After dinner, and this too had become a tradition, they both sat together in the sitting room, where the bronzed oak-leaf wreath from Arthur’s Gymnastics Society days still hung on the wall, and the tantalus, unopened since the previous century, still stood among the books on the shelf. Only a bachelor could have kept the leather armchairs, rubbed dull with use, for so many years; they were unsightly, yet as comfortable as a pair of worn-out slippers. ‘They’re a good match for me,’ thought Arthur.
It was part of their shared ritual that Arthur took a cigar from the box that a grateful patient gave him every year as mishloach manot at Purim, turned it around between his fingers, without really knowing what one was actually supposed to look out for in that exploratory rustling sound, and then lit it, puffing the while. It usually went out soon afterwards, and ended up forgotten in the ashtray; Arthur didn’t particularly like cigars, but would have felt ungrateful if he hadn’t used the present at all.
Désirée drank port, ‘an old maid’s drink’, as she called it. She emphasised her old-maid status with her hairstyle: parted in the middle, the way she had worn it as a young girl. Except that her hair was thinner now, and showing its first grey strands.
Today too everything could have been as it always was. But their conversation, which usually revolved around pleasantly trivial matters, kept drifting inexorably towards the same point, where it was tugged by the overwhelming current of facts into the same unchanging whirlwind. Beyond the border, just a few kilometres from Zurich, the world had been thrown out of joint, the pub politicians had left the regulars’ table for the government benches, and published their thuggish slogans as legal documents.
In his letters Ruben gave an account of the fresh torments that were constantly being introduced, all with the same goal in mind: to drive as many Jews as possible out of Germany. His Halberstadt congregation had shrunk almost by half in the previous four years, often with an apparently minor detail providing the final impulse to emigration. For example the ‘Stürmer box’, a display case carved in the old German style with the latest edition of Streicher’s hate sheet; it had been put up right by the entrance to the Klaus Synagogue, so that the faithful had to push their way past the caricatures of girl-defiling Jewish doctors and blood-sucking Jewish bankers on their way to service. For others it was a simple question in their children’s maths lesson that was the final straw. In a letter, Ruben had quoted the example from a school textbook: ‘Some intellectual professions in Berlin were dominated by Jews during the Weimar Republic. So among theatre people the Jewish proportion was eighty per cent, among lawyers sixty per cent, among doctors forty per cent, among university teachers in the Philosophy faculty twenty-five per cent. Show these figures in a graph!’ A committee member in the congregation, a soldier from the Great War with German nationalist leanings, who had sworn not to be driven from his fatherland under any circumstances, had emigrated overnight, after a polite voice had explained to him, when he had tried to send a telegram by telephone, that Jewish names could no longer be spelled out on the phone, it was incompatible with the racial pride of German postal officials.
‘A whole country has gone mad,’ Arthur said. ‘We can thank God that we live in Switzerland.’
‘Can we really do that?’ Désirée ran her fingernail thoughtfully along the rim of her glass. ‘Maybe the mad people haven’t yet floated to the surface here.’
Again, it wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation either, and on this subject too they both argued like an old married couple, each one knowing the views of the other so well that they react to certain words even before they are uttered. Désirée knew better than Arthur himself that he couldn’t imagine the world as anything other than reasonable, with laws which, while they might sometimes have been abused, were still correct in their fundamental traits. For a person like him there simply had to be reliable rules, because otherwise one lost one’s bearings. Arthur, for his part, knew Désirée’s fundamental scepticism about anything that proclaimed its rationality and objectivity too noisily. Behind that lay her firm conviction that unreason and blind emotion always lay behind such things. She had inherited that attitude from her father. As long as he lived, Pinchas had never got over the fact that the very first people’s initiative in Switzerland had been to forbid shechita, that a new law had immediately been used to create a new injustice. ‘An individual can make judgements,’ was the lesson he had learned from that. ‘The mass know only prejudices.’ And as if to prove this thesis, what had been one of the first rulings made by Hitler’s government? A prohibition on shechita. ‘We’re being forced into vegetarianism,’ Ruben had written in one of his letters.
‘Are we really supposed to wait until the same thing happens here? It might be more intelligent to start packing before it’s too late.’
‘To emigrate where?’
Désirée spread her arms, a gesture that took in the whole world, then lowered them again so that the world one could flee into dissolved and fell into a thousand pieces. ‘Anywhere,’ she said.
‘That would be cowardice.’
Désirée nodded. ‘And we aren’t brave enough to be cowardly.’
She didn’t have to explain what she meant by that. If Alfred had been brave enough at the outbreak of the war simply to run away, to desert, to go into hiding – perhaps he would still have been alive now.
Perhaps everything would have been different.
‘Don’t let these Fröntlers scare you. They’ll never get a majority here.’
‘Maybe. But sometimes I’m not sure if this is really still our country.’
