Not so Mattusch, who was close to bursting with self-importance. Red in the face, he would splutter out threats and curses if he caught anyone failing to pay attention, pointing again and again to the deciding influence of the Matura in German in particular: “Well then, that’s clear, clear, it all comes down to your German, isn’t that right? Well then, we’ll see who’s just cramming and who knows his stuff, I mean in German, what else, right?” The safest way of proving that you knew your stuff was to take down his lessons in shorthand and learn them by heart. No surreptitious help was to be expected from Mattusch. But he wouldn’t fail anyone, either.
And so the course of the last act of the drama was making inevitably for Kupfer. The rest of the professors, who were otherwise, each in his own way, perfectly capable, seemed to retreat respectfully before that master of his subject. There was general agreement that Kupfer was the be-all and end-all of this year’s Matura. All might seem to be going well, satisfactory solutions found to everything—but the final decision lay with Kupfer, and a word from him could reverse the situation entirely. The others were only the stages, or steps, leading up to his throne—he, Kupfer, was God Almighty and the ultimate authority on whether a student passed or failed.
Kupfer was well up to the job of demonstrating his ever-increasing importance. It was as if an avalanche were slowly and with sinister calm rolling down on fettered victims. They couldn’t get away, they could only look up, paralysed, they were alive, healthy, still alive—yet they knew that the avalanche would reach them sometime. It was coming closer, ever closer, without a sound.
Kupfer said not a word about what lay ahead. He conducted his lessons with a bored and indifferent air, in exactly the same way as at the beginning of the class’s schooldays. If the fevered tension of the eighth-year students, which he emphatically overlooked, were to vent itself suddenly in a scream—Oh Lord! The Matura is in two weeks’ time!—Kupfer would have raised his eyebrows in astonishment. So what about it? You’ve known for eight years that you’d be taking the Matura some day. And now that day has come. What did you expect?
And Kupfer went on teaching and testing and giving an Unsatisfactory here and there without adding any further comment; thank you, sit down, next… One student sat down, the next came up to the front of the class, puppets on strings being pulled by the puppet master to whom this was everyday business.
What was there yet for him to achieve? Nothing. He had determined on the path he would take at the start; now he had nothing to do but follow it to its predestined end. He looked down, with mild distaste, at the frantic, scrabbling efforts of that anthill, the class. Was one of them perhaps thinking of doing something about Kupfer’s intentions for him, even planning to thwart them? How touching! What strange things we do find in this world! Why did that lad Zasche come to see me, asking me to suggest a private tutor to coach him? Why does that woman, Mertens’s mother, pester me so tearfully? Why is Duffek dancing attendance on me? Why is Lengsfeld putting up his hand? Why all this? Strange… And as for him, as for Gerber! Why is he not putting up his hand? He did try it for a while, which was pleasing at the time—but now? Just sits there, paying only an average amount of attention, sometimes answering and sometimes not, a student like a hundred others, not at all diverting. I imagined it would be more exciting. More resistance, more struggling. But he’s stopped defending himself. He dares to stop defending himself. What inordinate impertinence! Outrageous. He is perfectly calm! He isn’t making a nuisance of himself!
“Gerber! Stop making a nuisance of yourself!”
Kurt tries to correct the mistake. “Professor Kupfer, sir, I wasn’t—”
“Will you kindly be quiet at once? It is not for you to speak if you haven’t been asked a question, understand?”
“But Professor Kupfer, sir, it’s not true that I—”
“What’s that? Not true? This is too much! Give me a pen!”
And Kupfer writes in the register, “Gerber makes a nuisance of himself by talking during lessons, and in spite of being warned about it answers back.” Then he says, “There. Now you can sit down, Gerber.” And turning to the board, “We will go on.”
