He was called Wolf. My reaction to this name was mixed. On the one hand, I was glad that my new friend had a name that did not have to be embarrassing, like Moishe or Yossel. On the other hand, it did not strike me as quite proper for his name to be like that of a knight in a German heroic saga. He did, however, explain to me that Wolf was a rather common name among Orthodox Jews; his father’s name was Bear. Bear Goldmann … I had to laugh. What was my name? my new friend Wolf asked. I had to admit that I was called Bubi. He began to giggle, as stupidly as the chambermaid Florica had giggled when she first saw me in my getup. “If you had a sister, would her name be Girlie?” Probably, I had to admit. “And your parents would be Manny and Wifey?” It took him a while to regain his composure.
He had a similar reaction to the tower when I proudly led him into it. “Why is this a tower?” he asked on the steps. And when we were upstairs: “This is a tower? Lemme show you a real tower.” He pointed out the window, where the merloned roof of Dr. Goldmann’s villa could be seen above the treetops. And, indeed, a beflagged turret loomed up. I had to admit to myself that I had often gazed at it, fretting at how much better the romanticism of that neo-Gothic house matched my German mood than the garret that had aroused it.
“Is your room in the tower?” I asked a bit apologetically.
“I’m gonna be dumb enough to shlep up the stairs?” Wolf retorted. “What do you think I am? A goy?”
It embittered me that he used the Yiddish word for “Gentile” to designate clumsy stupidity per se. I told myself it was probably normal usage in his world, and I was glad he felt relaxed enough with me to speak as though he were among his own. If he wanted to, he could speak proper German very well (he was attending school in Vienna), but he spoke it like something carefully rehearsed. He used his mixture of bad German with Yiddish and Polish—in a word, he “yiddled”—because this linguistic carelessness, rich in astute, colorful, and witty expressions, was more in keeping with his character, his swift, supple mind, and his unimpeachable self-confidence. I, for my part, had been trained in a rigorously correct speech, despite all the Austriacisms of my family, who among themselves spoke a kind of unbuttoned German; but they could also speak crystal-clear High German if they liked, and theirs did not sound rehearsed. I listened with amused attention to my new friend Wolf, gauging him linguistically.
He was almost bored when looking over the objects in my tower. True, his interest was briefly held by the case of butterflies, but I had anticipated a more explosive effect. He found the ivory skull anatomically wrong: his father had a genuine skeleton on which he could show me the mistakes. Coming to the ashtray with the modeled playing cards and cigarette butt, he shook his head, turning away with a shrug. In front of the Uhlan and Cossack skirmishes from Galicia he nodded. Even Count Sàndor’s riding feats captured his attention only for a moment: “Was he a circus director?” he asked, moving on, without waiting for my answer.
He focused more thoroughly on Uncle Hubi’s crossed sabers and “little keg.” “Do you guys wear the little cap under the fox hats?” he wanted to know. No, I said, it was not like the yarmulke, the small black skullcap worn by Orthodox Jews under their hats (incidentally, for students who were not fox-majors, the hat was a colored cap with a visor, known as a “couleur”). The so-called “little keg” was worn as a sign of veteran fraternal dignity at festive drinking bouts. I became heated, flaunting the wealth of my newly acquired knowledge about the manners and mores of dueling clubs at German universities. I informed him that the new pledges were called “foxes” and they were under the care of the “fox-major”—the very brother who, as a sign of his dignity, could sport the headgear that reminded Wolf Goldmann of a rabbi’s hat. And I launched into detail about the “beer commentary,” the rigorously regulated ceremony of drinking, the so-called “boozing,” an important educational procedure: after all, a man had to learn how to hold his quantum of liquor decently and without loss of bearing.
Wolf Goldmann listened to me with that grimace of a young ram staring into fire. “And you sing songs about the pretty blonde combing her hair over the Rhein rapids?”
Yes, indeed—he meant “The Lorelei.” By the way, this was a poem by Heinrich Heine, who, as everyone knows, was a Jew, I added significantly. My words had no visible effect on him, and I was annoyed at my possibly making it seem that I was trying to get familiar with him in such a grossly goyish way.
“Is that why the G-clef is embroidered on the cap, because you guys sing?” he asked.