In her shop Désirée always got to hear everything that happened. She learned of the children who had been shouted at in the street, ‘Jewboy, Jewboy, your time is nearly through, boy!’ although the worst thing wasn’t the mocking verse, but the fact that no one was bothered about it, she heard about the German refugee who was congratulated in a shop, because his Jewishness wasn’t visible, on the way his country was finally cleaning up and putting things in order, the story of the lawyer who argued in court that the slogan ‘Perish the Jews!’ on the wall of the Bern synagogue had nothing to do with anti-Semitism, but was an expression of political opinion protected by the constitution, and who was able to back it up with reference to a judgement by the Swiss Federal Court.
‘And have you heard what happened in François’s department store?’
No, Arthur hadn’t heard.
Someone had taken a dislike to the trademark with which François had decorated each of his shop windows for years. This someone, whom the police could not identify, had taken offence at the horizontal and vertical name M-E-I-E-R and corrected it back to its original form, carefully adding the missing J, window by window, back in with oil paint.
Meijer without a yud had become Meier with a yud again.
‘Nothing but rascally pranks,’ said Arthur. And he didn’t believe the reassuring words himself.
‘Possible. Except that we are living in a time when the rascals are in charge.’
‘Not in Switzerland.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Désirée.
To Arthur’s luck, at precisely that moment the phone rang, and kept him from having to admit that he was very far from sure.
He had expected one of his patients, and was surprised to hear Rachel’s voice. ‘You’ve got to come to the factory straight away,’ she said with the over-distinct articulation of someone struggling to control their panic.
‘There’s been a murder.’
Désirée insisted on coming.
The Fiat’s headlights crept along the dark façades of the houses like curious fingers. Every time they took in a late passer-by, it was as if they had caught him, a whole city full of twilight figures, all on their way to do something forbidden. Arthur was nervous, he kept forgetting to double-declutch, making the gears clash so that one might have thought the car was resisting the journey it was being asked to take so late at night.
; ‘Do you know if the police are there?’ Désirée asked.
‘I don’t think so. Something must have happened that they don’t want to make a great song and dance about.’
‘I still can’t imagine it. A murder in Zalman’s factory?’ Désirée spoke the unfamiliar word as if wearing gloves, the way one picks up things that seem strange very carefully.
‘Rachel said: there’s been a murder.’
‘Does she know the difference?’
Even though it wasn’t really appropriate, or perhaps precisely because it wasn’t appropriate, Arthur couldn’t help laughing at the question, out of nerves, of course, but also because Désirée had caught Rachel Kamionker’s character so precisely. ‘Does she know the difference?’ The years when men had swarmed around Rachel, and received even her most casual remark with applause, were long gone, but even today her behaviour was defined by her certainty, which had come into being back then, that people would always agree with what she said even if she didn’t give it much thought.
When they charged into the factory, Arthur clutching his medical case, there was a cordon of people waiting for them, a whole row of employees with concerned expressions, who all wanted to show them the way to the big sewing room, and hoped to use the opportunity to get a glimpse of the dramatic events from which they had been excluded.
Just as Arthur was about to reach for the door handle, it sprang open, and a young woman in a state of complete distress dashed towards them. She was very pretty, Arthur could see that straight away, and he felt guilty for noticing that first and only then the big bloodstain on her dress. She clutched his sleeve and stammered, ‘Thank God, Doctor! You’ve got to save him! Otherwise he’s going to die on me, he’s going to die!’ She wouldn’t let go, and Désirée actually had to tear her away from him. Only now did he see that the young woman’s hands were smeared with blood, and the inappropriate thought darted through his head: would the stains ever come out of his coat?
The sewing room glowed in an unnaturally white, bright light. It must have been those new-fangled neon lamps that Zalman had talked about with such pride. In two neat rows, like the desks in a classroom, stood the sewing machines. At the front a figure lay motionless on the floor. Around it, Zalman, Rachel and a man that Arthur didn’t know. None of them looked up when Arthur came in.
Someone had tried to cover up the body they were guarding, and even though they would have had all kinds of other materials to choose from here, had reached for a gently shimmering white fabric, too impractical for a sheet and too valuable for a shroud. Around the man’s head the fabric was covered with blood, but he still seemed to be breathing and . . .
It wasn’t just a man.
It was Joni Leibowitz.
His Joni.
Arthur knelt down next to him, he knelt next to Joni as he had once, a thousand years ago, knelt beside that body, in a gym on that occasion, he could still smell the moment, sweat and dust, he knelt next to him, and in that face, puffy now, he sought the familiar features, in the stale cigarette smoke the scent he had often inhaled, so similar to his own, he knelt on the floor and for a long moment he had forgotten everything a doctor has to be able to do, he just waited helplessly for Joni to open his eyes, waited for the private smile that wasn’t given to everybody, waited for a visit from the past, to say, ‘Oh please, Doctor, when can I have another appointment with you?’
But the only voice was that of the woman who went on wailing outside the door. ‘He’s dying on me,’ she howled, ‘he’s dying on me, no one can save him.’
Then the moment was over, it had really been just a moment, he was a doctor again, as he had been a hundred times in emergencies, and his hands did everything that needed to be done all by themselves. The bones of the skull, whose lines he knew so well, were undamaged, there was just a laceration, a tear in the skin that could be stitched up without much difficulty. Of course Joni had lost a lot of blood, but a head like that bleeds easily, and it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s anything dramatic. It would have been smarter to bandage the wound rather than just covering it up, but perhaps no one had dared to do that, or else the hysterical woman hadn’t let them. She must have rested his head in her lap, hence the blood on her dress, she must have stroked him, which was both senseless and unhygienic.
