gradually, however, he realized that even his father was afraid of the name, as if spelling it out would invoke some great calamity.

  Heinrich thought long and hard. He had been reading his father’s diary for years now. Time and again he had tried to stop, but without success. Sometimes he had taken a break for months, when he had been able to resist the temptation. On occasion he had even managed to forget the key beneath the flowerpot. But he had always dredged it up again, as if something in his head were forcing him to do so. The new entry had been written on the evening of his birthday, Heinrich even knew exactly when. Father had retired to the study as usual. Mother had urged him and Gudrun to be quiet because Father had important things to do. She herself had gone to her room because she liked to read in bed. What did his mother read, as a matter of fact? Heinrich had no idea. Until that moment the thought had never occurred to him. He resolved to take a look one day.

  As ever, Father had left the door ajar.

  The following afternoon Heinrich had come home from school, slipped out of his bedroom into the study and read the new entry. He spent a long time afterward sitting there, fighting back the tears.

  Today, on the third day, it was no better. Images entered his head. Father next to Mother at the kitchen table, in the center of which sat his large birthday cake with fourteen lit candles, Gudrun to the left. Everything was fine, his sister and parents sang “Happy Birthday,” Heinrich was delighted with his presents, they had breakfast, Father smiled a lot and finally put his arm around Mother, and she snuggled up to him like she used to. Why did I have to read that diary entry? he asked himself. If he had not done so his life would still be alright. And had he not heard a very soft voice in his head warning him? Had this voice not said, Leave it, Heinrich! Don’t do it! But he was too weak to resist the pull from the study, and now everything lay in tatters.

  82

  Each one of them had given something. Mosche and Selma addresses, Herr Weiss the money for her flight, Frau Kramer a few names and money she’d put aside. Lisa did not want to accept it, but the old woman said, It was always meant for you.

  Lisa had taken the express from West Berlin to Schwanheide, and from there a regional train to Lübeck. Tobias Weiss had come from Hamburg, where he now lived, and for one night they slept again in adjoining rooms in the old apartment on the fourth floor, which Herr Weiss still rented so he could come back at any time, as he said, back home. But Lisa suspected that chiefly he did it for her sake.

  She and Herr Weiss and Frau Kramer ate dinner together in the apartment and chatted about old times. When Lisa had tired of this she asked Herr Weiss, “What’s it like in Hamburg, Tobi?”

  “Hmm, well, actually it’s rather nice, yes, I have to say it’s really nice in fact. Although, well, it is a bit lonely. I mean, um, it’s a big city.”

  “But you earn well, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes! Yes, yes! I really do, ever since I went freelance!”

  Lisa looked at Herr Weiss. How young he was and how old he acted! Was this a result of the war, or was he just like that?

  “Where are you going to live?” Frau Kramer asked.

  “I’ll go to see Mosche and Selma tomorrow. They know people all over the country.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Of course, Grandma!” She laughed. Herr Weiss laughed too. Frau Kramer remained serious. She was concerned.

  “You hear so much about the place,” she said. “They say it’s dangerous even in the big cities. Promise me you’ll call!”

  Lisa promised.

  She spoke about West Berlin, It’s strange, she said, you have a much greater sense of freedom there even though the city’s enclosed. She spoke about her history course at the university, about Herr and Frau Guttmann, who she was staying with and whose three children she looked after. She had come to know the Guttmanns through Mosche and Selma too, and they had turned out as friendly as the two of them had promised. Which is why she was trusting them again now. She spoke about fellow students who had become friends, and about one in particular who might become more than just a friend, He’s Jewish too, she said. An image of him flashed before their eyes, raising smiles.

  The following morning Lisa crossed the old town on foot. Spring had arrived overnight, the air was mild, birds were chirping, everything promised a new beginning. It was her first stroll through her home town since she had turned twenty-one, officially an adult at last. Free at last of Maria. Free at last of this parochial city. Of this country.

  Mosche and Selma’s tiny first-floor apartment was in a small house in a narrow side street close to the synagogue. Through the two small windows Lisa could see the pale-green spires of the Ägidienkirche. White, embroidered half curtains hung in front of the glass panes. Between two huge bookcases, a bulbous chest of drawers, a protruding standard lamp, a bulging blue sofa, two fat armchairs and a low, rectangular wooden table with a be
ige tiled top, ran narrow gangways along which Mosche and Selma hurried with astonishing assuredness to bring tea and cakes, while Lisa sat rather sunken in the sofa cushions, gazing at the multitude of black-and-white photographs in thick frames that hung on walls papered with extravagant floral patterns. She found the excess of the room both oppressive and inspirational.

  When Mosche noticed her expression he laughed and said, “These Jews who lost everything!” He made a hand gesture that seemed to encompass their cluttered living room as well as all Jews in all living rooms everywhere.

  “The pictures—”

  “People who look like my family,” Selma interrupted her. “This woman, for example,” she said, pointing to a large, yellowed photograph in a golden Baroque frame, “reminds me of my mother. She’s wearing the same traditional outfit my mother used to wear. Look at the bun—my mother often put her hair up like that. And there’s something about her face; she could be my mother’s sister. Well, this combination, it stirs a feeling in me.” Placing a hand on her chest, she sighed and stared at the photograph.

  “They might be strangers, but they’re still Jews,” Mosche said.

  “Yes, of course, Jews,” Selma affirmed, deep in thought. She sat beside Lisa and smiled at her. “These walls are a cemetery, because all these people have one thing in common—they’re dead. Just ignore it all. This old lady,” she continued, pointing to herself, “has gone a bit crazy over the years. And she’ll be dead soon.” Lisa gave her a look of horror. Selma pretended not to notice. She raised her teacup to her lips.

  “Nonsense!” Mosche exclaimed, smiling at his wife from the armchair. “You’re just as beautiful as you were twenty years ago.” Selma cast him a glance and said softly, “Oh, what do you know?”