The Island of Second Sight

by Albert Vigoleis Thelen

  I told him that with such qualities, plus a father who was hit by a train, I couldn’t imagine any girl who would be better fit for calibrating my client’s Mallorcan bedroom budget with his bank account. And so I advised him to send Fräulein Nina a postcard.

  “A postcard? Don’t you know that you don’t send postcards to ladies? Nina is a perfect lady, I tell you!”

  Adelfried Silberstern loved to write letters. His talent lay in his dictating skills, which allowed him to conceal his weakness: orthography. Orthography was not his concern, but his secretary’s—that is to say, in this case, it was my concern. My client would have preferred a female employee, one with boobs. And with legs! No inhibitions, no panties, the kind of female employee who in novels and movies likes to jump on her boss’ lap and eventually has the whole company tied to her little finger. Be that as it may, Silberstern’s sense of importance was satisfied with Vigoleis. All he had to do was say, “Take dictation!” and then start twirling his thumbs and pacing back and forth.

  It turned out to be long, this letter of mine to Nina, who lived between Cologne and Neuss, at the place where the now fatherless railroad-crossing cubicle stood. It was an epistle filled with nostalgic reminiscences and anticipatory aspirations, replete with “Do you remember” and “You see” and “Let me.” The “Let me’s” were in the majority. As he dictated, the roly-poly bridegroom’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Pearls of lecherous sweat dripped from his nose, apparently the most active organ in a phenomenon of his type. His entreaties and erotic ambulations made him seem like a living page from the immolated treasures of his private collection of pornography. When the invitation to his bride was finished, the author stood in front of his scribe wringing his hands, and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  “Very few writers are able to dictate print-ready copy,” I said. “Gerhart Hauptmann is said to have achieved a certain degree of perfection in this art, but he does that lying down. It’s really quite remarkable, your combination of Bluebeard and traveling salesman. Your sentences will pierce the lady’s heart. It’s likely that you will become her destiny.”

  My words flattered the cheapskate. He punched his belly with delight, seeing himself in his mind’s eye already sharing his shiny brass bedstead with Nina, sharing their daily bread and their nightly cavorting, sharing an ensaimada on Sundays and reminiscing about sharing finger-licking potato pancakes back in Cologne. Silberstern signed the letter, put his initials on the first carbon and a private symbol on the second. That was his businesslike custom. After all, Nina was a business transaction.

  “There!” Silberstern licked the envelope, closed it, put his expensive hat on his brush-cut head, and was ready to march off to the post office.

  “Wait, Herr Direktor!” I said. “Shouldn’t we figure out first when the letter will arrive between Cologne and Neuss, just so we can at least imagine at which point the Nazi censor will break it open, make a few phone calls, see to it that Nina gets grabbed, and then make sure that she gets her hair shorn off for committing racial defilement with the “Jewish pig” Silberstern from Würzburg, currently residing in Palma de Mallorca? She’ll be hanged in Klingelpütz Prison, and Adelfried will be murdered by Nazi thugs in the Balearic Gau.”

  Vigoleis is not a saint, although at certain times he has come close to a faint trace of saintliness as a result of selfless actions. Nor is he a Christian. Despite his poverty he still has enough clothes to put on. He’s not a bad person, not a cynic, and he doesn’t bear grudges. If Silberstern had paid him a fee for his legal counsel, just a few thousand pesetas as a gesture, so to speak, I am convinced that he never would have thought of badgering the man. This was simply his way of taking revenge. Or was it just a game, the way a cat plays with the mouse?

  Silberstern had nothing to say. He broke out in a sweat and took his precious hat back off, no doubt thinking that he couldn’t trust the moisture-proof quality of the leather lining. He wrung his pudgy hands, and drops of saliva appeared at the corners of his mouth. Just a moment ago he was riding toward triumph, but now he was a target of Hitler’s minions! All that money! That brass bedstead!

