Mohr

by Frederick Reuss

“Hello, Hartl,” Käthe replies sternly. “Your mother said you were coming home for a visit.”

  He nods politely, adjusts his pack.

  Eva points to the bright red armband. “What’s that?”

  Hartl glances at his arm. He smiles self-consciously. “That, Evalein, is a symbol of the future.”

  Käthe frowns, feels a pit in her stomach. How can this young sprout talk of the future when he has no idea what is being destroyed of the present? How is Marie going to react to her boy’s newfound ideology? “You must be excited about starting your prakticum.”

  “Very much, thank you, Frau Mohr.”

  “We’re going to Munich,” Eva announces.

  He jounces once, twice, to settle his pack. He has grown in the half-year since they last saw him. It would be natural to comment, but Käthe is having trouble digesting his unfortunate political transformation, would rather scold him the way she once did for cutting the bark off the old larch tree at the back of the house. She hugs the bag in her lap. It contains the buttered rolls and cheese she packed for lunch, a book to read on the train, and nearly all the money she’s saved over the past year.

  “Have a good trip.” Hartl turns to leave, then hesitates, takes out a small packet of sweets. He offers it to Eva. “For the trip.”

  Eva accepts eagerly.

  “Save them for the train.” He saunters off with a wave.

  Hartl’s symbols of the future present themselves all the way to Munich, beginning with the confusion of some passengers between the new second-class and the first-class cars. “This can’t be second class,” a woman insists on entering the compartment. “The seats, they’re upholstered!” When the conductor assures her that it is indeed second class, she seats herself next to Käthe. “Renovated,” she says, beaming with satisfaction.

  “You should see what first class looks like now,” mutters a sour-faced man sitting by the door. “Soon the entire Reich will be upholstered.”

  “That would be just fine with me,” the woman returns.

  The small talk subsides as the train leaves the station. Eva turns her attention to the bag of candy. Käthe opens her book—Robert Walser’s Jakob von Gunten. Alternately absorbed by the book, the passing landscape, and a sense that this excursion they are on is practice for something larger, she can’t escape anxious thoughts of the future, which remains a disturbing dream. On the outskirts of Munich they pass by the zeppelin fields. The woman leans across to Eva. “Look at that! How lovely. Imagine what it must be like up there.” She points out the window to the three large airships tethered by their noses to huge iron towers, each at a different angle to the passing train.

  “They look like sausages,” Eva announces. “Flying sausages.”

  The woman laughs. “Marvelous.”

  Käthe closes her book. She sees nothing marvelous about the sight. She reaches into Eva’s candy bag and takes out a gumdrop. Why do certain people assent so readily to so many things? Upholstered seats and mammoth airships? If they would only stand back, allow themselves time to think, the moment would not be so dreadfully devalued, the mad rush into the future slowed.

  Eva offers the woman some candy.

  “Oh, how sweet!” The woman helps herself to a gumdrop. “May I ask where you are going?”

  “Munich. Do you like the green ones?”

  The woman nods. “I do.”

  “The red are my favorite. What about you, Mama?”

  “Red.” Käthe rolls the candy on her tongue, and regards the woman as neutrally as she is able. A host of assumptions: small town, grown children, a dog, a balcony, a neighbor she complains to. As they draw closer to Munich, she becomes nervous. The way she compensates is to project an exaggerated version of the edgy, urban indifference that offends her in others, and is the reason she’s grown to dislike the city in the first place. Passing through the suburban train stations, the billboard advertisements draw her attention. Makedon Perfect, Odol, Continental, and the latest Claudette Colbert movie all urge themselves on the commuting population. She scoots closer to Eva, whose nose is pressed against the window. She has been more subdued than usual on this trip, hasn’t once asked to explore the rest of the car or be taken for a snack. Käthe draws her onto her lap.

  “What’s wrong?” Eva wants to know.

  She leans forward to whisper. “Buden angst.” Claustrophobia.

