The Wall: And Other Stories

by Jurek Becker

  The hotel room is like a hotel room; the food, however, is nothing like dinner. It begins with his fruitless search for a kosher restaurant, which he abandons after an hour. Uncle Gideon won’t go as far as to say that there is not a single kosher restaurant in all of London, but what he is willing to say is that such a restaurant, should it exist, is nearly impossible for a stranger to find. He goes to bed hungry, until his weak stomach, as we recall, puts an end to his piousness. Uncle Gideon wanders about his dreary room, not prepared for the stomachache but expecting it any moment. Suddenly, he is halted by the question of how he is supposed to survive a week in London without food. He doesn’t find an answer and thus puts the question to God. Even He needs to think it over. Following a lengthy debate, carried on in a friendly fashion, Uncle Gideon removes his hairnet and makes his way downstairs to the restaurant. The God of the Jews is an understanding one, Uncle Gideon says; He can be reasoned with. But not another word about English food at the hotel, Uncle Gideon continues, brushing aside the thought with one hand while the other pats his belly. He says: If only the food were as easy to swallow as it was to forget.

  Back to the matter at hand: Uncle Gideon’s plan is to stay in London for one week. After three days, however, the machines are already purchased—at a bargain price, of course: send Uncle Gideon to buy something and he’ll come back to you with more money than you gave him. Uncle Julian, red in the face with excitement, shouts, Gideon, you fiend, why the devil won’t you become my partner? Uncle Gideon calmly responds: Let’s discuss it another time, when you have your books with you. It’ll be easier to explain then. Of course, everyone is laughing again, Uncle Julian the loudest. After all, what was he expecting, asking such a question?

  Uncle Gideon, meanwhile, has another four days in London and doesn’t know what to do with them. Already he has visited most of the sights—nobody can negotiate day and night—the Queen’s palace, certain towers, certain bridges, also a square with an Italian name that is almost as busy as the market in Lublin but doesn’t smell nearly as good. Museums are not Uncle Gideon’s thing. He begins to wonder whether it might not be best to let London be London and whether the last four days might be better spent returning to Lublin early, whether he shouldn’t just get on the next train and cross his legs. On the other hand, the hotel room has been paid for in advance and on the third day the room also doesn’t feel as foreign anymore. Furthermore, changing his ticket reservation would require assistance; no one here seems to understand Gideon’s English. And finally, all things considered, how often do you visit London? Fog or no, it is London. Uncle Gideon decides that fear and homesickness are inappropriate for a man his age. He remains in London—thank God, as my father says—giving the following events a chance to unfold.

  At least the English know their tea. Tea they take seriously. Uncle Gideon lives on tea and cake, which seems to be slightly less unbearable than the other fare. Even though he never eats sweets at home, Aunt Linda would sometimes add ruefully. On the fourth day our uncle discovers that he needs to cinch his belt a whole lot tighter. Should this make him happy or not? Aunt Linda says: When he came back, I had to move the buttons on all his pants by this much. Uncle Gideon nods then says: But four weeks later they had to go back to where they were before.

  On the fifth day, Uncle Gideon feels a heavy hand on his shoulder just as he is stepping out of the hotel to take a walk. A man named Silverstone, one of the people with whom he had negotiated, is holding him back. Silverstone says: Hello, old boy (this is how they all speak in England), I thought you were already back on your lousy continent?

  For a moment, Uncle Gideon understands the use of the word “lousy” to be an expression of prejudice about the hygienic conditions in Galicia. He raises an eyebrow and is about to respond that only last night he had to kill no less than four bedbugs in his fancy hotel room, when he realizes that Silverstone is merely expressing himself in the casual manner that is so commonplace and meant nothing by it. One time Aunt Annette asks: Say, Gideon, did you really find four bedbugs in your hotel room? And Uncle Gideon says to her: Is that of any importance?

  Silverstone learns of Uncle Gideon’s intention to stay in London for a few days and that he doesn’t have any plans, at which he exclaims: Why didn’t you say something?

