But Kamionker came anyway, just turned up at the door on Friday evening and explained quite harmlessly that the letter had never reached him, so he would have to have a serious word with the postman, he was indeed a peaceful man but such a thing simply could not be allowed to happen. He couldn’t even be sent away, because how could he have travelled back to Zurich, so soon before Shabbos? In any case, he had brought a present for Arthur, wrapped quite casually in a Yiddish newspaper whose front page showed the picture of a worker bursting his chains. The present was a tallis, not a new one, but made of wonderfully finely woven material, and with a decorated collar the like of which no one here had ever seen. He had made it for himself in Simon Heller’s weaving mill in Kolomea, Kamionker said, and only the best had been good enough for him.
Arthur had had the whole week off school, even though the religious rules did not oblige him to take part in the shiva. Chanele had talked to his class teacher, because she was worried about her youngest. At his age, experiencing the death of a person in such proximity, let alone with the dying man in a room, such a thing could not help but leave a trace on a child, she argued, let alone so sensitive and even often sickly a child as Arthur. Her request was not in line with school policy, but because of the outcome of the plebiscite the teacher had a vaguely guilty conscience with regard to all Jews, and therefore made an exception on this occasion.
In the night before his bar mitzvah Arthur slept badly. His big day fell on the Jewish date of 14 Elul, in the middle of the month and on a full moon. He was no longer afraid – he was a man now, after all – of the shadows of the plane trees, hadn’t been for ages, but the fading light still kept him awake, and his thoughts turned endlessly in a circle. When he had got to sleep at last, the shrill cry of a bird outside his window woke him up again. It was a magpie, which actually had no business being in town. He had learned to tell the birds and their calls apart from Uncle Salomon, just as he had learned everything important, it seemed to him at that moment, only from him. Salomon had also told him a story about magpies: a farmer had once caught one and put it in a cage which he took into the field, so that it would lure its fellows with its tuneless cries for help. A second magpie flew down, the farmer grabbed it and wrung its neck. ‘And at that moment,’ Uncle Salomon had said, ‘at that precise moment the magpie in the cage keeled over and died as well. And do you know what it died of? Of a broken heart.’ Perhaps Salomon’s heart was broken too, Arthur thought, you couldn’t tell by looking.
Then at last it was day and time to put on the new suit that had had a kind of dress rehearsal at the big party. A white shirt went with it, with a very tight collar, and a tie with glittering silver threads woven into it. Janki stood behind Arthur to tie his tie, just as Arthur had often stood behind Chanele to button up her dress. It was almost an embrace, and Arthur would have liked to lean back into his father’s arms and be held tight by him. But of course that was impossible. At thirteen you’re ready to stand on your own, Uncle Salomon had said, because thirteen is, after all, the numerical value of Echod, or ‘one’.
Fat Christine, this had been agreed, would later help him unpack the presents, and in return he had had to promise to show himself to her before he went to the prayer hall, in his suit, tie and black hat. When he came into the kitchen in all his glory, she propped her arms on her hips the way she did at the market when offered a fish that she didn’t think was quite fresh, looked Arthur up and down and then said to Louisli, ‘Yes indeed, those young Meijers are good-looking men all right.’ Whereupon Louisli burst into tears; Arthur couldn’t tell why.
In shul, the prayer-hall at the Schlossberg that the community had rented from the Lang brothers who ran the factory, Arthur was definitely the focus of interest. When they came in, Janki and François and he, it was almost like when the Torah scroll is carried through the synagogue, when everyone throngs in on all sides to touch the velvet cover with the tzitzits of the prayer shawls. They clapped him on the shoulder or pushed him companionably and said, ‘Well? Very excited? Nu, you’ll be fine.’
In general Arthur liked ‘going to shul’, as attending synagogue was called. In his case it had nothing to do with piety, absolutely not. Arthur had even – during Kol Nidre, in fact – thought quite firmly, ‘Perhaps there is no God!’ He had done it very deliberately and thus called for a very severe punishment, but nothing had happened. No, he wasn’t even concerned about religion, he just liked the hubbub of the voices, the familiar tunes, the murmuring, that had something pleasantly soporific about it. If you only held the prayer book open in front of you and didn’t entirely forget to turn the pages, you could devote yourself to your thoughts here, wonderfully undisturbed. François – no, Shmul, of course, in religious context he was Shmul – always complained that the services went on too long, but as far as Arthur was concerned they could have been endless.
Today everything was different, uneasy and unfamiliar, not just because it was his bar mitzvah and he would soon have to show what he had learned, but also because of the suit and the tie and the tallis. The soft material smelled very slightly of tobacco, which was strange, because who puts on a tallis when he wants to smoke?
Shacharit passed quickly, and the repetition of the Shemoneh Esrei was over so suddenly that Arthur almost believed Cantor Würzburger had skipped something.