In grotesque American films, sometimes a storm picks up a whole house, carries it away and puts it down somewhere else. The people who live in the house, after a brief moment of surprise, get used to their new circumstances and go in and out of the house as if nothing had happened. It was the same here. For a moment, the students had done nothing but gawp, eyes and mouths open wide. When Kupfer was writing in the register, some had looked at each other, upset, but others, who had nothing of that kind to fear, simply shook their heads. Many of them glanced timidly round at Kurt Gerber, as if doubting whether he could still be alive—and then, as Kupfer said, “We will go on,” they straightened up again and took a close interest in the shadows cast inside a hollow pyramid. They went on.
Kurt himself? His thoughts were in such confusion that he couldn’t grasp just what was happening to him and how he felt about it; a terrible, painful void seemed to shrink and then expand his head, in and out it went, in and out—suddenly a signal flared brightly: Kupfer is going to test me now, next minute, while my mind’s in this state! Kurt tried desperately to pull his ideas together, but they failed him. He realized, with horror, that he was unable to follow all that was being said in the classroom. The surface of the prism intersects the surface of the pyramid, yes, he could hear that and had a vague idea what it meant. But why does it intersect the shadow cast inside the pyramid? Why does it intersect—inside—intersect—intersect—well, why, for God’s sake? What’s it all about? Why? Suppose Kupfer asks him that? And he will, he certainly will, his eye has already fallen on him, he has made up his mind. Why? What is he going to say? Why? Help, help!
“Weinberg,” Kurt whispers, “why does the surface of the prism—”
Weinberg gives Kurt a brief, baffled glance, doesn’t understand what he is talking about. Up at the front by the board they have already gone on to something else, and Weinberg has to pay attention himself, can’t offer any help, shakes his head, turns away—but to no avail.
“Weinberg, Weinberg, why, inside the pyramid?”
“Quiet, Gerber! And if you don’t like it, you can complain after the lesson!”
Oh no, oh no, now Kupfer really will ask him, he really will, and at once, next moment, now, now…
But Kupfer doesn’t ask him anything all through the lesson. Slowly, Kurt sees the danger disappearing; Kupfer’s not so bad after all, Kupfer hasn’t asked me anything, he doesn’t want to give me another bad mark, nice of him, God Almighty Kupfer is just, God Almighty Kupfer… And what was that he said? I can complain. Yes, of course I can. But I won’t. Complaining just isn’t done. No. Suppose, let’s think this over, suppose I go and complain, who’s going to believe me? Me, of all people! And if anyone does believe me—what use is that? The Headmaster will just shrug his shoulders: “Oh, come along—maybe you’re not entirely wrong, but—I’m sure you can see this—I can’t expose my colleague Professor Kupfer—and there must have been something in it, no one complains for no reason at all, right? What? The whole class witnessed it. You didn’t really? Nonsense, everyone knows what to think of that—and then, well, we know you, don’t we, Gerber? Very well, very well, I’ll have a word with the Professor, perhaps—well, we’ll see.” That’s what the Headmaster will say, no point in going to see him, he can’t say anything else. Kurt knows that very well, he sees himself in the Headmaster’s office, and Zeisig is sitting in his armchair listening to him civilly, and then he shakes his head, and then he says something, and then Kurt goes out, with a little bow… And maybe the Headmaster really will speak to Kupfer, and Kupfer will strike out his entry in the register, or maybe not, what’s the difference… and then Kupfer will be after you again with all his methods of torture, Kupfer the villain, Kupfer the beast, Kupfer the bloodhound… what am I to do, what, what? Go to Kupfer and plead with him? But Kurt has done that
unsuccessfully before, and besides—no, no meaningless beggar’s pride. No. Go to Kupfer. Yes.
The bell rings. The eighth-year students stand to attention. And here comes Kupfer, looking straight ahead.
Kurt gets up from his desk and raises his hand. Now Kupfer is close to him. “Professor Kupfer, sir!”
“I have nothing to say to you!” rasps Kupfer, walking past, and then he has his hand on the door handle and is on his way out.
Kurt stands there motionless, he feels dizzy, he has to hold onto something—no, thank you, Gerald, I’m all right…
Kurt knocks on the door of the physics lab.
Didn’t Hussak’s “Come in!” sound unwelcoming? Is this hope going to be dashed as well?
