The Inventory: A Novel

by Gila Lustiger

  Before long, several parties voiced interest in the property. To entice them, they were given a linen-bound book extolling the beauty and the historical importance of the area. In fact, the building stood next to the most distinguished Berlin example of the Schinkel school of architecture, and something of its aura rubbed off on the college, or at least so the authors of the book hoped. Whether due to their edifying words or the central location of the building, six months later a proper lease was drawn up between the Prussian Board of Construction and Finance and a private holding company.

  On July 1, 1925, the company, Richard Kahn, Inc., took over the free floors. The College of Arts and Crafts held on to the attic and the library. Although Mr. Kahn brought no further fame to the building — nor did he otherwise achieve anything noteworthy for the history books (not even the local ones) — his name should be mentioned briefly. The reason lies with an essay he wrote in his leisure time. Subject: the history of the building rented by Richard Kahn, Inc., and its neighborhood.

  What induced him to embark on such a project, Richard Kahn himself could not say. He was a young man in his early thirties, who had managed to keep his sense of humor in the face of several trying situations. Perhaps the facade of the building reminded him of his high school in Bukowina. Perhaps he involved himself in research to take his mind off an unsuccessful love story. But we are not here to analyze his actions from every possible psychological angle. We simply want to copy down some important passages from his notebooks, written with the silver fountain pen he had bought for this purpose:

  The glorious history of the southern part of Friedrichstadt began in 1737 with the erection of the palace contracted by Baron Vernezobre de Laurieux, which served as his summer residence. Shortly after its completion, the palace played host to many important cultural events in Berlin. Every year, amateur theater productions were performed under the direction of the Baron, and translations of works by Italian writers were commissioned as well.

  In 1751 the Baron was briefly suspected of having been part of the brutal and apparently ritualistic murder of a seamstress. His name was soon cleared, yet the Baron could never entirely convince the general populace of his innocence. It was the Baron’s hospitality that gave grounds for gossip. For a number of weeks the Baron entertained four black Africans, and other people of foreign extraction were often seen with him.

  After ownership had passed through several hands, including those of a banker, a Turkish ambassador, a Prussian minister, a margrave, a princess, a soup kitchen for the poor, and a benevolent foundation, the palace was acquired by Prince Albrecht, for whom it was named, and remained his residence until his death in 1872. He hired Karl Friedrich Schinkel to modify it, and Schinkel brought a simple elegance to the castle. In the left wing, he had the convoluted boudoirs, writing and music chambers of the former mistress of the house torn down and transformed into a lofty hall. In similar fashion, Schinkel had a riding school and stables built that were quintessentially modern as regards dressage and breeding.

  In 1877 the foundation stone of the Museum of Arts and Crafts was laid not far from the palace. Three years later, construction of the Museum of Ethnology started on the same side of the street. Unique treasures could be viewed there, among them the largest collection of national and popular costumes in Europe.

  In 1887 the Four Seasons Hotel, later named The Prinz Albrecht, came into being, which is ranked as one of the most distinguished hotels in the city. The Persian carpets in the lobby belong to the first owner of the building, and are hand-knotted. Singers, politicians, and even some actors have graced the hotel with their presence.

  Campaigned for by artists and craftsmen, the College of Arts and Crafts was built in 1905, based on a design by the Ministry of Public Works. The College helped considerably to heighten the interest in German arts and crafts on an international level. Its annual exhibition “Wood, Ceramic, Steel” met with wide approval. Many high school students could familiarize themselves with these rather unprepossessing materials.

  Since 1925, 8 Prinz-Albrecht Straße has been under the administration of a holding company. It has turned the classrooms of the first, second, and third floors, together with the sculpture workshops of the south wing, into office space. Forty-two workshops in the attic were made available to artists.

  Contrary to the widely held belief in the acumen of Jewish businessmen, Richard Kahn had to file for bankruptcy on October 31, 1932, after a failed attempt to stay afloat. For obvious reasons, his lease, which expired on March 31, 1933, was not renewed.

