by Ward Just
We will outrace it, the skinner said.
I hope so, Kleust said. They both sat in the bow, eyes front, though every few minutes they would move their necks, bring their faces around in an arc, to observe the weather: the abrupt end of the wide blue sky and the beginning of the blackness, relentlessly gaining.
They were talking about Germany, what would happen to it; the weight of its past seemed a burden beyond imagining. And of course it did not need imagining, all you had to do was read the documents, the testimony, the memoirs, the daily journalism, and look at the films. It was the most documented horror in history, nothing left to the imagination except to wonder at the thoroughness of it all, and the enthusiasm the killers brought to their work. Brahms and Rilke in the morning, Zyklon-B in the afternoon.
A crisis in the humanities, Kleust said with an icy smile.
The weight of the German past was what had driven Kleust to Africa, wondering if in this new political environment things might be—chaste. However, Africa’s politicians were fascinated by Hitler’s new order, busy as they were in fashioning a new order themselves. An African way, Africa for the Africans. They did not understand the Third Reich, how it began, how it continued, why it ended. How did the Führer organize the state? Inspire such devotion? How did Dr. Goebbels develop the Propaganda Ministry? What was the role of education? The church? If the Germans—so intelligent, so civilized—adapted so readily to a one-party state, why not Africa? And what was it about the Jews? There were no Jews in Africa, except a few tribes in Ethiopia—Stone Age people, they said, sneering—and of course the Jews of European descent in South Africa. Kleust explained about the Jews, their role in history, their dispersion, their prominence in the cultural and commercial life in Germany, but still the Africans didn’t get it. Were the Jews like colonialists, then? Clannish, mysterious, racist, rich, taking what they wanted, promulgating their own laws, cuisine, clothing, religious customs, raping the land? Insulting the majority race! Could they be compared with the Indian merchants who held every African town and village in thrall—in a Hindu stranglehold? Kleust spent many hours late at night, explaining modern German history to the Africans, tracing the years from 1920 to 1945; only twenty-five years, but a political millennium. It was certainly an Era, beginning with Weimar and ending with the Thousand Year Reich, even shorter than the American Century. He was barely forty-five himself, and of course did not know Weimar; the memory of Weimar reposed in women, so many German men of that age were dead. Kleust preached the virtues of a benign anarchism, but the Africans were not impressed. They wanted control and authority, and there was also a thirst for revenge. The German model seemed convenient, so many lessons to be learned. Every nation needed living space, and its own identity. Kleust shuddered. We have washed our hands of Africa, he said.
Easy for you, Bill said. Not so easy for us.
You’d be surprised, Kleust said. Before his posting in Africa—this one, his second posting—he had been a functionary in the embassy in London, a city he despised, and a first secretary in Washington, a city that baffled and amused him. On the whole, he preferred Bonn.
Americans live in a dream world, Kleust said.
As opposed to Germans? he’d asked.
Germans do not live in a dream world, Kleust said. Germans live in a glass house, the world pressing in on all sides, everything visible.
They talked for a while about the European political climate, and the two Germanys, reunification, and what the future held. Ostpolitik was the symmetrical policy, though conducted with sleight-of-hand; its foundations had already been laid. Germans had long memories, history was with them every day; no day so bright that darkness was not visible. Everything in Germany was approached with profound ambivalence. Germans were afraid of themselves. Many Germans wished for a pastoral life, Goethe’s “naturalness.” Kleust waved his hand. Perhaps the harmless commercial activity of the Buddenbrooks. Tell me what is natural in our time. On the one hand Germans want to move their shoulders, gain room to live and breathe, influence the course of things. On the other hand, Germans want to disappear into Europe. Kleust fell silent. They were almost in the middle of the lake. Far in the distance a small Eshing boat sat stationary.
Do you love your country? he had asked.
It is the Fatherland, Kleust agreed.
That is not an answer, he said.