  Eva twists around. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  The woman in the hat is pretending indifference, gazing out the window. Holding Eva is a kind of protection. But it is also a subtle act of rebellion—to be so demonstrative in public. How silly that this little act of affection should make her feel so proud. Eva senses something of it, too, nestles closer. “What is claustrophobia?” she asks again. The woman’s eyes dart. Käthe blushes. The sour-faced man sitting by the door takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose loudly. The woman has stiffened, the gumdrop in her mouth long since dissolved. If her gaze were any more distant, her eyes would harden into glass. “I’ll tell you later,” Käthe whispers, then closes her eyes and tries to drift off.

  A sudden change in the weather greets them on their arrival in Munich. As they leave the train station, Käthe scans the sky. “It doesn’t look good for a picnic.”

  They cross the street to wait for the tram. For the briefest instant she considers calling Bertl Schultes, the film director. He has dropped by Wolfsgrub twice since Mohr left, is the only person in Munich she would still consider visiting. He lives within walking distance of the train station, but a call there would mean a detour, and the last thing she wants is to stay in the city any longer than they have to. She runs down a list of all the people here she once knew, those who have emigrated, those who have remained. Ten years ago it would have been impossible not to run into an acquaintance on the street. Now, the thought of it scares her. Ah, look! It’s Käthe Mohr. Käthe! How good to see you! How are you these days? And your husband? Where is he?

  The first thing she notices on boarding the tram is all the Party pins in people’s lapels. It is ten o’clock and the car is crowded. They move toward the rear, where a young man stands up, offers his seat. Käthe thanks him and takes Eva on her lap. It is overwhelming, to be in a place at once so familiar and so completely alien. It isn’t just the buildings, bedecked with banners, posters, and flags, but the feeling of losing herself in the flow, of becoming a part of it. No easy thing to sidestep or get out from under. She is reminded of a horrible image in a letter from Mohr just over a year ago, of floods and bodies floating down the Yangtze River. A nauseating image of water thick with decomposing humanity. Oddly, in the very same letter, he described the jacket and shirt he had just ordered from an English tailor. She found herself agreeing with his little quip, that man is not descended from gods or from primates but from plants—each new generation dependent for its nourishment on the decomposition of the previous one. But what if the mulch turned toxic?

  Outside the Haus der Kunst hangs an enormous banner for an exhibition called Entartete Kunst, Degenerate Art. Deutsches Volk, komm und urteile selbst! They step from the tram and cross the street, pause to look up at the museum entrance. “Detrimental and of no lasting value to the culture of the German people” was the wording in the letter from the Reichsschrifttumskammer announcing the ban on Mohr’s work.

  “We’re not going here, are we, Mama?” Eva protests. A queue has formed at the museum entrance. Eva tugs at her mother’s arm. “Mama, come on. It’s down there!” She points to the enormous department store on the next block.

  Käthe feels a small, subversive pleasure in being tugged away from such an enormous propaganda exercise by a twelve-year-old. But she also can’t help feeling curious. What effect might it have on her to go inside? An act of solidarity with the banned artists? Or would going in only contribute to the force majeure of Nazi propaganda? Some months ago she forwarded a letter to Mohr announcing a new Zurich-based literary journal. A joint st
atement from Thomas Mann and Hermann Hesse. We wish to be artists and antibarbarians, to observe moderation and defend values, to love what is free and daring, and to despise philistinism and ideological rubbish—to despise this last most thoroughly and deeply where with contemptible hypocrisy it postures as revolution.

  Mohr’s clipped reply from Shanghai had been: “Ich bin mit allem quitt.” Finished. With Germany, with everything. Käthe had expected him to say as much. Sadly, it was also not quite what she had hoped for.

  Eva’s fatigue evaporates the moment she enters Kaufhaus Beck. Her bubbly curiosity is just the right foil for the salesman who materializes the moment they step onto the polished floor of the luggage department. It is brightly lit, decorated with travel posters and travel placards showing airplanes, steamships, and well-dressed travelers. A large placard for the Deutsche-Afrika-Linie is on conspicuous display behind the sales counter—a gleaming luxury liner—30 Ports of Call. 33,000 kilometers. It makes Käthe feel queasy, unable to imagine herself anyplace but back home.