Already the Torah was being held aloft. François, as a relative, was allowed to hold it in his arms. The expression on his face suggested that the office was not an honour, but a punishment for him. He was already carrying the Torah scroll to the lectern, the men were already crowding around to touch and kiss it, its crown was already being removed, the silver shield and the embroidered cloak, it was already being unwrapped and unrolled, it was all happening so quickly, far too quickly. And then Herr Weinstock, the shammes, was already calling out in his thin, bleating voice for Herr Katz, who, as a priest, was the first to be summoned to the Torah, and then it was the turn of Cantor Würzburger, who was a Levi, and therefore second. It made perfect sense, people said at every bar mitzvah, because it meant that he was already on the almemor when it was the turn of the bar mitzvah boy, and could help him if he got stuck. Because now it was already Arthur’s turn, so quickly, far too quickly.
‘Chaim ben Yaakov, ha-bar mitzvah,’ bleated Shammes Weinstock, and Chaim ben Yaakov was him, it was his Jewish name. He was called Arthur every day, but in shul he was Chaim, which means life, and his father was Yaakov, or Jacob, but where the Lord is concerned there is no Janki and certain no Jean.
They all looked at him as he walked to the almemor, all the men in their white prayer shawls, and behind them in the women’s shul – he didn’t dare turn his head, but he could feel it very clearly – stood Chanele and Hinda and Mimi wearing her new hat with the black swan-feathers, they were all looking at him, and he knew his voice would fail, that he would get stuck in the middle of the sidra, that he would bring shame, terrible shame, on himself and the whole family.
But then when he started his first blessing it was as if he could hear his Uncle Salomon breathing beside him, steadily and regularly, and he was singing only for him, as he had sung for him again and again in the sewing room, he didn’t forget a single word or a single trill, and afterwards people said it was very rare for a bar mitzvah boy not to be agitated in the slightest.
At the reception, which they hadn’t been able to cancel because that would have looked mean, they stood side by side, son and father, and every time someone said ‘mazel tov!’ to Arthur and ‘you sang beautifully,’ Janki put his hand on his shoulder and was proud. Chanele stood there too and knew by heart all the gifts that Arthur had received but hadn’t yet been allowed to look at. When it was the turn of the people in question to shake hands, Chanele poked Arthur inconspicuously in the back and then he would say, ‘Thank you very much for the lovely present.’
There were little cakes and pastries, arranged on real silver dishes, which attracted a great deal of attention. The dishes had been
provided by Herr Strähle from the hotel; when the sweets had all been eaten, the coat of arms of the Verenahof became visible. The women dank sweet wine and the men schnapps; they filled the little crystal glasses to the brim and raised them to Arthur. ‘L’chaim!’ they cried, and even the familiar Jewish toast sounded strange to Arthur today, because ‘l’chaim’ actually means ‘for life’, but today, which was his day after all, it could also have meant ‘for Chaim’. Arthur felt as if they had been keeping the word ready for generations, just to use it in his honour today.
Then the reception was over. They had all eaten far too many sweet things, but the seudah awaited them at home, it was simply a part of it.
As she had promised Arthur, fat Christine was already standing ready with a sharp knife, even though there was quite enough for her to be getting on with in the kitchen. All the parcels had been put in the sewing room, which smelled strangely of fir twigs. Arthur only knew the smell from school, when Christmas was celebrated in class every year and he had to sit there in silence at the side until the others had finished. The fir needles had been Louisli’s idea, because in spite of their assiduous attempts to air the room, a memory of Uncle Salomon’s rotting wounds had hung in the air. The bed had been moved out; instead there was a table in its place, with a whole mountain of presents on it, waiting for Arthur.
‘Where shall we start?’ Christine asked, waving the knife around as impatiently as if she were looking at a heap of potatoes that all had to be peeled for lunch.
Arthur would have preferred to leave the unwrapping until after Voch, when he would once again be allowed to cut the ribbons and tear the paper all by himself. But something would not be put off, there was something he had to know straight away, there and then. The one present, the one that was the most important, far too precious – was it there?
The first parcel that seemed to be the right size and the right weight was a disappointment. Christine’s knife revealed only a slipcase of black books, the prayer books for all the feast days of the year, in the Rödelheimer edition with the German translation. His name was embossed in gold on every siddur: Arthur Chaim Meijer. It looked elegant, and it was an expensive present, from Uncle Pinchas, of course, the member of the family most devoted to tradition, but Arthur set it carelessly aside.
The next package was far too light; he took it out of Christine’s hands and put it back. She was quite indignant about the fuss he was making. But the third – ah, the third!
A box made of elegant stained wood, no, not a box: a proper little cupboard, with two wing doors like the Torah ark in the prayer room. There was even a lock, small enough to seal a diary, and for a moment Arthur panicked because he couldn’t find the key for it straight away. But below the little cupboard there was a drawer with a moveable brass handle like the one on the chest of drawers in Mama’s room, and when Arthur pulled it open, there lay the glass plates wrapped in silk paper and, sure enough, the key. He put it in the lock and for a moment – probably because of the special day – he had the feeling that he had to say a prayer before he opened it up. Then the two wing doors flew open, and there it was.
His microscope.