  Uncle Gideon describes him as a man who talks a lot but doesn’t say very much, a circumstance that greatly helped in the negotiations. Our uncle is immediately forced to be his guest and joins him at a teahouse, even though he just finished his breakfast tea. But for Silverstone, tea is merely an excuse to drink whisky. He orders a large glass for each of them, before noon, on a normal weekday—such is the state of affairs in England. Even today, Uncle Gideon shudders when he remembers having to force the whisky down his throat, sip after sip, his protests in vain. To cope with the memory, he empties a small glass of vodka, in little sips, and my father winks at me: how Gideon knows to tell his story.

  So Mr. Silverstone likes to drink, no matter the time of day. Uncle Gideon has to drink with him, and his stomach is holding up surprisingly well, but never again will he travel abroad. Silverstone showers him with advice on what he should see on his last two days in London, but Uncle Gideon knows immediately that he isn’t interested in any of it. Dog racing, he says, and lifts his shoulders up to his ears. Can you imagine, he asks, a grown man bringing himself to ruin, because one dog can run faster than another? He has made plans for his last night anyway: Mendelssohn at Royal Albert Hall. At least his English will not put him at a disadvantage there.

  In the afternoon—London is already spinning rather fast around his head—he feels like taking a nap, but Silverstone won’t allow it. Without mercy he leads Uncle Gideon from one establishment to another, persists in buying fresh rounds, and fancies himself the greatest of hosts. For a moment our uncle considers whether this may be Silverstone’s way of getting his revenge, because the negotiations had not gone as he had anticipated. But he immediately dismisses the thought: there is no way Silverstone is that cunning. One has only to look at him. He is clearly motivated by cordiality, even if it is a cordiality that is difficult to bear.

  Suddenly, on the street and between drinks, Silverstone slaps Uncle Gideon on the back so hard he almost falls over. I’ve got it! he shouts, and Uncle Gideon—startled—asks: What have you got? Silverstone, however, just stands there, smiling and shaking his head like someone who is almost choking on a good idea but not yet ready to share it. That alone should have aroused Uncle Gideon’s suspicions. Today he knows, today he is the wiser. In those days, he simply attributes everything this Silverstone does to that peculiar English way of behaving.

  Silverstone asks: What do you think, old friend, about going to my club? By now Uncle Gideon has given up. He knows with certainty there would be no use in saying, I think perhaps not. He replies: To the club then. Silverstone starts walking in a different direction, along a number of crooked streets, along a number of straight ones, and suddenly he stops. Suddenly, he wants to know whether Uncle Gideon has ever been to a costume party. A costume party? our astounded uncle says, the things you say.

  It turns out that Silverstone has just remembered that he is invited to a costume party tomorrow, the best costume party in all of London. But, unfortunately, tomorrow of all days he has an important meeting with a Turkish business partner. His company does business all over the world. If, however, Uncle Gideon were to take his place, he can offer every assurance that the hosts would be most pleased, and honored besides. Uncle Gideon repeats: The things you say.

  Then they are sitting at the club, about which there is not much to say except that, in Lublin, it wouldn’t survive one month. In one of the rooms, Uncle Gideon notices chess players. He watches them play for a moment and soon realizes how easily he could defeat most of them. Nevertheless, he refrains from joining them, for they are playing in a ridiculously serious manner, sitting in grim silence and darting evil glances at anyone who dares speak an innocent word. Silversto
ne keeps coming back to the costume party, and our uncle keeps shaking his head. At the same time, he has begun to ask himself why he is so vehemently opposed to the idea. He also wonders: What else am I going to do? I’m not interested in the churches, nor in the palaces, nor in the exhibitions. Why did I stay here, if not to learn about the customs and traditions of these peculiar people? Uncle Gideon asks himself all this and finally he asks Silverstone: But in what language should I speak with these people?

  In that moment, Silverstone knows he has won. Beaming and brimming with guilelessness, he answers that the hosts speak, if not Polish, at least excellent German. Much too late, only today in fact, Uncle Gideon asks himself what there is to beam about when someone else is taking your place at a costume party. I can hear Mendelssohn at home, he thinks back then, and probably better than in London. Silverstone is already writing down the hosts’ name and address. He’ll call them first thing tomorrow morning, so they know to expect Uncle Gideon.