  “Is there something specific you are looking for?” the salesman asks. He could have stepped from one of the posters himself.

  Käthe hesitates, scan the displays. “A bag. Some luggage.”

  A clipped smile, an indulgent glance at Eva. “Of course.” He has the full measure of the situation. “How will you be traveling?”

  Käthe takes Eva’s hand, draws her away from a gleaming glass case. “Rapidly.” She smiles. “As rapidly as possible.”

  The man chuckles. “What I mean is, will you be traveling by land or by sea?” He clasps his hands. “Or by air? We have a full selection of luggage for the air passenger.”

  “By sea,” Käthe answers, feeling slightly absurd. Another poster has caught her eye, of an airboat, and in the background the skyscrapers of New York or some other gleaming American city. Eva has noticed it as well. The salesman gestures for them to follow. “Flying sausages,” Käthe whispers. Eva snickers with delight as they traipse behind the salesman through the fog of merchandise. The smell of new leather and canvas reminds Käthe of her grandmother’s house: the old steamship trunks with their drawers and compartments and the very important-looking brass plates that read, “Madame Kämmerer.” Family legend had it that these were the second of three demands she had made before agreeing to marry Grandfather Kämmerer—not the trunks, just the brass nameplates. The first demand was for a honeymoon in Spain, and the third was that she be allowed to bring her dolls. Just the story for the way home. Käthe smiles at the thought of her grandfather begging for the sixteen-year-old girl’s hand. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot myself,” he is supposed to have said. Grandmother Kämmerer, who was a great beauty—the spitting image of Empress Eugénie of France, it was said—put down the doll she was playing with and replied, “Well, I guess I’ll have to do it, then.”

  The salesman gestures to an enormous leather trunk with two handles. Flashing a smile of satisfaction at the loud clack of brass clasps, he opens the trunk and points out its features. “English,” he pronounces. “Top craftsmanship.”

  “It’s a little large,” Käthe tells him. “I could never carry it.”

  “It’s not meant for a woman to carry.”

  “What about that one?” She points to a bag on display across the aisle.

  “That is airplane luggage.”

  “May I see it?”

  The man leads them to the display. “Weight restriction on airplanes means lightweight luggage. The limited size makes it completely inappropriate for long voyages.”

  Käthe lifts the bag. “It’s light.”

  “As I have described.”

  “May I open it?”

  The man nods. Käthe opens the clasp. The interior of the case is simple. Two silk-lined compartments, a single cloth divider with brass clasps “It’s nice. I like it.”

  “Allow me to show you something more appropriate for sea travel,” the man insists, and disappears into the next aisle.

  “What do you think?” she asks Eva.

  Eva runs her hand along the silk interior, fingers the clasps. “It’s a funny color.”

  “I like that I can lift it.”

  The salesman returns with another trunk, slightly smaller than the first. “You will fit twice as much in here,” he says.

  Käthe barely manages to lift it. “Too heavy.”

  The man shrugs. “No luggage is truly light. Even women’s luggage is not meant to be carried by women. May I ask where you are traveling?”

  “China!” Eva says proudly.

  “To China! Then by all means you must go with the first one. The coolies there will carry it for you.” He laughs. “And they’ll carry you with it!”

  Käthe distracts herself by examining the clasps and hinges. The prices are much higher than she imagined. “May I look around a little?”

  “Of course! Take your time. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  She takes Eva by the hand and walks down the rows of display cases, overwhelmed by choices she suddenly feels incompetent to make. A light bag or a heavy trunk? How much do they need? Or want? All of Mohr’s traveling over the years, his coming and going, his tramping around, hasn’t furnished her with the practical example she needs just now. He took all the luggage with him when he left. Even if there were some way of gauging what they need in luggage by what they have of possessions, of knowing exactly what to expect in the new life ahead . . . But these are all questions she can’t answer. Deep inside, she expects that, yes, they will return one day. Should they leave some things behind? What if they don’t return? Shouldn’t she take as much with her as possible?