That was no G-clef, I told him, that was the so-called corps cipher. I unraveled the tangle of letters.
He nodded again. His blazing ram-face stayed earnest. “But the swords? If they’re supposed to pierce, how come they have no points?”
I could inform him about that too: those were no swords, or sabers or épées, but light rapiers, used only in student duels. You didn’t pierce with them, you fenced. Standing with legs astraddle, motionless, your body swathed to the ears in leather and cotton armor, one hand behind your back, you dueled with your other hand, likewise heavily swathed, lifting it over your head and aiming only at the opponent’s skull and cheeks. If you struck in such a way that the rapier’s edge cut into him, then the seconds interrupted the match and inspected the wound. The referee was asked to verify a “bloody” for either participant. When such “bloodies” were sewn up, their scars became the “cicatrices” which a German academic could be proud of. The duel consisted of fifteen rounds, each with a fixed number of exchanges. It was settled by the number of “bloodies,” unless one “bloody” was so serious that the physician—the “barber-surgeon,” as he was known in corps lingo—stopped the duel and declared the wounded party “disabled.” It was not shameful to be “disabled.” But woe to either of the duelers if, upon receiving a “bloody,” he twitched even slightly or actually tried to withdraw—that is, evade the adversary’s stroke with his head. If that happened, he was instantly suspended, put under “beer blackball” for the length of his suspension. He was not allowed to take part in any drinking session or wear the colors, namely the cap and the ribbon across his chest; and he was most certainly ostracized from the drinking bouts—all this until he had purged himself of his shame by fighting a new and more difficult match. But he was not granted such a chance for rehabilitation twice. If he chickened out a second time, then he was expelled. His erstwhile brothers cut him dead. He was no longer “qualified to give satisfaction.”
To my surprise, Wolf Goldmann knew what that was. “They declared us Jews unsatisfactionable,” he said.
I did not know what to reply. The issue of being qualified came up only if someone was challenged to a duel, I said evasively. Duels were mostly so-called “encounters” and not affairs of honor. They were tests of courage and toughness to determine a brother’s grit. His decency was proved by the many scars he received.
Wolf Goldmann giggled: “Like Africans. But at least they carve pretty ornaments into their faces.” Besides, I wasn’t telling him anything very new, he said eventually. His father had belonged to a Jewish fraternity when he was a student—one without the ridiculous rites of duels and beer commentaries, but organized for sheer self-defense. It seems that the Jewish students had been harassed so much by fraternity members that they too formed associations, responding to challenges with decisive combat readiness. Each of these Jewish fraternities featured one outstanding fencer who defended the assaulted honor of his brothers. And they did not fence with light rapiers against skulls and cheeks; they fought naked from the waist up with heavy sabers, and they were so nimble that these duels required true swordsmanship—a keen eye, quick wits, and agility. If a dueler was “disabled,” then it was usually because of true inability. The nationalistic German fraternities preferred to avoid encounters with such master swordsmen. That was one of the reasons, said Wolf Goldmann with a grin, why Jews had been declared unsatisfactionable. His father had told him that. Dr. Goldmann himself had been featured as the best
swordsman in his club.
“Are you going to learn how to fence too?” I asked.
“I’m not crazy,” said Wolf Goldmann. “I need my hands for other things.”
At that time, it was not yet apparent to me what he needed them for. In any event, he treated them with conspicuous care. The skills at which boys normally try to excel left him cold. I had presumed that he would not, like myself, attempt to emulate Count Sàndor on horseback; and indeed I hesitated to expect the stableboy to saddle a mount for a Jewish boy from the village. But Wolf showed no ambition in other respects: he did not climb trees, he made no effort to excel in throwing rocks, he did not idly whittle sticks, he did not shoot with a slingshot or a bow and arrow, he did not even whistle through his fingers. My dexterity in these disciplines (my talent with the slingshot had always impressed people) gave me no sense of superiority now; his indifference toward such matters was too great. In fact, I began to feel childish in front of him.
We established that we were of the same age, nearly to the day. But his sophistication was so far ahead of my own that I had to admit reluctantly that while if I passed the ominous makeup examination in the autumn it might at best smooth the way to my becoming an academic, he indubitably was already a budding intellectual.