Professor Hussak is tidying up the instruments in the lab with a couple of fourth-year students. He glances at Kurt, and gestures to the fourth-year boys. They disappear obediently.
“What is it, Gerber? Good heavens, look at you! Sit down, do!”
Kurt tells him what has happened. The Professor’s face shows no emotion, although now and then he frowns.
“What am I to do, Professor Hussak, sir?”
At first Hussak does not reply; he is gritting his teeth.
“You can’t do anything yourself. But send your father along, he may be able to get somewhere. He’d better go straight to the Headmaster.”
“My father—I don’t want him to know anything at all about this. He isn’t well.”
Hussak is taking long strides up and down the room.
“Professor Hussak, sir—couldn’t you have a word with Kupfer?”
Hussak turns abruptly, then steps back, spreading out the palms of his hands as if to ward off the idea, and he shakes his head vigorously.
“I—have a word with Kupfer? No, no, my birdie—I want nothing to do with him!” And he makes a gesture of such aversion that Kurt gives up.
“Then I’m finished, sir,” he says in an expressionless voice.
“Oh no, you are not!” Hussak stamps his foot. “And certainly not now! Wait until after the Matura, Gerber. Now—believe me, there would be no point in it at all. At the moment the decision is up to my colleague Kupfer and no one else. Wait, Gerber, and—”.
But Hussak had nothing else to say, and could think of no way of hiding it but by quickly impelling Kurt towards the door.
Nothing achieved. “Wait until after the Matura!” The Matura… he couldn’t even think as far ahead as that. The force of the immediate future was too great. What else might follow?
In the next break—Kurt had skipped the lesson, and heard by chance from Sittig, who was coming out of it, that Prochaska had asked to see “my young friend Gerber” to test him, but he had missed that too—in the next break Kupfer arrived. He slammed the door behind him, making the eighth-year students jump up from their seats.
“Gerber!”
“Here, sir.”
“A staff meeting has just decided to punish your indiscipline with an immediate two-hour detention. It will begin at four this afternoon. You will be hearing the rest of what was decided later.”
In the doorway, Kupfer turned.
“And you are to bring the letter about the detention, with your father’s signature confirming that he has read it, by this afternoon.”
Kurt was left reeling. There was not enough time left before the afternoon for him to make a plan. When afternoon came, and Kupfer asked for the confirmation, he resorted to the threadbare excuse that his father was away.
Kupfer did not reply to this, much to Kurt’s surprise, and escorted him to the classroom where he was to spend those two hours. Nor was Kurt given, as he had feared, mathematical exercises to do, but could occupy himself as he liked. After two hours Kupfer dismissed him with the words, “And I want that confirmation tomorrow,” adding, with emphasis, “signed by your father!”
There were a hundred reasons why it was unthinkable for him to forge his father’s signature this time, but still less could he actually get his father to sign any confirmation. So Kurt saw nothing for it but to tell his mother the whole story. She listened to him in silence, trembling, all her anxious concern for her sick husband.
“If we can’t find any way out of it,” said Kurt, “I’m going to fail.”
His mother said nothing.
A small gap, like the crack in a doorway when the door is ajar, opened up in Kurt’s tottering mind, and for a moment he looked all the way to the end of the story.
“Yes,” he murmured, nodding thoughtfully, “that’s how it will be. That will be the reason. It’s my second detention. That means that I’ll get the consilium abeundi.” (The formal term meant being “advised to leave” and led to actual expulsion.) “Before they throw me out. It’s not difficult to make sure an expelled student fails the exam. No one bothers about him.”
It occurred to him, suddenly, that this consideration in fact had nothing to do with the signature, that it would still be true anyway. He felt afraid. Had he really reached the end?
“You must go to see Kupfer!” he told his mother, looking at her as if to assess her suitability for this mission.