  She glances helplessly at all the shapes and sizes of luggage. Buzzing. It was the word Lawrence used to describe Mohr. Buzzing around. An English expression. It seemed to amuse him to think of Mohr in some sort of dizzy, perpetual motion, whereas it only made her sad. To her it just looked as if he were always uncomfortable and trying to get away.

  “Are we going, Mama?”

  They are moving in the direction of the large glass doors at the front of the store. A man wearing a frock coat with rows of brass buttons and white gloves bids them good-day and holds open the door.

  “Aren’t we going to get anything?” Eva wants to know.

  “Not now, sweetheart. I need to think about it.” Outside, the weather is changing again. The clouds are lifting. “Let’s walk a little.”

  “Where?” Eva wants to know.

  She can’t decide, and glances up the street to the tram stop. There is no longer a queue to get into the museum. She starts off in the direction of the National Theater, but after a few paces stops and changes direction. How will it feel to pass by the place? Will she feel anything at all? A worrisome prospect, to feel nothing, to be left cold.

  It isn’t until they cross the Maximilianbrücke, are making their way down the steps to the footpath along the river, that she begins to feel easier. The air is cooler down by the water, the summer canopy a rich and luxuriant green. They pass a group of young boys splashing at the water’s edge. “Shall we have our picnic?” Käthe points to a small patch of grass just a short distance ahead. Eva races to claim it and sprawls out in the grass.

  “Tell me what claustrophobia means,” Eva asks as Käthe unpacks their lunch.

  “Claustrophobia is when you are afraid of being closed up in a small space.”

  “Like Martin when he was stuck in the stove?”

  “For example. And now that you know what claustrophobia is, I’m sure you won’t do it again. That was a mean trick you played.”

  “Do you have claustrophobia?”

  Käthe bites into her roll. “Sometimes.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “Hard to describe.” The bread is slightly stale, but delicious. “Like you need more air. Just a little more room to breathe.”

  Eva twists open her roll, examines the butter spread thickly inside, then twists it back together. “Did you
have claustrophobia in the train?”

  “Maybe. A little.”

  “And in the store?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you afraid of going to China?”

  A shy smile. “Maybe. A little.”

  “Me, too.”

  They eat in silence for a time. The boys throw stones from the riverbank. The sun breaks through the clouds. A breeze picks up. Sound of traffic on the Maximilianbrücke. “Did you and Papa take trips together in the old days?” Eva asks.

  Käthe adjusts her skirt, stretches out in the grass. “Yes, we did. We took some wonderful trips together.”

  “Where did you go on your honeymoon?”

  “We walked to Innsbruck.”

  “All the way?”

  “And back again.”

  “Where else?”

  “We went to Berlin quite a lot. And Hamburg.”

  “Did you go to foreign countries?”

  “Yes, we did. After Papa’s feet healed. We wanted to recuperate.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Well, I wanted to go to Italy.”

  “And Papa didn’t?”

  “No. Much too tame for Papa.”

  “Where did he want to go?”

  “Somewhere in the desert. Arabia. Across Morocco, up into the mountains to the Berbers. Algiers. Something like that.”

  “What did you do?” Eva asks, looming over her mother, eating her roll.

  Käthe closes her eyes, feels the warmth of the sun directly on her face for the first time all day. “I wanted something else. Especially after the year we had just been through. I dreamed of deck chairs and Italian balconies, arm in arm through narrow streets, of being close together, strolling around, eating sweets. But I didn’t want to be some sort of ball and chain, some shrew who didn’t know how to have fun. Gaurisankar and Klotz am Bein.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never told you about Gaurisankar and Klotz am Bein?”

  “No. It sounds funny.”

  “Gaurisankar is a mountain in Nepal, one of the tallest in the Himalayas. Papa always dreamed about climbing it one day. It’s a symbol, a place where you go to see life clearly. You know what a Klotz am Bein is.”