Young Gerber

by Friedrich Torberg

  “Kurt!” His father brings his hand down on the table, making the glasses clink.

  “Leave him alone, Albert! You mustn’t get worked up like that.” His mother anxiously reaches for the hand of the man she has loved dearly for twenty years, and for whom she has feared all those twenty years at the slightest provocation, because of his weak heart. Then, with a touch of reproof in her eyes, she turns to Kurt, who is staring morosely ahead of him.

  “Who is your class teacher this year?”

  “Well, at least that’s a question I can answer. Kupfer.”

  Kurt says that in an indifferent tone, and goes on studying the pattern of the tablecloth. But when there is no reply for some time, he looks at his father after all. He is sitting with his head bent forward, his eyes half closed behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his breath coming irregularly, as it always does when he is badly upset. Now small beads of sweat slowly form in the deep folds on his forehead. And just as Kurt, horrified by this unexpected reaction, is about to say something mollifying, his father draws a deep, vibrating breath and speaks firmly, as if winding up a long discussion.

  “Then you’ll just have to leave the school.” And after a pause, as if that were already decided, he gives his son a choice: he can either go to another school or have private coaching in business skills, and then take up a position in his own office. That will certainly mean jettisoning any idea of the doctoral degree he hoped to achieve after studying law or philosophy at university, but, says his father, it seems to him probably the best solution.

  Kurt smiles. He feels that his father is making an overhasty decision, simply to get away quickly from the reason for it. He isn’t used to such unthinking haste in such a clever man. His head must be in a state of confusion. Kurt tries to calm him down. “But Father, none of this is worth making a fuss about.”

  He has struck the wrong note. “Not worth making a fuss about? What is worth making a fuss about if not my own child? When may I get upset if not now, when your future life is at stake? And I am not handing over your future life to that…”

  His father doesn’t complete that sentence. Sharp resentment at the remarks made by Kupfer during the summer holidays, which he had half forgotten, the fury of a father against someone meaning ill to his child—all that is raging in his mind, unable to find expression. Kurt is strangely shaken. Is the school really so important?

  “I’m sorry, Father! But I think you’re making too much of something that after all—don’t misunderstand me—doesn’t matter all that much. My future life—what does that mean? You surely don’t think that a cretin like Kupfer can really have any influence on my future or my life? In ten months’ time he can go to hell! And until then—” Kurt makes a dismissive gesture, wondering how best to prove the unimportance of those ten months.

  “You’re mistaken, Kurt!” Now his father’s voice sounds warm and calm; once again he is a clear-headed man, with a wide-ranging grasp of business, putting his analytical mind to a given situation as if it were a proposal from a partner in a contract. “You’re mistaken!” he repeats, with emphasis, and Kurt has no idea just where he is wrong. “That’s not the way things are. I’m very glad that you are not afraid of Kupfer—”

  “Maybe he’s not so bad after all,” interrupts Kurt, not sounding as if he really believes it.

  But his father is not to be contradicted. With the painful force of conviction, he demolishes the foundations of any point made by Kurt, showing that his rashly inflated expectations were bound to shrink in the face of facts, like the limp remains of a child’s balloon. Without making accusations—for after all, there was nothing for it now—he shows his son how foolishly he has acted in his seven previous years of high school; as a result, it’s not to be taken for granted that his recent good progress will continue, and if it does it will be a godsend. He weighs up Kurt’s goodwill against Kupfer’s vengeful sentiments, forcefully marshals all the arguments for and against Kurt’s options, and comes to the conclusion—less and less ably interrupted by Kurt himself—that it would be a useless waste of energy to embark on a battle when its outcome is already decided by Kupfer’s entering into it.

  “I’m sorry this has gone on so long, but let’s get it all out in the open now. You’d be in difficulty over the Matura even without Kupfer. At least I am not letting him have the satisfaction of hunting you down.”