  After this shameful episode, Kahn’s interest in the building and its neighborhood waned too. The jottings he continued to write out of habit are incomplete, erroneous, and dry up completely in April 1933.

  Thus, it transpires that the most important protagonists of our novel have no place in the notebooks of Richard Kahn. He does indeed record, although he saw it as a fleeting intermezzo in German history, that in 1918,at 5 Prinz-Albrecht Straße, the Communist Party of Germany came into being, and that on April 1, 1932, the publishing quarters of their official gazette Der Angriff ‘* moved to 106 Wilhelmsstraße. What Kahn did not know was who was to move into 8-9 Prinz-Albrecht Straße and 100-104 Wilhelmsstraße† in the spring of’33. At that time, incidentally, he had other worries, being a Jew converted to Christianity.

  * “The Attack.”

  † Prinz-Albrecht Straße 8: Gestapo Headquarters.

  Prinz-Albrecht Straße 9 (Hotel Prinz Albrecht): Reichsfiihrung of the SS. Wilhelmsstraße 100: principal seat of the SS.

  Wilhelmsstraße 101-104: Security Service, headed by Heydrich, and the Inquiry and Control Section for Jewish Affairs, headed by Adolf Eichmann.

  The Iron Cross

  THE IRON CROSS WAS BLACK AND MADE OF CAST IRON. The shrapnel they pulled from his leg, and his besieged lung, were proof that it was truly deserved, so much so that a general had felt prompted to pin the Cross with a military salute to his chest — sweet compensation indeed. While the Cross could not soothe his lung, condemned to incessant coughing, it did warm the cockles of his heart.

  It hung now on a background of red velvet on his living-room wall, and was dusted by the cleaning lady twice a week. The red velvet made the Cross stand out, and reminded him of his own blood shed on the field.

  The cleaning lady was oblivious to the fact the Cross was a first-class Cross. All she saw were corners that collected dust, and she considered taking it down every so often to give the material a good wash, for she could not abide half-done jobs.

  The dog did not take any notice of the Cross either. It never tired of the wooden walking stick taken on walks, though — some stubborn pieces of shrapnel were loath to leave his master’s leg. The dog sank its teeth into the wood and was smacked. The hurt dog got its revenge by mauling the stick, so a new one had to be bought each year. The Cross, on the other hand, looked brand new. Quite simply, the walking stick was made of wood, and the Cross of cast iron.

  The gentleman’s brother, Leo, who sometimes took the dog out to the country to let it run free, fully appreciated the Cross’s value, however. He knew that the Cross had been endowed in 1813; anyone, regardless of position, rank, or file, could receive it for merit displayed during war; and he knew that in 1918, thirty-five thousand Jews had received this award for their bravery, some together with cannon fire over their graves.

  One of these valiant men, albeit one who had not absolutely sacrificed himself to the Fatherland — it was more heroic and economical to expire at the front than to come back mutilated — one of these valiant men was his brother, Ernst, who now limped and coughed.

  Leo felt a close tie to the Fatherland, too. Oh, how he wanted a beautiful uniform of his own! He raced to sign up. But while Ernst joined the infantry and went off to the front with flowers and applause, Leo was assigned to the communication unit. He sat there, dreaming of stripes, marching, and the raw companionship born of common dangers survived. He sat there and was miserable, for
he was no less patriotic than his brother, now dug into enemy territory as commanded. He could not help it that his legs were two inches too short; had they been wanted, they would have found a way to shake off their disadvantage. But it was a lost cause. So he settled down at his desk in the orderly room, thereby strengthening, through no fault of his own, the widespread belief during wartime: Jews avoided the front.

  This idea was extremely hurtful to Leo, and the more perilous the war climate became and the more acute the economic decline, the more deeply it was embedded in the minds of his German companions.