  I offered him consolation. If he would let me have my way once more, we could get Nina out of the Third Reich hale and hearty, just as we had done with his money. We would have to act smartly. The enemy was listening, and above all, we mustn’t underestimate the enemy. We mustn’t think of the enemy simply as a knave, but rather as a hyper-knave. I told him to go back home, light up his seven-branched candelabra, and thank Moses and the Prophets that his father hadn’t given him a first name like Itzig or Isidor, but instead Adelfried. As “Adelfredo” he should send a postcard to Nina, despite the fact that she was a perfect lady, telling her that an old friend in Spain would be delighted if she were to pay him a visit sometime on Mallorca. “Clima ideal,” no endemic diseases, no unsanitary kitchens, mortality rate 10.44 per 1000 inhabitants, average humidity…

  “There you go again, Herr Doktor, making fun of me! What is all that supposed to mean, mortality, endymic, kitchens…?

  “Those are points of comparison, Herr Stern, and they could serve as come-ons for your Nina. In Germany today, the mortality rate is 27.8 per 1000 citizens. I happen to know this figure precisely, because when I wake up every morning I see a column in the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung that contains statistical reports about such things. As for the word “endemic”—by the way, not “endymic,” unfortunately not that—that is the way to describe National Socialism. It has turned out to be Germany’s endemic illness. Nina is educated. She’ll know right away what we’re referring to.”

  “There you go again, making disparaging remarks about my homeland! And what’s this about humidity?”

  “Likewise for reasons of comparison. Average humidity 68%, highest elevation 1472 meters, free transportation and lodging, Sunday excursions alone or in group.”

  “Free transportation? I beg your pardon, you don’t think I’m going to pay for her trip, do you? She should be happy that I’m letting her come!”

  “Who else will pay for it, if not Silberstern? The Führer, perhaps? He’s got other things to worry about. Or maybe the widow Jensen, out of her measly Dorpmüller pension? She’s lucky if she gets 50 marks a month…”

  “63.20. And she wouldn’t have got anything if my brother the attorney hadn’t written a letter to the railway authorities. Just think, her husband was standing on an unused spur when the train hit him!”

  “One more reason why you’ll have to pay for her trip. But first we’ll have to find out whether Nina is still alive. If her looks are as non-Aryan as you say they are, she’s in big trouble.”

  “Oh, but you don’t know Nina! She’s a superb woman, I’m telling you, and she can outfox the SS. I’m going to write her a card right away, and then you’ll see that all I’ve been telling you is the God’s honest truth. I have some pictures that I’ll show you and your spouse. All of them decent, don’t worry. Made by a photographer in Cologne. And besides, she’s Catholic.”

  “What a shame. Unclothed women always reveal a clearer picture.”

  “I’ve got some of those, too, Herr Doktor. I’ll bring them all.”

  “Do that. I’ll give them to Count Kessler, who will pass them on with a few words of recommendation to the son of the current American ambassador in Madrid. You know, that fellow is in charge of the most luxurious nudist club in the Old World, here on Mallorca. That’s where Nina can develop her talents. But first let’s get to that postcard, so we can sneak her out of the Reich as quickly as possible.”

  Nina’s reply, written on a postcard, was businesslike, although Mr. Silberstern thought he could read great happiness between the lines. But it caused him to wring his hands just the same. This would, he said, be his ruin. He was being asked to forward 400 marks for the travel expenses! For 300, he said, he himself could travel anywhere in the world. He made some calculations, pulled some grimy papers from his bulging briefcase, and showed me dow
n to the penny how much he had paid for the trip from Aachen to Palma, third-class of course, but including baggage insurance and two salmon sandwiches. Now a battle raged, and it was fought in sight of photos of the Cologne model that were spread out on the table. She was indeed one impressive broad, in certain respects similar to Kathrinchen of the Clock Tower, although Nina showed a sturdier maintenance of the parts of her physique devoted to love-making—presumably Mensendieck gymnastics. And yet there seemed to hover over her most intimate parts a trace of melancholy, which is after all an ingredient in the art of truly grand cocottes. Nina must have been insatiable, but at the same time unfathomable.

  Over half an hour I persuaded the horny miser to transfer 500 marks to Cologne: 400 for transportation, 80 for new luggage, and 20 for a new goat for Mother Jensen. The latter item was mentioned by the solicitous Nina in a scribbled P.S. on her card: her Mom was doing OK, but in the meantime her goat had also been hit by a train. I told the skinflint that Dr. Dorpmüller could not be held responsible for this accident—that was the inevitable fate of any creature that did its munching at the edge of a railroad track. They would all end up under the wheels: goat, goose, or crossing-keeper. And besides, Mother Jensen was in large part responsible for the birth of this particular Venus; a nanny goat would hardly be an adequate form of recompense.