  Hunting him down. Now Kurt sees only an enemy stalking him, and one whom he is not to oppose. Why not? Was Kupfer really so powerful? A fresh surge of energy makes him double his resistance.

  “I’m not running away from a man like Kupfer!”

  “Please, let’s have no heroic posturing. You won’t be running away from Kupfer, but from the self-inflicted consequences of your behaviour so far.”

  “All right—then I’ll change all that. This is my last school year anyway.”

  “That’s the very reason why changing will do you no good now.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You talk as if there’s nothing I can do about whether I pass or fail.”

  “That is my point exactly.”

  “How can you say so? I’ve never really put my mind seriously to studying before. If I make a great effort now, surely it will work!”

  “I doubt it. I even doubt whether you will make a great effort.”

  “Suppose I promise you I will?”

  “You can keep your promise at a different school. There’s still time to make the move.”

  “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be possible if I stay where I am.”

  “I have just shown you why not.”

  “You’ve assumed that events are certain when there is no reason why they should happen at all.”

  “They’ll happen.”

  “Why? I’ll make sure they don’t.”

  “You can’t make up, in a single year, for what you neglected in the last seven.”

  And so it went on, a ding-dong battle of Yes and No. Often there was little difference between them; often they found themselves on the same side of the argument. For Kurt, argument in favour of staying at the same school was for something to which, fundamentally, he was indifferent—but it became significant only because he was giving his word to work hard, and he was not having his word doubted. And in fact his father’s secret intention—almost irrelevant of the occasion for it—was to strengthen Kurt’s belief in himself, stimulating the vanity without which achievement is impossible.

  Kurt’s mother’s eyes went alternately from one to other of the two men, lighting up with affection when they lit upon the taut face of the younger, widening in anxiety when a vein swelled in agitation on the elder’s forehead. After quite a short time she had no idea what it was all about, but only felt it must be something very bad to get her son, with his easy, youthful confidence, and his experienced father, with all his concern for him, into such a hostile argument, opposing each other but united in opposition to something of which she knew only fleeting external details, gleaned from Kurt’s very rare stories of school, but also from the changes in her own household that had taken place in the school holidays. There had been only a single experience of her own. She had once, tormented by anxiety, gone to the school to ask about the result of an examination that Kurt was taking that day; it would decide whether he went up into the next year or had to stay down. The professor she met had spoken to her in a condescending, unfriendly way, informing her that it was none of her business, that she and “that fine young gentleman” her son—how cutting that sounded!—would find out all in good time, and then he had walked away without another word, leaving her feeling somehow ashamed. Since then she had had uncharitable thoughts about the school, and avoided going near it again.

  Kurt’s father could not withstand his son’s insistence in the long run. Although he was composed now, when he looked at the facts he could see many flaws in Kurt’s eager torrent of words, but he was tired of exploiting them. He was to some extent reassured, but he still had doubts. More than f
ifty years of life had pulled the net of his experience too tight for Kurt to be able to undo the knot; he could only break it with wild impetuosity. His father stopped opposing him.

  “I’ll just point out,” he said as Kurt’s mother tried persuading them that it was time to go to bed, “that the responsibility is yours now. I’ve warned you, I can do no more. If you won’t listen to the dictates of reason you’ll have to see how you can manage for yourself. It’s not impossible, to be sure, but it would be easier without Kupfer. He’ll persecute you, he’ll keep making digs at you, he’ll—ah, well, I don’t want to discourage you entirely. Go to bed.”

  A surge of paternal warmth had suddenly come over him. He turned away.

  Bewildered, Kurt went to his room. He felt, dimly, that there was more at stake here than a Matura certificate, and it scared him.

  He lay down on his bed, depressed. His fluttering thoughts would not be shooed away—his father had left them hovering over him in too dense a flock for that. Only a few days ago Kurt would still have laughed heartily at any prediction that he wouldn’t pass the Matura, would have asked the prophet who made it whether he was crazy. But no one had said any such thing to him, even his enemies among the other students would have shrunk from saying so. Kurt Gerber, not pass the exam?