  He might not be able to change the outcome of the war, thought Leo, but at least he could alter the views of his fellow citizens. For knowledge is illuminating, and prejudices should be countered by gentle sobriety. He published numerous articles in which his brother Ernst’s damaged lung and walking stick cropped up, although Ernst was unaware of these tributes. He also brought up the Iron Cross. Surely, Leo thought, the Iron Cross inspires respect and reverence, even among pacifists. It was the highest distinction bestowed by the Fatherland, after all. And his brother had honestly deserved his: not because he had wriggled out of sight in the army, as enemies of the Jews would have it, laying the blame of loss at their feet, but because he had wriggled in trenches on a field, trying to hold onto a hillside torn from the enemy at the cost of many a sacrifice, represented now by a small red dot on the general’s map.

  Yes, Leo strongly believed that the reasoning so apparent to the German citizens of the Jewish faith would be equally convincing to German citizens of Christian faith.

  Yes, Leo strongly believed the chemical makeup of cerebral matter in both groups of citizens did not essentially differ; nor did the blood that seeped into the earth when a citizen was hit by an enemy bullet in the heart, in the stomach, in the lung, or indeed in the muddled brain. The blood that nourished the earth and its delightful hills, rivers, and forests, the suffering and the tears, increased fecundity. Yes, the agony his brother went through also canonized the earth for him.

  Hence, he concluded that the red fluid that had been pressed from the bodies of 12,000 Jewish soldiers until they grew stiff meant he could lay claim to the country he had defended from the communication unit, his legs being on the short side.

  He wrote about the many Jews displaying first- and second-class Iron Crosses on their chests, for he was aware that blood could neither talk nor back up what he knew and wanted to spell out in his pamphlets. He pointed out the Jewish fencer, too, who had a legendary reputation in the fraternity; as well as Professor Sternfeld, the Wagner expert; Laband, the master in the field of German constitutional law; and Dernburg, the Jew who had converted to Christianity. Also mentioned, of course, were strict discipline, the focus on family, and good business sense, without which one cannot advance at all.

  No, it was not popularity he sought. Quarrels are common in the closest of families. He just wanted to be accepted —- oh, how he longed to be part of it all.

  Therefore, he got stuck into the vitally important question of religion. The modern-day Jew does not adhere to ritualistic practices, he explained. You could come to his house unexpectedly anytime, night or day, just to check — you could even ask the neighbors. Like everyone else, he ate smoked ham, sausages, chops, and pork meatballs, freshly prepared by the butcher every other day.

  “Really,” he said, “you can shake it off at any time,” referring to his religion, the religion of a people of slaves. “And not simply to become a reserve officer, as the countless baptisms prove.”

  The Jew was indistinguishable socially and economically, culturally, and ethically from the Teutonic. The unity of the nation was not based on skull shape and hair color. Incidentally, he, just like his brother, who received the Iron Cross and now coughed, and his father, whose son received the Iron Cross and now coughed, and his uncle and aunt, whose nephew received the Iron Cross and now coughed, were blond. The unity of the nation was not created by hair, but by will and determination, and by the blood that flowed from Jews, who wanted to be, and felt, German.

  He explained and proved, and argued and preached and analyzed and pointed out and reiterated, his arguments indisputable, clear, and compelling — but convince he did not.

  Dora Lipmann, formerly Wellner, had her opinion about her new uncle’s leaflets. She felt it would be better for him to look after his wife: while he was dreaming of the mingling of German and Jewish blood, she was doing just that with Mr. Schellenberg, the young neighbor from the first floor (he had whispered this in her ear on his sofa). She also told her husband what she thought, and all this in impeccable German:

  She did not use the negative to express the positive; she did not answer a question with a question, as is often the case with certain Jews — ask a Jew, even an assimilated one, “How are you?” you’ll usually get in response, “How should I be?”; she did not whine; she did not say “Oh, God above!” or “Woe is me, where on earth shall I get flowers from?”; she did not use rhetorical questions (a Jewish malady); she did not gesticulate or make faces; she did not fall into singsong, did not mumble, did not speak loudly as though in Torah school, or softly like Jewish conspirators; did not speak with her hands and did not use any unpronounceable slang apart from “Goimnaches.” This word seemed to her to best capture and define her new uncle’s obsession with convincing.