‘Which one shall we open next?’ asked Christine, and Arthur felt as if someone had suddenly started talking loudly about the weather or his business deals at the most sacred moment of the service.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that tomorrow. Otherwise Papa will get impatient.’
Christine was happy to go. She had, it was true, given Louisli precise instructions, but many a soup has been burnt at the very last moment because someone didn’t stir it with the necessary care.
His microscope.
It couldn’t simply be lifted out, there was a fastening that first had to be released with a tiny wing nut, but then, once you had wiped your fingers, moist with excitement, on one’s trousers, you could hold it in your hands, very, very carefully, you could set it down in front of you, ideally on the window sill, the light was brightest there, and you could look at it in peace, no longer as a picture in a book. Arthur wasn’t aware of it, but he was making the same face as Hinda did when she looked at Zalman Kamionker.
The viewfinder with the three lenses looked a little like the kaleidoscope that Aunt Mimi had brought him, except of course that it wasn’t wrapped up in childish, brightly coloured paper. It was made of brass, only the ring around the eyepiece was made of a lighter, gleaming metal with a matt finish. There was a regulating screw at the side which you could turn, and then the tube became longer and still longer, and if there had already been a glass plate on the bracket it would have broken there and then.
Arthur would, he had firmly decided, perform his first scientific experiment on his own blood, he would prick his finger with a needle and squeeze out a drop. A true researcher and discoverer doesn’t balk at pain.
When Chanele came to get him, he was sitting on his chair by the window, the same chair on which he had always sat by Uncle Salomon’s bed, stroking the microscope with his fingertips as if it were a living creature. ‘Are you happy now?’ she asked.
He was so happy that he couldn’t put it into words. And at the same time he had a guilty conscience because Uncle Salomon was dead, after all.
They were all sitting around the table already; it was laid for a feast, because even though one might not have wanted to make a fuss about it, it was still a bar mitzvah. The good Sarreguemines crockery rested on the best tablecloth, the knife with the silver handle lay beside the board with the Sabbath loaves, and the wine for Kiddush had already been poured.
Janki looked younger than usual, perhaps because he was proud of his son. Pride always made him sit up straight, as befits an old soldier. He gripped his walking stick with the lion’s-head handle, and when Chanele ushered Arthur in he gave a signal with it, and everyone began to clap.
François did so only with his fingertips, and held his head at a slight angle as if to say, ‘This might all be superficial theatre, but if it has to be, I won’t flinch from it.’ But he also winked at Arthur, and it was like a mark of distinction, like being accepted into a secret society of which the others knew nothing.
Hinda clapped loudest, no, second loudest, because Zalman Kamionker was sitting next to him, and each time he brought his hands together it sounded like a shot ringing out. He also tried to strike up a song, but when no one joined in he just laughed and let it pass. Kamionker had come to Baden without shabbosdik clothes, and Janki had insisted that he put on one of Uncle Salomon’s old jackets. Although Salomon had been a burly man, the tailor’s broad shoulders almost burst the seams.
Uncle Pinchas whispered something in Aunt Mimi’s ear, and she turned bright red in the face and slapped him on the arm and said, ‘Mais vraiment, Pinchas!’ Then she pursed her lips and blew a kiss to Arthur, and he nearly thanked her for it and said as he had done at the reception, ‘Many thanks for the lovely present!’
The only guests who weren’t part of the family were Cantor Würzburger and his wife, who couldn’t have been left out because Arthur still had to deliver his droosh over lunch, and it was better if someone was there just in case he stumbled. The cantor, applauding, cried ‘Bravo!’, and because the sound of his voice didn’t strike him as sonorous enough, he reached into his waistcoat pocket with two pointed fingers, took out a sal ammoniac pastille and popped it in his mouth.
Chanele had sat down too now, at the other end of the table, opposite her husband. It must have been Mama who had persuaded Papa to buy the microscope even though it was so expensive. Arthur was sure of it, and loved her for it very much. It was because of his mother that he had never understood why, in the morning prayer, one thanks God for not creating one as a woman.
Christine and Louisli stood in the doorway and would probably have applauded as well, if they hadn’t had to hold onto the plates with the salted carp.
‘It’s lovely to belong to a family,’ Arthur thought, and decided that he would have three children as well one day
, at least three, and that he would give them anything they wanted.
‘Now sit down,’ said Chanele. ‘You’re dreaming again.’
1913
36
‘It’s lovely to belong to a family,’ thought Arthur. He took off his glasses, closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his middle finger. Such a young doctor, who can’t afford to turn down night-time house calls, has trouble staying awake during a long ceremony. The gesture inconspicuously concealed the fact that his eyes had once again filled with tears, with that inexplicable stirring of emotion that suddenly came upon him, time and again, in situations where he should really have been happy.
And he was happy. Of course he was happy. Why shouldn’t he have been happy?
As they did every year at Pesach, almost the whole of the Zurich family had gathered together. They had got used to the fact that two of them were missing, that there should really have been two more chairs around the table, each with its cushion, that there should have been two more glasses on the white table-cloth. One was left with no other option but to get used to it.
Melnitz Page 39