  Now that it had been spoken aloud, however, its effect was doubly strong. And the prophet had not been struck by lightning for such malevolent remarks, but had produced evidence, solid, sturdy evidence. No, it was not impossible after all… Kurt Gerber, fail the Matura?

  Kurt’s spirits had sunk to well below average, to the point of vacillation. He began thinking ahead from this point.

  Ten months—was that really a long time or not? It made no difference. He had to get through them. Yes; he could make a great effort without losing face. Of course he could. It would be a fine thing if he couldn’t! I’ll pay attention in lessons, he thought, keep cool and pay attention; if I’m asked questions I’ll answer them—no more than necessary to show that I can deal with the subject. I’ll ask someone really good at maths to help me with my homework, and I’ll be really down to earth about it—amazing what Scheri can do, who’d have thought it… yes, let’s amaze them, I’ll tell them my opinion and God Almighty Kupfer will get to hear about it too. Professor Kupfer—why should I call him Professor? If at least he had a doctorate, but he isn’t even Dr Kupfer, the great ox. Herr Kupfer, you needn’t think you’ve got the better of me, my father is a sick man, and if I haven’t given you a chance to vent your wrath on me it was a sacrifice I had to make for his sake, you were lucky, Herr Kupfer, ha, ha, ha, there he goes talking about good-for-nothings, and it turns out he has not the slightest thing to find fault with, not the slightest. I ask you, what a joke! I can’t wait for the moment when God Almighty Kupfer tests me for the first time… there, you see, Gerber, it’s fine, you just have to want to do it… I think I’ll even enjoy it, but not the way he expects; he thinks I’ll knuckle under and put up with his remarks in silence, and he’ll look at me in surprise, oh yes, he’ll feel some respect too, and before the next lesson Scholz will come and ask me, Hey, Scheri, how did you construct that cross section with the plane, come on, tell us—well, yes, the prop of the pyramid stands with its main foundation on the second plane of projection, then we can do it by shifting the parallel, oh, thanks—listen, Pollak, this is how Scheri thinks we should do it… interesting, wouldn’t you say? Very interesting, in fact, all kinds of extremely interesting things are going on—guess what, you can be a good student without crawling to anyone, or swotting, I’m trying to think of a case, a single case where that worked! No, my dear Weinberg, I wasn’t swotting when I spoke up voluntarily—well, I had to speak up, he expected it… but between ourselves, Weinberg, just between you and me: of course I’m swotting, but I can’t help it, I have to pass the Matura, I have to, I have to… oh, my dear good father, if only I could get you to understand how very unimportant all this is, how childish, how infinitely childish, but it must be done, right? You’re a different person with a pass in the Matura behind you, oh, and what have you studied, Herr Gerber—ah, unanimous pass marks in every subject, well, delighted to hear it, the post is yours, but I don’t want that kind of post ever, ever, and let’s hope you get the news you want, ah, excellent again, three children and a wife, and what did you make for dinner today, my dear, liver dumplings, was it? And then I’ll tuck my napkin into my neck instead of spreading it over my lap, and it will all be forgotten, no one will ask me if I ever failed the Matura, but first I must pass the Matura, oh this is terrible, terrible!…

  Kurt tossed and turned in bed, tormented by his thoughts. It was all so narrow-minded, so undignified. Then he had to smile. What had all this to do with him? Young Gerber—top marks. From eighth in the class up to first. And after that, what?