  In addition to money, Silberstern also sent Nina some kisses, which were meant to hasten her departure. But the girl didn’t arrive. The brass bedstead was polished up, the mattresses spread out—all Nina had to do, he told me, was to come and cuddle down next to her unappetizing master. Oh, but that wouldn’t do, I told him. He would have to outfit a separate room for the lady, and surely his apartment was big enough for that. But why, he asked. She would be sleeping with him! Don’t bet on it, I said. The local Aryan German colony would insist on separate sleeping quarters for an Aryan woman. Otherwise she would end up behind bars, and all his money would be out the window!

  With sorrow in his heart, and because of what people might say, Silberstern purchased the new furniture. But Nina didn’t arrive. While still engaging in his two peseta entertainments, Silberstern took out his misery on me. And patiently, I placed my neck under his foot. One day he asked me what I would do in similar circumstances. I told him I had no idea: I was good at giving advice to other people, just not to myself. But in a case like this one? Simple, I said. We would have to find out whether the bank had actually paid out the amount he had sent. No way, he said. Confidential transaction. All right, let’s write to Mother Jensen, return reply requested, and ask her whether she has a new goat. Why not send a telegram directly to Nina? That would be an affront to the lady—unless, of course, she wasn’t a lady after all.

  Mother Jensen had received her goat. And a few painful, impatient weeks later Silberstern received a postcard from Nina, sent from Berlin: “So sorry. Letter will follow.”

  The letter said that she had gone for a spin with a boyfriend and 480 marks. In Berlin the guy went through all the cash with her, and then disappeared. She begged forgiveness and another 500 marks.

  “Not one more penny! I wouldn’t dream of it, that filthy sow! I’ve had it with all this deceit and insults!” But he knew how to force her. “Take dictation!”

  I composed a long letter containing obscure threats, anticipated triumphs, rank violations of consecutio temporum, and ending with “Very sincerely yours, Silberstern.” Now, he asked, wasn’t that once again a top-notch letter after all this time?

  No doubt about it, I said. Especially for a traveling wine merchant who was familiar with the law. “Abduction of a minor” was what it was called in jurisprudence. In former times it could bring you a jail sentence, and today it was a capital offense. His well-educated Nina, that canny, brainy girl, would take his letter to the police, which is to say to some Nazi with a medal for street-fighting, and the next time we visited Herr Hasenbank at the German Shop we would see the Silberstern Affair spread all over Julius Streicher’s Nazi weekly Der Stürmer: “Jewish Swine Seduces Aryan Girl to Mallorca, Isle of Vice!” Watch out, I said. Nina could get dangerous. He was going too far, no chance of a retreat. He must transfer 500 marks minus one nanny goat. By telegraph!

  Silberstern sent the money to the widow who held the little red flag at the railway crossing. He received a brief reply saying that the lady had always known that there were decent Jews, and that she was content that her daughter would be in excellent hands with this noble gentleman, especially in this day and age when one’s life was in danger if one had a crooked nose. It was touchingly naive of the widow to write this way; it could have cost Nina her life right away on the railway platform. But Nina was carrying a guardian angel in her hand luggage. She later showed it to me.

  Nina fulfilled all the promises displayed in her photos. At eight in the morning, just minutes after disembarking—Silberstern had taken a taxi to avoid creating a scene at the pier. At 8 am the super-broad was standing in our bible-paper room. Great Scott! If I were him, I too would have yanked her away from that railroad crossing and paid her trip in full. Face to face, her brow seemed somewhat less striking than in the photos, but that only increased one’s expectations. The remainder met all the requirements one could place on a Nina, either in real life or in a book about a life. As she stood in our presence in her imposing corporeality, she had already cost Silberstern 1000 marks, and it would now be up to me to see to it that she cost him even more. But Beatrice, who was asked to join in the inspection, later told me that I wouldn’t have to exert myself—everything would take its natural course. And that’s exactly how it went.