  During the course of the evening, our uncle asks what the local custom is with respect to costumes. He shouldn’t worry about it too much, he’s told, one simply wears whatever one can get one’s hands on. He, Silverstone, tends to go with a mere suggestion of a costume. A little hat would suffice, or a cardboard nose, says Silverstone and falls into a fit of laughter. Should, however, Uncle Gideon—with respect to the costume—feel any sort of ambition, there is bound to be a costume rental near the hotel. Costume rentals in London are a dime a dozen. Uncle Gideon as Genghis Khan, Silverstone says, and has another laughing fit, and even our uncle is amused by the notion in those days. And as they are sitting and drinking and later on eating and conversing, there comes a moment when Uncle Gideon begins to feel distinctly and with conviction that to be invited to a costume party may actually be the best thing that could possibly happen to a stranger in London.

  The next day arrives and already the morning begins with a bundle of worry for our uncle. He is lying comfortably on his back when he is suddenly confronted by the thought: What business does a Jew from Lublin have attending an English costume party? He struggles with the question for a few minutes, until he thinks of a different one: Why should a Jew from Lublin not attend an English costume party? This question appears more convincing to him. It isn’t as wary of the unfamiliar. And in the bathtub he begins to think about what he should wear. At breakfast he remembers the old principle that has made him who he is today: If you are going to do something, do it right. As a result, the waiter has to go and find the address of the nearest costume rental. As Silverstone predicted, it is not far.

  Our uncle wanders between clothes racks and is unsure how best to decide. He is in no mood to become a pirate or a bandit, or a king or nobleman. He nearly decides to go to the party as Uncle Gideon from Lublin or not at all, when he is gripped by an old dream from his childhood, right there in front of the shelf with the head wear: to be the sad pale clown that everyone at the circus laughs at because he doesn’t understand a thing but thinks himself the smartest of all. He rents everything he needs, the pantaloons, a silver silk shirt with large black buttons, the pointy hat with the chinstrap. Back at the hotel, he realizes that a clown not only wears certain clothes but also has a certain face, a very white face with round black eyes. So Uncle Gideon goes out and buys some white makeup and some black makeup, and Aunt Linda shakes her head at the crazy ideas her Gideon used to have.

  He spends half the day in front of the mirror, getting dressed and painting his face. It takes a long time before his face looks the way he remembers it should. The eyes, he says, the eyes drove me to despair. Again and again, he washes the makeup off his face until finally—with his skin starting to redden—he takes a piece of paper and practices. Only after a while does he realize his mistake: he was painting the eyelashes as though they were normal eyelashes, when he really should have painted them as short, thick lines, like the rays of a child’s sun. And under each eye there must be a small, round spot—God knows why—which gives the face a bewildered, and somehow sad, expression. Uncle Gideon transfers his design from the paper to his face, and in the end he is satisfied. He would be lying if he said, Uncle Gideon confesses, that he was not reluctant at first to step out of the hotel room in his outfit. But how else, he asks, was he to get to the costume party, and no one has an answer. Of course, he drapes his long coat over everything. He puts on his regular hat, which everyone knows. The pointy hat is wrapped in paper and tucked under his arm. He walks down the stairs, does not see a single person, and the lobby is also empty. Uncle Gideon’s resolve not to feel embarrassed by any mocking looks was needless, for until he reaches the street he is met by no such looks. It is already dark, and fortunately it’s not raining, so he needn’t worry about his face. He enters a cab, and he says: In London you have to watch what you do with your hands. Why? As soon as you hold one out, a taxi will stop. He shows the address to the driver; the driver nods and knows the way.

  Then Uncle Gideon is standing before a mansion on the edge of town. Laughter begins to spread around the room, because everyone is anticipating what is about to follow; and whoever doesn’t anticipate, at least knows. By now the ladies are beginning to search in their purses for a handkerchief, as our uncle picks his way across the English garden toward the house. He stops one last time to count the windows—only the lit ones—and arrives at a number no one would believe. And before he knocks, he encounters one last problem: the hats. He stands there, with one on his head and the other tucked under his arm, but Uncle Gideon doesn’t want to end up being someone who stands before the door with a hat in each hand. He needs to keep one of them on his head; he is merely unsure which one. After a moment to consider, he makes a decision. He puts the clown hat on his head, wraps the regular hat in the paper, and hides it in a bush next to the entrance. Uncle Gideon thinks he can hear music inside, but he may be mistaken. He rings the doorbell, and when he hears steps inside, our Uncle Marian stands up from his chair to listen to the remainder of the story on his feet.