  For a moment emptiness lingers in Kurt’s head. Then he sees a large, radiant image before him: Lisa. And next moment Lewy appears beside her…

  That stupid business at midday today. Why did it upset him so much? Kurt could have listened with indifference to a conversation showing that the girl he loved was sleeping around. To him she wasn’t, to him that part of her didn’t exist, say what you liked. But he wouldn’t have anyone turning directly to him and saying, Hey, yesterday I saw you with her outside the theatre! Because no one else would ever understand what had gone on between them outside the theatre, because people might believe they were discussing the weather—that was all right, whereas at that moment she had just given him an extraordinary glance. That glance was his property, it belonged to the image he had made of her for himself. And Kurt demanded respect for that image. He didn’t mind what other people thought. That was why he insisted that they should be indifferent to his image of her, that they must not try to reveal it, they were to leave him alone with the girl whom he loved just as he saw her, they were to stop short of what was accessible only to him, what he had shared with her. No one must desecrate that by intruding on it without permission, no one else must make free with his preserves.

  Lewy—as he now knew—had had no right to inform him that Lisa’s body was nice and firm. Lewy, and all the rest of the class, had no right at all to say things about Lisa to him. Twenty-six male students in the eighth year. One of them knew what Lisa was really like, so the other twenty-five had to keep their mouths shut in front of him. Because all they could say would have been as nothing compared to what he could say. However, he could never get them to see that. And if someone were to ask, tomorrow, “Who’s she sleeping with these days?” and Kurt told him to shut up, then they would all be mocking his “righteous anger” in protecting “the honour of his lady love”.

  Did they really know he loved her? It hadn’t seemed so, when he was talking to Lewy. But Lewy was one of the few who didn’t habitually think much about these matters. The others certainly do think something, thought Kurt, and they certainly have the wrong end of the stick. Luckily! Because if a rumour were to get around the eighth year that one of the young men loved one of the girls, really loved her—oh, unimaginable! They never have anything in their heads but one idea, always the same idea.

  You’d never understand that the mere pressure of a hand can be a miracle, he told them in his mind.

  And I’m still there with you. Thank God, she isn’t there with you any more. But I am. At school. There I am in front of God Almighty Kupfer, like all of you. Or no, it’s worse. Few of you have to fear him as much as I do. None of you, in fact. It’s me he’s going to torment, me he’s going to persecute…

  A white palfrey has to wear a yoke for a while… and then it will be free… free as the wind… a noble white palfrey… leaping through the night… a thousand and one nights… and there’s the princess… Lisa, Lisa, Lisa…

  III

  Three Encounters

  SUCH A BRIEF, insignificant period of time, those seven years. No one bothered about them, but what happened now became doubly important.

  So you s
et about it with double diligence. If you knew the answer to a question you didn’t simply call it out from your desk—you volunteered to speak, you did so in serious, measured terms, you sat down again, thinking of the Matura, and you firmly believed that when the moment came the professor now questioning you would remember the answer you had just given. And that the professor took note of matters fraught with significance, was sparing with praise and blame alike, with encouragement and admonition, and if now and then he said, perhaps, “Yes, good, sit down, you’ll be all right!” or, “Hmm… that was no great shakes, was it? How will you manage when it comes to the Matura?” his comments sounded fateful, final; if that was how things stood, enormous efforts must be made to change it.

  The days flowed by like lead, hesitating indecisively in the face of their purpose, coming closer and closer to the great day. That day couldn’t yet be seen in its entirety, but it rang like a bell at every sound in the classroom, haunted the teacher’s lectern, loomed grey and shadowy behind the blackboard—and yet in reality it was still very far away. It would have been better not to think of it at all. There was no need to worry yet. But the fear of omitting to do something, the sombre anxiety of the idea that the great day could suddenly come upon you, taking you by surprise, forced you to stay drowsily on guard. You didn’t really know what you were afraid of. But afraid you were. You fulfilled your daily quota of fear.

  It was hopeless for summer to resist; it gave way to autumn. One day the first coats were hanging on hooks in the cloak-room, a sad and stunted sight. Soon it was raining. The windows stayed closed during break, smokers stopped going out into the alley and shut themselves into the toilets, in groups. And when they were first caught at it, when there was an entry in the register under the heading “Other Remarks” for the first time—then there was no longer any doubt: the school year had firmly taken the students in its grip.