  The Printing Press

  ON DECEMBER 26, 1928, AT ABOUT 6:00 A.M., Constable Erich Hagel came to his precinct and confessed to having stabbed a person to death in cold blood. The person in question was Miss Ella Feigenbaum, with whom he had been socializing for over two months. Of course, no one believed him, Hagel being viewed by all as a trustworthy colleague. Only after he had demanded several times, insistently, to be put in a cell, did a colleague draft the report:

  I got to know Miss Feigenbaum at Hilde Andacht’s tavern in Schillerstraße. She was a regular there and, apparently, very popular. To begin with she did not pay me any attention. I always sat up at the bar reading my newspaper, whereas Miss Feigenbaum would be in the back room, playing the piano and singing. A good time was had, it seemed.

  One time I wanted to relieve myself, and had to make my way through the back room. I waited at the door, as they were in the middle of a dance. That is when she noticed me. She smiled at me, and whispered something in the ear of the man next to her. They both laughed. I turned around and beat a swift retreat to the bar. I was ordering another beer when she approached me, and asked me to dance. Taken aback, I declined at first with the excuse that I did not know how and besides I was still in uniform. But then, to avoid attracting further attention, I yielded. After that I also met up with her in the afternoons. We went walking together, and to the movies sometimes. I told her about my father, my mother, and my friends in the force. She was very interested, and wanted to know everything. She said I was introducing her to an unknown world. Politics never entered the discussion. She gave me books to read — Don Carlos, Elective Affinities, Danton’s Death — where she had already underlined the important passages. She often referred to me teasingly as her Prussian Pygmalion. I did not consider that an insult and saw no reason to break our ties.

  We always parted at her front door. Only once did I enter her apartment and I waited in the lobby while she was looking for her hat in her bedroom.

  The night of the crime, we met as usual in Mrs. Andacht’s tavern. Miss Feigenbaum was sad and asked me to drink with her. She said that she had lost a friend. She cursed womankind. She said all women were underhand and base whores. She talked in a very confused manner. When we were long past the police curfew, and the proprietress wanted to close, I paid the tab, and we left the bar together. Close to home, she asked me if I had plenty of cigarettes on me. I answered in the negative and therefore we went into another bar. I did not want to go in just for cigarettes, so I bought us each another beer, which we quickly drank. After that I had to more or less carry her home. I opened the front door with difficulty, dropping the
keys several times. I could think clearly, but looking back on it I must have been very inebriated by this stage. In the hallway Miss Feigenbaum fell down, so I had to lift her up and carry her to bed. I took off her coat, removed her hat, and slipped the shoes from her feet. Then, I suddenly did not know what to do with myself, so I went to the kitchen and smoked a cigarette.

  I must have been on my second or third cigarette when she asked me what I had forgotten at her house. I had not heard her coming in and got a fright. She was leaning against the doorframe, and started swearing at me. She should have been grateful to me — she certainly would not have gotten home without me — but instead she called me a fraud. That irritated me greatly, and I decided to head homeward. As I was about to go past her, by mistake I grazed her body. She smelled of sweat and alcohol, and she repelled me. Although nothing in her behavior suggested it, I was convinced that she would try the next second to kiss me. A prospect that filled me with disgust. To prevent her from doing so, I pushed her against the wall. I must have handled her fairly roughly for her face twisted with pain. I do not know if she intended to scream, but I feared so. I reached for her throat with both hands, and squeezed. At first she defended herself, then she collapsed. I kneeled next to her on the floor, my hands still on her throat.

  While strangling her, I had gotten a slight erection. Although the erection subsided immediately, desire had been awakened in me to attempt intercourse with the body lying on the floor. Assuming that she had only fainted, believing I could still feel a pulse, I tore the clothing from her body, whipping off her stockings, too. Hoping to reach a state of sexual arousal, I pushed her right leg up so that I could see her naked genitalia. Still no reaction. An indescribable rage took hold of me. It grew still worse when the woman started to cough.