  The next day at the crack of dawn the magnanimous Mr. Silberstern again stood at our door, this time in a mood of sackcloth and ashes. Had she flown the coop so soon? No, on the contrary, she was still there, but she had locked herself in! How he wished now that he hadn’t followed my advice and had a lock attached to her door! What did he care what people might say? She wasn’t letting him in, and par conséquence… 1000 marks, and now this affûtage! Despite the man’s obvious distress, this business about affûtage sounded rather erudite, but as a lay philologist I didn’t know what the word affûtage meant, and as a counsel specializing in legal and sexual matters I didn’t dare look it up in my Dupiney. Surely it must mean something very lowdown, something in close connection with the brass bedstead. Beatrice, who at this early hour was unable to avoid the encounter, said that affûtage was strong language. The Nazis and their murderous scourges—those were examples of affûtage. Herr Silberstern crumbled. “That’s just it,” he cried. “That’s just it! Nina has turned out to be a Nazi! Nina, my girlfriend from the most Catholic stretch of railroad in Germany! And an anti-Semite! And she always went to confession!”

  I tried to console this victim of affûtage by telling him that a new Reformation had broken out. There were no more Catholics, only Nazis. This was the new German dispensation, bestowed by virtue of the Vatican Concordat. My own mother, who of course didn’t raise goats at the edge of a railroad, was walking the selfsame path of sinister upheaval. But Nina? Surely she was out to gain something by her actions. A person wouldn’t lock out such a generous Adelfried just because she was an anti-Semite. So I asked him, “What’s up?”

  “She wants to get to Lisbon. She told me so right away, at the harbor.”

  “Aha, so it’s a small matter of extortion. What does she want to do in Lisbon? Has she got some other guy over there?”

  “Some count, some highly placed gentleman. And she wants me to pay her way again, or she’ll start making a huge fuss.”

  “A real count? Like Kessler? Or is it a con man like Count…?”

  This new topic put the traveling wine merchant in his best businesslike form. It was Old Portuguese nobility! He mentioned the name, which was a truly grand one—of world-historical significance, at least in the 8th century. After that, the family enjoyed a great reputation solely inside the family itself. I mustn’t reveal the name, because the Count is st
ill living and is among the friends of my Portuguese friends, who were particularly attentive one day at the Pascoaes Estate when, telling tales as I always like to do, I recounted how Nina withheld her charms from Silberstern’s brass bed, and had him pay her way to Lisbon for a visit with Count… all of my listeners knew this Count in person, and they all knew about his German affair. Nina? Yes indeed, that was her—a dancer, ballet. The Count was head over heels for her. Big family arguments. He threatened to make her his bride. La ci darem la mano, la mi dirai di sí. It’s a shame, I said, that he didn’t follow through. A certain amount of roadbed ballast from the rail line between Cologne and Neuss could have been of use to this noble dynasty. I was given stern looks, even though as a Habsburg bastard I felt I could very well have a say in the matter. The noble poet Pascoaes, who as a poet stood above all questions of bloodlines, later agreed with my assessment.

  Nina had started early on to put her perfect physique in the service of her selfish desires. She traded successfully on this capital, and soon enough, as was only natural with a build like hers, she had no need to lead a goat to munch on desiccated weeds along the tracks, as piously Catholic as that particular line was between Neuss and Cologne. At our very first meeting, I felt the need to tell Nina that I had traveled that stretch of track dozens of times, and perhaps I had even sat in the train that was her father’s tragic undoing. This information brought us closer together. Herr Silberstern wasn’t pleased, and started calculating that my chronology must be wrong. So we dropped the subject.

  When Nina was sixteen, she consulted her drab mirror for advice, took off her maidenly little dress, and became a full-fledged girl. At eighteen she was discovered at “Grubby Kunibert’s” in downtown Cologne by a university student who once heard her belting out some song and, on the basis of these noises, drew certain conclusions about the usefulness of her voice for her future. Some months later, she was dancing and singing in Berlin, Paris, and Lisbon—one naked Nina together with 30 other naked Ninas. The troupe went on tour, embarking in Leixões for Rio de Janeiro. With no further ado, the Portuguese count, always quick on the draw, selected her from among the 30: “That one and none other!” For a shepherd, each sheep has its own personality. He got her all right, but their pastoral bliss lasted only a short while. They promised to meet again in Cologne. “Minha alma!” said the Count. “Tschüss!” said Nina.