It is the best I can do, Kleust said. I am a diplomat, like you. Germany is where I am at home. It is where I breathe easiest. At least in Germany nothing is withheld. Of course it is necessary to keep your eyes open, always alert. Every state manufactures its own propaganda. And it must be the same with you.
No, Bill said. I am at home anywhere. I am at home here, on this lake full of crocodiles, as I am at home there. Elinor and I, wherever we are . . . But I love my country, my dream of it. I love the freedom of it, its impulsiveness. The buffoonery, the instability, the romance of money, the loneliness, and the grab. It’s a fictional country, arising deep from the imagination. In its reality, it is something else. We do not have identity cards in the United States. What I like most about it is that it isn’t Europe.
Kleust cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps you are happier in this century than I am. Your country is happier, or luckier, than mine is. Well. It is supposed to be your century, is it not? Yet ‘impulsiveness’ is not the word I would have used. Impulsiveness is not to be admired. It is not an attractive quality, is it?
Call it spontaneity, then.
It’s the same thing, Kleust said.
Bill laughed. It’s a swell century, all things considered. The American part of it has been particularly benign, don’t you think? In all its impulsiveness? And those of us who have played a part, wouldn’t you say we had something to answer for? Then, after a moment’s pause: Do you think you could commit treason?
I would not supervise a concentration camp, if that is what you mean.
It isn’t, he said.
That is an order I would refuse to obey, Kleust said. I would not sell secrets to the Russian pigs.
He said, I do not mean refusing an order. There are orders all of us would refuse. And we have no secrets to sell, you and I, even if we were interested in selling them, which we aren’t. I’m not interested in the betrayals of the past. I’m talking about the future. Tomorrow, the day after, next week, next year. I mean engaging in a treasonous act, a violation of our oath. Being forced to choose, and choosing an act of calculated treachery against the state. Harming the state. In my case, choosing against Lincoln. Your Goethe, my Lincoln. Telling Abraham Lincoln to go fuck himself, that it was in vain after all. The union doesn’t count.
That’s what it comes down to?
He said, Yes.
Kleust thought a moment. Kleust in deep thought, weighing his reply. When he spoke it was to slide off the point. He said, You mean “the government.” Our experience with governments is not so good.
If we are not faithful, who will be?
We have a duty, Kleust agreed.
And our duty to the state is profound. We took an oath. We were not coerced to swear allegiance. At the least, we are like doctors: Do no harm. The state is in our care. We have an obligation to it.
Yes, of course, Kleust said.
In the instance of an American diplomat, it is the Constitution. The Constitution is the state. The state is the people. This is a great thing. Beside it, everything else is small. I’m in trouble, Kurt. As you say, Americans live in a dream world. What would you do, forced to choose between betraying your country and betraying your friend, or your kin? That’s the measurement, isn’t it? Isn’t that the thumb on the scale?
Kleust said, What happened in Hamburg, Bill?
We met. We talked. Or he talked. We listened.
Duer did not interfere?
We were careful. Elinor and I know Hamburg well. It could be that he chose not to interfere, for his own reasons. And it could be that we lost him in Saint Pauli. I know he was on us in the beginni
ng.
And what about Bill Jr.?
He shrugged. What about him?
Well, Kleust said. What did he look like? How did he behave?
He described his son’s appearance, and what he was wearing. He said, He’s a stranger, an exile. I had to remind myself, and keep reminding myself, that I am his father. He is mine. He owes his life to me, and I am responsible for him. He knows this, and it amuses him.
Kleust was silent.
I don’t know why he wanted to see us. Maybe that was the idea, that there really was no point to it, that it was a bit of aimless theater. Maybe he wanted to prove he could get us to Hamburg. Maybe he wanted to show us off to his comrades. Maybe anything. He’s far from home, Kurt.
Kleust framed his next question with care. Is he—unbalanced?
Is he crazy? Psychotic? He does not seem crazy. But he is not balanced as you or I would define balance. But our definitions are beside the point. He is furious, I can tell you that. He does hate us all.