His mother remained silent. She slowly folded her hands, stared into space, and did not move even when the first tears fell into her lap. Then she sighed, like someone giving up the ghost on a bed of pain, and said quietly, looking away from him:
“Kurt—my dear Kurt, my poor child—you must pull through—you know you must—or else, oh, I don’t want to say it out loud, it’s unthinkable—dear God, dear kind God—”. And then she burst into sobs, stood up and flung her arms round her son’s neck. He felt warm moisture on his cheek and throat, and absent-mindedly patted her on her back, which was heaving up and down.
“Don’t cry, mother, it’s not guaranteed, it’s not as bad as all that.” He said this in a hard, dry voice; her tears did not go to his heart, as he could clearly tell, they simply irritated his nerves, and yet he felt so sorry for his mother, so sorry as she clung to him and caressed his cheeks.
“You will pass, won’t you? Tell me, Kurt, you will pass the Matura—” And yet again her words were drowned in tears.
Kurt stood there with his thoughts in confusion, and suddenly he went ashen pale with shame; he didn’t want to identify its source, yet it was a fact—with his mother’s body so close to his, he couldn’t help thinking of Lisa.
“There, lie down for a bit,” he said softly, guiltily. “It’s terrible the way that idiot gets you so worked up. Is it all really so tragic?”
“Tragic!” His mother’s voice was tired and exhausted. “Suppose you have no father tomorrow—”
A dry rattle sounded in her throat. Kurt left the room.
No, there was no point in following his destiny back to its origins and lamenting over the course it had taken. Suppose it could have been changed? And what would have happened if…? Whereas now his fate threatened to roll on in a great torrent leading to something monstrous—that was what he had to face. Was there any remedy but flight from such a tide of misfortune?
What followed was crazy confusion. The waves broke wildly against each other—it was obvious now which way they were going—while a sea spray of malice and hatred rose high. Often it was hard to tell who wanted what as events came thick and fast, and only at the end was it possible to discern their outlines. Then peace, born of muted, heavy exhaustion, came down like mist, veiling what was yet to come.
As far as it was possible to disentangle the course of those events, it had begun when Kurt’s mother knocked on the staffroom door during the break before Kupfer’s lesson next morning; and when the nearest staff member asked what she wanted, she said she would like to speak to Professor Kupfer. Kupfer, who was sitting quite close, told his colleague to ask what her business with him was.
“It’s about my son.”
And who was he?
The student’s name was Kurt Gerber, she said, and he was in the eighth year.
“Tell the lady,” said Kup
fer audibly, “that I’m not available to speak to her at the moment. I can be consulted from eleven to twelve the day after tomorrow.”
Before this answer was conveyed to Kurt’s mother, she went up to Kupfer, keeping her trembling under control with difficulty.
“Please would you make an exception, Professor Kupfer? This is a very urgent matter.”
There was crushing arrogance in Kupfer’s tone of voice. “I consider your behaviour very odd, Frau… er… Gerber. But let that pass—what do you want?”
He had stayed sitting where he was as he spoke, and made no move to ask her to sit down herself. She bit her lip until it was sore—but she clung with all her might to the thought that she must not harm her son by doing anything rash, least of all must she let her own person cause offence. So she put up with Kupfer’s humiliation of her, and would probably have gone on standing there if two other professors had not brought up chairs at the same time.
Kurt’s mother began speaking carefully, feeling her way. She knew, she said, she admitted that unfortunately her son—
Kupfer brusquely interrupted her. Could she kindly keep it short? He did not intend to waste his entire break, which was meant for his rest and refreshment.
The way Kurt’s mother still managed to control herself was nothing short of heroic. She threw back her head and explained the situation to Kupfer, who sat there blowing smoke rings and looking bored.
“My husband is severely ill, Professor. He has an acute heart condition, and the doctor thinks any agitation would be extremely dangerous. My son will accept his punishment, I assure you. But please, would you dispense with my husband’s signature just this once?”
Kupfer shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, but the rule is for confirmations of that kind to be signed by the father, if there is one.” (Kurt’s mother started in alarm.) “So even if I wanted to, I could not dispense with the signature.”
Young Gerber Page 22