  The door is opened by a butler, like the ones at the municipal theater in Lublin. For a second Uncle Gideon thinks the person in front of him is a guest at the costume party, just like himself. The man asks him a question, which of course Uncle Gideon fails to understand, but the meaning of which he determines with great presence of mind. He retrieves a business card from his pocket and places it on the little tray the butler is presenting to him, which—if our uncle isn’t mistaken—is made of silver. Finally, he is let through, but Uncle Gideon misjudges the height of the doorframe. His hat catches, slides back, and the chinstrap chokes him a little. The butler closes the door. He says some more words, offers our uncle a seat, and walks off with the business card. But Uncle Gideon doesn’t sit down. Instead, he concentrates on the mirror hung on the wall. He rearranges his hat, inspects his shirt. Most importantly, however, he examines his face, with which he is still content, except for a spot on his forehead where the makeup has inexplicably vanished. From afar, he hears the voice of an English child and in that same moment realizes that there is no music playing in the house, contrary to his initial impression. For the first time, he senses a touch of unease, but he doesn’t yet know why. But Uncle Menachem, clasping his tie, already shouts: Go into the room already, we can’t take it any longer!

  The butler returns, still failing to realize our uncle doesn’t understand his language. He takes Uncle Gideon’s coat. At least Uncle Gideon understands this. It means: They are expecting you. He follows the butler around many corners to a large, not very well lit room that is rather chilly, like all rooms in England, apparently. Turning away from the fireplace, the host, an unremarkable man, like dozens he saw at the club, approaches Uncle Gideon. He holds out his hand, which Uncle Gideon takes. The host conveys—in reasonably good German—how extraordinarily pleased he is by our uncle’s visit. Uncle Gideon thanks him for the invitation in the same language, although he is slightly puzzled by his host’s rather unimaginative costume: a black dinner ja
cket, gray pants, a white shirt, a tie, and nothing else. Only then does he notice the lady of the house sitting in an armchair, and he goes to her. With a charming smile, she holds out her hand in such a way that Uncle Gideon is expected to kiss it, this much he understands. He does so, at the same time using his free hand to hold on to his hat, which is not secured tightly enough for a bow. The lady’s dress seems more original; it is a floor-length red gown with a lace collar, just as the fine ladies in Galicia wore them seventy or eighty years ago. No one else is there yet.

  Uncle Gideon sits in an armchair by the fireplace, annoyed that he arrived so early, probably because Silverstone told him the wrong hour. The butler continues to torture him by asking more questions; he looks for help. His host translates, inquiring whether he desires sherry or port wine or tea, and Uncle Gideon decides for tea, as long as he is the only guest. Then, while they are waiting for the drinks, Uncle Gideon discovers a dog lying in the room. I say “dog,” Uncle Gideon corrects himself, holding up his wine glass for someone to fill. In Lublin we would call it a horse. Then he looks around and sees that there are no glasses set up around the room, and no bottles, and also that there are no chairs for other guests. What kind of costume party is this going to be? And for the second time, Uncle Gideon feels unease, this time rather intensely.

  My father, if I may weave this in, was always pretty much in stitches by this point, usually even before. Most of the time I didn’t appear sufficiently amused to him, but this was never a great hindrance. Only once did he sigh and stop talking, until at last I asked him what was wrong. He then confided to me that he would much rather have the story told to him than tell it. For a long moment, I considered whether I should offer to switch roles. But I abandoned the idea, because somehow it seemed improper. He might not even have accepted. By this time, he had already resumed the story and was demonstrating how our uncle was sitting there, with his pointy hat and his tea. The host inquires whether this is Uncle Gideon’s first time in London. He then asks how long our uncle has known Silverstone. Uncle Gideon tells him the truth: For some time in correspondence, but only for a few days in person. The host exchanges a glance with his lady, a disconcertingly long one, then he smiles somberly and says: He was always a rather strange man, this Mr. Silverstone.