Well, you learned something.
Nothing of value, And what I did learn, I would as soon not know.
Nothing that would help Duer? Or your own people?
Well, that’s the point. That’s exactly the point. Helping Duer, and my own people. But I can’t inform on him, can I? Yet I must. I’m obligated to do it. I must either inform on him or take responsibility for him. And that is what I meant by my question, which you did not answer. What would you do? What would you do, forced to choose between betraying your country and betraying your friend or your kin? That’s what it comes down to.
Bill, Kleust said.
I don’t believe in making things easier than they are, he said.
Kleust smiled cynically, raising his chin so that he looked down his nose. He said, I shud rathah hope I shud have the cuddedge to betray my coun-treh.
Bill laughed, Kleust’s imitation of an educated Englishman owed more to Heidelberg than to Cambridge. He said, Come off it, Kurt. You don’t believe that Forster horseshit any more than I do. What a pretty sensibility he has. How learned. How humane. We don’t have that luxury.
Kleust said, Maybe I do believe it. I think I do, as a matter of fact. It is not a convenient century we live in. It is a murderous century. It is perhaps the beginning of the end of everything. So given a choice, or forced to make one, I would choose that which is closest. Most precious. Most intimate. I would give my loyalty to that which is nearest to hand. Contemporary German naturalness.
And your heart? he asked. Where would your heart be?
The same place, Kleust said.
Bill shook his head. Not good enough.
Kleust said, I do not think you can choose an abstraction over flesh and blood. No, I do not think that. And you don’t, either.
Bill nodded. The point stung. He looked back; the storm seemed no closer. He faced front, gazing now at the thick green water of the lake, wrinkled in the light breeze. He hugged himself, rocking back and forth. What if he were not a man, but a woman; and the betrayal not political but something else: sexual. One’s wife or daughter become stupidly, joylessly promiscuous. Relendessly, evilly promiscuous. A promiscuity whose object was pain and chaos; not light but darkness. He looked at the green water and tried to think it through. Well, it would not be a wife; it would be a daughter. And it would be a payback, a settling of scores. There would be a female grievance, some never-ending wrong, something she had taken deep inside her and resolved to purge. Good Bolshevik word, he thought. Stalin sending great Russians to the Gulag, or simply liquidating them. Well, who were you, then? The tsar? He tried to imagine a daughter, being father to a daughter who grew up hating him; as opposed to a son. A daughter he had grievously wounded, perhaps unknowingly. What then would be his responsibility? Speak, conscience. That was the trouble when you tried to think things through; too damn depressing. Well, it would never happen. They would be completely in tune, he and this daughter. Any daughter of his would be a Brownie and president of the student council while studying the cello with Yo-Yo Ma and physics with Richard Feynman between excursions to Pretoria to straighten out the Afrikaners on the question of apartheid and deciding whether or not to accept the invitation of the Cubs to try out at spring training and telling her publisher, sorry, she wouldn’t be able to write her memoirs until 1990, earliest. Yes, that would be about it. Khrushchev had put the matter in perspective, replying to some proposal of Eisenhower’s. When shrimps fart, he said.
Kleust said, Why are you smiling?
I’m thinking about female grievances, he said.
You don’t have enough trouble?
I like to pile it on, he said.
Kleust said, You’re more German than I am.
I wonder who she is, Bill Jr .’s Kameradin.
Kleust shrugged and shook his head.
They say boys like women who remind them of their mothers.
Maybe in America, Kleust said.
Probably skilled in weapons. Small-arms qualified. Wouldn’t you say, Kurt? A nasty piece of work, mad as hell at everything. Except him. She wouldn’t be mad as hell at him. Probably they’re mad at the same things. It would be a fine love affair, mad at everything. Complete agreement on the things to be mad as hell at.
Kleust said, Forster still has a point.