I continued to have qualms about bringing Wolf to my relatives’ home, although I visited his home regularly. The treasures he had to show me there did not have the desired effect on me, either. He acted sulky for the first time. He was disappointed. But try as I might, I could not find anything homey in those dark, disorderly rooms filled with papers up to the ceilings. For all the grand bourgeois airs—the heavy black furniture, the plush upholstery, and the artfully draped and betasseled curtains of ribbed silk—there was something of the dubious and unventilated confinement of petit bourgeois homes. The furniture might have appealed to me (like all normal children, I tended toward bad taste), for these ornately carved wardrobes and sideboards, tables, and armchairs were in the old German style of the turn of the century, which did, after all, fit in with my leanings. Yet not only was the quality low, the wood stained, and the carving poor, but the pieces had been neglected, moldings were chipped, locks missing, and books, newspapers, and magazines were heaped upon every horizontal surface.
Wolf did tell me that extraordinarily valuable collector’s items could be found in these piles. His grandfather’s library, he said, had contained many first editions with personal dedications by the authors, some of which were now hard to come by. And his father had a priceless collection of documents on Jewish persecutions from the early Middle Ages to the most recent times. If anyone had the courage to take up this theme and write about it, said Wolf, he would find an inexhaustible and scientifically pure source here.
I did not like Dr. Goldmann. He had the same freckled flame-lit ram-head as his son, he was curt with me, and I was a bit afraid of his tremendous hands, which were spotted like salamander bellies and covered with lion-red hair. As for the memory of Grandfather Goldmann, I was biased. Uncle Hubi’s gentle irony had had its effect.
It was owing to Stiassny that the grandfather had been mentioned at all. One day, I was surprised to run into Stiassny at the home of my friend Wolf Goldmann. Strangely enough, he acted as though he did not notice me. We—that is, Wolf and I—were about to cross the room leading to Dr. Goldmann’s office. Since the doctor had usually been in the house when I was there, I had not yet viewed the skeleton that Wolf Goldmann had bragged to me about. We were going to see whether we could inspect it while Dr. Goldmann was out paying house calls. Stiassny stood in the room that led to the office. The room was a kind of library, if one could use that word in a house where every room was bursting with books. Stiassny was leaning over a couple of volumes on a table. He held a pencil in his teeth, his beautifully curved red lips curling into a smile I had never seen on him before—an utterly relaxed, slightly reflective, blissful smile. For the first time, I saw his face undisguised, and even his eyes did not have that veil of feigned blindness or at least sightlessness which they normally assumed when he lapsed into his repulsive role of “Who-am-I.” And he really did not appear to see us now. He was totally absorbed in what he was reading and what he thought about it—or rather, was thinking—for his lips moved slightly as though repeating or framing a sentence; then he leaned again over the works on the table in front of him.
We automatically wheeled around and tiptoed out. “Is he here a lot?” I asked. He had been coming regularly for many years; he was practically more at home in Dr. Goldmann’s than in my relatives’ house. But I was certain that Aunt Sophie and Uncle Hubi scarcely knew about this or would not admit it. I did not expect that he would mention our encounter, especially since he had scarcely been aware of it.
I was all the more surprised when at the next meal he quite demonstratively turned to me and said, again with the old blind gaze and ashen smile, “The development of our heir apparent is taking a delightful turn. One is abandoning one’s defiant isolation. One is becoming sociable. Nay, even more: one is spanning bridges across social chasms, reestablishing relationships that were broken off or, regrettably, never taken up in the first place. This will not win applause in circles whose Weltanschauung and national sensibilities are shaped by the Kyffhäuser Association. Indeed, people sharing the convictions of the Schönerers and Wolffs might view it as an outright betrayal of the sacred cause of Aryan thinking. But then, who am I to point out that one thereby evinces all the more agreement with the ideas of Fichte and Jahn and other Church Fathers of the student fraternity movement: the ideas of the Scheidlers, Riemanns, Horns, and whatever their names may be, all the Armins and Germans, whose goal, in the mighty blaze of nationalism after the Wars of Liberation, was simply freedom and thus, needless to say, the emancipation of the Jews as well! Why, they too would have found it unendurable to have a Heine or Mendelssohn or Rachel Varnhagen in the ghetto, nicht wahr? …”
Aunt Sophie, who may have noticed Stiassny’s unveiled malice against Uncle Hubi, came to her husband’s aid as usual by employing the intellectual method of indirect allusion—or, to put it in artillery terms, an auxiliary target. “I don’t think it’s right of you to confuse the boy with things he can’t possibly know,” she said resolutely. “He’s like us. He shouldn’t have so much muddled stuff in his head, like you. The boy should keep acting on his unspoiled feelings; then everything will be all right.”