Arthur envied her that.
At last Joni opened his eyes. He didn’t seem to recognise Arthur, which might have been because of the injury, looked at him as if he were a stranger, without a smile, private or public. Ran his tongue over his lips as if to check that his mouth was still there and working, and then said with quiet fury, ‘I’m going to sue that meshuganeh.’
Outside the woman screamed, ‘He’s dying on me!’ Joni tried to turn his head, pulled a painful face and whispered, ‘Please could someone get that Blandine to shut up?’
He should really have been taken to hospital for observation, he had had a bump on the head and been unconscious. Concussion couldn’t be ruled out, in such cases it could lead to complications, to vestibular disorders or even worse. But Zalman was concerned about the good reputation of the company, and Joni’s condition seemed to be improving from one minute to the next. So the decision was made that he would be taken to Arthur’s surgery to have the wound stitched, but Arthur’s car was too small for that – not for nothing was the car called Topolino, the little mouse – and a taxi had to be called from Welti-Furrer, the removals firm. Until it arrived, a bed was organised for Joni in the cutters’ room, and the woman who was so concerned about him, Blandine Flückiger – the house model, Arthur learned – was given the task of putting damp, cool cloths on his forehead.
What had happened? Zalman wanted to tell him, but Rachel wouldn’t let her father get a word in. After all, she had been there when it happened, she said, while Zalman had been sitting in his office and was therefore unable to provide any reliable information.
Today the company had received another hasty commission, one of those impatient orders that landed at the Kamionker Clothes Company because it was well known that they needed the work and would sometimes work through one night or two. Zalman didn’t like that overtime, but what was one to do? As things stood, the customers had the upper hand.
So they didn’t stop work as usual at half past six, gave the apprentice, who had to go to the post office with the daily parcels anyway, the task of buying bread and cheese for everyone and prepared for a long night. At about nine o’clock they took a break and ate something. On these occasions there was always an atmosphere a bit like a picnic outing, they were all tired and excited at the same time, they walked around a little to stretch their legs and talked about everything imaginable.
The table with the makeshift supply centre was set up right by the entrance, and most people gathered there. Only a few preferred to take their sandwiches to their work stations. One of these was the man who had been standing beside Zalman all this time, and whom Arthur had never met before. His name was Grün, and he was new.
Herr Grün, even Rachel had to admit, had learned how to sew very quickly. Admittedly he couldn’t yet be used for complicated work, but he could make a straight seam without any difficulties, and with the necessary speed.
But he was still a meshuganeh.
He had been sitting at a sewing machine – ‘He always sits apart from the rest!’ – and was the only one, or almost the only one, in the sewing room when Joni Leibowitz and the model came in, perhaps because they hoped they wouldn’t be disturbed there. Rachel left no doubt about what purpose that lack of disturbance might have been supposed to serve.
She herself had just happened to be standing in the doorway.
‘Just happened?’ asked Zalman, and Rachel replied with unexpected vehemence that she had not the slightest interest either in Herr Leibowitz or in Fräulein Flückiger, and if anyone thought she had been spying on the two of them, then he would also need to explain why she should have been doing such a thing.
No matter. At any rate, she h
ad been standing in the doorway and could confirm that Joni and Blandine had been chatting quite peacefully, about politics, of course, what else were people talking about these days, until Herr Grün had suddenly risen to his feet. Not leapt to his feet, as if he had been furious or agitated, no, he had risen quite calmly, he had taken the heavy iron that always stood ready in the sewing room because certain pieces always need to be pre-ironed before they can be sewn, so he had picked up the iron and hit Joni so hard on the head with it that he collapsed straight away. And then? Then he had put the iron carefully back in its holder, had gone back to his seat as if nothing had happened, had sat down again and gone on eating his bread.
Joni had lain there, one might have thought he was dead, everything was covered in blood, and Blandine had screamed her head off until everyone was suddenly standing in here, the whole workforce, it was Bedlam, or the Burghölzli. Only Rachel had kept her seichel and phoned Arthur straight away.
During this account Herr Grün stood there in the three-piece suit that was far too big for him and inappropriate for a factory stitcher, and when everyone looked at him quizzically, he just nodded and said, ‘You observed that very well, Fräulein Kamionker. That’s exactly how it was.’
‘So why?’ asked Zalman.
‘The iron was the only thing to hand.’
‘What did Leibowitz do to you?’
Herr Grün shrugged and held his hands in front of him, fingers spread, a very Jewish gesture that means more or less, ‘What is a person to do? A man plans his way, but God guides his steps.’ Then he turned to Zalman and said, ‘Of course you’re going to fire me now.’
‘First of all I want to know what on earth got into you.’
‘That is a point in your favour,’ said Herr Grün quite matter-of-factly. ‘But how am I to explain it to you? Let’s put it this way: I didn’t like what Herr Leibowitz said to the young lady.’
‘What?’ Zalman was a peaceful man, but now he was raising his voice.
Melnitz Page 67