He did not reply and Kleust looked away to the fishing boat a mile or so off the bow. They were at midpoint in their journey across the lake. The water was even greener now, thick with algae, and the other shore a thin dark line on the horizon. He wondered how Elinor would paint it, the green of the water, the dark line, the blue of the sky, and the black clouds astern. But she did not care for the pastoral; she painted people. He looked at Kleust, lapsed now into a gloomy silence. The curse of northern peoples.
He said, Sorry about the crocs.
Kleust said, It doesn’t matter.
The hunt had not been a success, despite the etiology of their surroundings: they were less than fifty miles from the source of the great sickle-shaped River Congo, the very soul of Africa. They both felt it: they were Africa’s guests, or its prisoners, obliged to tread lightly. Kleust had been upset by the crocodiles. The second night he declined to shoot at all. He had killed two the first night, and that was enough. He consented to go along and watch but he did not want to shoot. He thought the beasts had a strange powerful beauty, and it was so easy to mesmerize them with the lamp. Their eyes glowed hot and red as the morning sun. Of course they were man-eaters, but there were no men on this lake; there were only the three of them, the hunter and the two diplomats, and the skinners; but the skinners were not intruders. At dusk they stood on the shore drinking Scotch and watching the beasts float by, lurking, furtive. They talked shop: personnel problems, pensions, the change in administrations, the perennial menace from the right. On the third day he took the biggest croc of all, eighteen feet long; the head was the size of the hood of a small car. He shot him three times in the skull before he died, sinking to the bottom of the shallow lagoon. The hunter and two skinners had gone into the water to raise him, then manhandle him into the boat. One of the skinners estimated the beast’s age at ninety, perhaps one hundred. Kleust had listened attentively, then observed that if the skinner was correct, the croc had been born about the time that Stanley had found Livingstone; and that place was not far from where they were. All those years on the same lake, eating and copulating, prowling. One of the skinners reached into the crocodile’s scrotal sac and brought out its penis, enormous, heavy, ridged, gray as death. Kleust had turned abruptly away, muttering in German. The hunter had laughed, but he too was embarrassed. He nodded sharply, and the skinner stuffed the penis back into its sac. That’s better, Kleust had said. That’s much better. Let us show some respect for the hundred-year-old Grossvater. Let the Grossvater rest in peace.
He could smell land, and looked at Kleust, still lost in thought. He said, God, this is beautiful country.
Kleust turned suddenly, squinting into the sun. He said sl
owly, Is it?
He said, You don’t think so?
Kleust shook his head. No, I think it is the edge of the precipice.
He did not reply. The sun was enormous in the sky, a furnace; its light glittered on the water, opaque with algae. The land smell was heavy in his nostrils. The sky was empty except for the sun; he did not look behind him. There were no birds about, nor any living thing. Yet he knew that beneath the surface of the lake there was life.
Kleust said, I am not like you.
He said, You’re a good man, Kurt.
The German made a noise, a kind of scornful sigh. He unbuttoned his shirt, and flapped it against his sweaty skin. He said, I came in at the end of everything—true patriotism, faith, authority, integrity, purpose. German Expressionism, yes? Even the women are not what they were. They are not worthy. Everything has gotten worse, except the domestic life of the German people. Our economy is a wonder. It is because of the conditions imposed upon us: Mandatory restraint. Political reparations for our excesses. We lower our voices, we have no big stick to wave. We adhere to the Americans, the last colonial power. This is good. Who can doubt it? The rest of the world should be as restrained as we Germans. In this place, not your place, you look around you and say: What a beautiful country. You are entitled to say it, it is your American privilege. But do you know how bad Africa is? Have you seen? Have you left your compound, gone into the streets, traveled in the region? Have you traveled in the Madness Belt? The belly of the continent. Disease, famine, murder, ignorance, corruption, megalomania. It’s grotesque. It pulverizes the imagination. Amin, Mobutu. They’re little Hitlers, worse than Hitler, because they’re exterminating their own people.