The last sentence was both an encouragement for me and a tender admonition for Uncle Hubi not to let the sentimental remnants of his nationalistically inspired past move him to object to my friendship with young Goldmann, which, needless to say, was by now common knowledge in the house. But Uncle Hubi, accustomed to far heftier allusions to the extravagances of his formative years, would not be jolted so easily out of his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed good mood, especially since, after all, most of his mockers ultimately agreed with him when it came to anti-Semitism. He gleefully said, “Oh, if old Goldmann had lived to see this—too funny, really too funny!”
This launched a conversation to which everyone at the table had something to contribute because the topic was local events and the old local gossip, a conversation that explained my relatives’ aloofness from Wolf’s family but that also quite extraordinarily complicated my image of Germanhood.
“Old Goldmann,” grandfather of my friend Wolf and father of the physician Dr. Bear Goldmann, came from Galicia, in what had once been Russia. Tradition had it that he was the black sheep among the offspring of one of the erudite and extremely God-fearing rebbes who had their courts there. “Administrators of justice in all moral and religious issues,” said Stiassny, “akin to the Holy Sheikh of Sufism, who, incomprehensibly, is studied by so many religious scholars and blue-stockinged countesses seeking the experience of God—indeed studied far more intensively than these troubadours of God, who are much closer to us and more germane to our own thinking and feeling.”
Old Goldmann did not seem to have mustered
the proper esteem for the rebbes’ faithful ardor and visionary rapture. He had not observed the ancient custom of following in the footsteps of his father, who stood in the odor of sanctity; instead, he rebelliously declared himself a freethinker and moved to Germany, where, highly musical himself, he had been entranced to the point of ecstasy by Richard Wagner’s music. On the side, he made a fortune (piquantly enough, in slaughterhouses), with which fortune (“Like many of his people—far more than anyone would care to presume or willingly admit,” said Stiassny) he had helped to subsidize Bismarck’s founding of the Reich. “Being both self-sacrificing and profit-making, I dare say,” Uncle Hubi threw in, and he was seconded by Aunt Sophie: “Well, Hubi’s right in this point. If there’s one thing the Jews know how to do it’s make money!”
There was uncertainty about when old Goldmann had come to the village to settle down at cattle-dealing, in an agriculturally prosperous region, and to build his “ridiculous show-off villa.” Stiassny claimed he had come only when, in stormy allegiance to Nietzsche, he defected from Wagner; disillusioned by Bismarckian autocratism, he had turned his back on Germany. But this was contradicted by the flagrantly pro-German style of his house, a style which, appearing in a Habsburg crownland and introduced by a Jew, was bound to look rather curious. It was certain, in any event, that this had not met with the approval of Uncle Hubi’s father, an ultraconservative Old Austrian who was almost religiously faithful to Kaiser Franz Josef and who, in the aura of his monarch’s divine right, played the role of a patriarch here, outstripping Bismarck’s autocratism by many laps. A Jew carrying on like a German nationalist must have struck the Old Austrian as an absurd blend of two incompatible, albeit equally repulsive, antitheses, a monstrosity so provoking that it would be best to ignore it altogether, simply to deny it out of the world so as not to be challenged by it. “Poor Papa did have his grief with me over that,” Uncle Hubi had to confess, shamefacedly—although once again he got instant protective help from Aunt Sophie, who said, “But you were very young at that time, Hubi—just when was it?! Around 1889, 1890, or so, before we even met. You could hardly expect to do anything sensible at that time. Why, you’d just turned eighteen, since you’re going on fifty-eight today.”
Memoirs of an Anti-Semite Page 6
