Hartmund was annoyed and pointed to the sign that he had hung in front of his counter: it proclaimed in black and white that the position was closed now and, it being shortly before half past twelve, he was taking lunch, as stated in the union’s regulations. He had set it aside for going over the words of a chorale, so as to be word perfect after work at the choir rehearsal he attended twice a week.
Seeing the precious minutes tick by, Harald Hartmund grabbed angrily at the dish as Miss Berg was stubbornly starting to arrange the coins into small stacks — she had not counted it up before, to add to the misfortune — and his hand brushed against his customer’s in doing so.
“What do you mean by that?”
Hartmund apologized profusely — it was not one of the bank’s policies to insult customers — and handed the woman three banknotes. One week later, Miss Berg entered the bank lobby again. This time, too, she shook the contents of her little linen bag on to the revolving dish. Whether it was the early morning lull that led him to do something he had never done in his whole career, or twinges of conscience, for he had not been able to put the unpleasant scene out of his mind, Hartmund asked his customer how it happened that she was carrying so much small change, thereby breaking the rule of discretion. The woman smiled and handed him an invitation to the fair in response.
Although he had intended to go to choir rehearsal, Hartmund found himself on the tram going out to the wooded outskirts of the city the following Sunday.
He looked around, bewildered. He could not recall ever being in such a place, and the garish colors on the posters hurt his eyes. After a while he came across his customer’s tent. Here she was called The Great Samantra. Although he had been looking for her high and low a few minutes earlier, now that he had found her, he hung back. The poster depicting her scantily clad injured his feelings of modesty. He was just about to leave when Gerta Berg noticed him and called him over. Caught in the act, he sat down on a wooden bench.
The Great Samantra walked onto the stage right away. She had changed costume and was now dressed in a cloak with red sequins. After taking a bow, she unbuttoned it and threw it on a chair. Then, ignoring the catcalls of a man in the audience, she perched on the end of a long rectangular platform, center stage, draped with a black cloth, pulled herself up into a handstand, and went into a swift routine of somersaults and cartwheels and finished with a split. After she had performed some other figures, to a ripple of shy applause, Great Samantra’s assistant, a ten-year-old boy, came out of the wings.
Now Hartmund realized which pockets those coins came from that he changed each week. He also put something in the hat that was held up by the assistant next to the exit to encourage reluctant customers to cough up.
Hartmund wanted to leave, but for some inexplicable reason stayed seated on the bench. He watched the gymnast Berg still onstage. She somersaulted and, as a kind of encore, turned a cartwheel, jumped in a single move back up onto the platform, and finished in an elegant second execution of the splits, arms stretched out to the sides. He was shaken. Never before had he seen such a mysterious dance. It seemed to him that the woman was floating. (He did not know, and could not know, that it was a simple case of a side split.) And she had done this dance, he was moved by the thought, when no one else was there to see it, when the tent was empty. At once he understood with all his heart what he had recently read in the introduction to a music book: that true art satisfies itself. He was tempted to burst into song. Instead he got up quietly and left the tent so as not to disturb the lady.
After that he did not see her for a long time. The fair had moved on. One lunchtime, when Hartmund had long since forgotten the scene in the tent, he was sitting as usual at one of the round tables in his local bar. He recognized Gerta Berg as one of the clientele. More out of politeness than interest, he bowed his head and asked her if she would care to sit with him.
“That would be nice,” the gymnast replied, and stood up lithely.
Soon they were meeting regularly. On Hartmund’s advice, Gerta Berg left the fair and started work at Kraus the optician’s, who had taken her on in spite of her lack of experience. He was a lover of the Swabian bridal dance and whenever there were no customers in the shop, he let her perform dances.
Hartmund continued to go to the bank every day. But he no longer lost himself in work, and when he heard the hum of the clock above his head toward the end of the day, he trembled with impatience. He was distracted. One day, his mind on a movie he had been to see, he gave a customer who was withdrawing money from his savings account one note too few. It was only when the man had already left the bank that Hartmund realized his mistake. He meant to report it immediately, but after some hesitation, he popped the note into his pants pocket instead. With the money he bought two orchestra seats for the ballet to bring some joy to Gerta, who was missing the stage. From now on they were to attend a dance performance every Friday.
Although Hartmund was on his guard, only holding on to money of customers who seemed absentminded, and only ever taking small sums, as time went on there were some unpleasant scenes. He apologized each time and handed over the rest of the sum, but he had aroused the suspicion of a married colleague, who watched him like a hawk. Hartmund decided to give up his new hobby, but started again a few weeks later in spite of himself.
On the day of his twentieth anniversary with the firm, Hartmund tried to take a larger sum than usual. The day’s climax was a celebration at lunchtime (the director who believed in rewarding loyalty in his employees had ordered a fruit flan from the bakery). The party atmosphere along with the glass of champagne at the beginning of the day made him reckless. The customer was an elderly lady with thick glasses, and she noticed the mistake in the calculation. In spite of Hartmund’s repeated conciliatory gestures, she complained to his boss. The cashier was called to his office and asked to account for himself. After he had put the unforgivable mistake down to his insomnia, he was merely given a gentle warning.
A month later, Hartmund was sitting with his girlfriend in a vegetarian restaurant eating cabbage soup. Gerta told him that she was planning to give up her job.
“But why?” asked Hartmund. He heard very frankly that while Gerta Berg may have put her Great Samantra costume away in the cupboard, her restless feet had not been stored with mothballs. Should no replacement have been found for the Great Samantra, she would rejoin the fair, which would be making its stop in the city in a few days’ time.
So now Hartmund became the recipient of regularly sent postcards whose glossy fronts depicted the sights of various cities. Although alone again, he did not change any of his habits. As he found pleasure in dance, he still went to a dance performance every Friday. And because dance was not only connected to Berg, the gymnast, but also to his discrepancies at work, he soon resumed holding back small sums of money. He did this out of nostalgia, not because he needed the money.
Now the director was also beginning to have his doubts. He decided to set a trap for his employee with the help of a trustworthy customer. Hartmund, blissfully unaware, held back his personal fee this time too, and as he was about to put the note into his pants pocket he was caught in the act. Hartmund could not explain why he had stolen the money. As he was one of the longest-serving co-workers at the bank and because they wanted to avoid a public scandal that could hurt the branch’s reputation, he was dismissed in all discretion without the police being called in. After a long and heated letter exchange, he moved into the caravan of Gerta Berg, gymnast.
2.
If the enemy cannot be enticed down that dark path by means of an enthusiasm for art discovered at an advanced age, as in Harald Hartmund’s case, you should try to awaken in him a passion for, say, alcohol or love or gambling that will stop him thinking in a reasonable fashion.
Moreover, should an exaggerated ambition be latent in the enemy, this is to be encouraged by offering up an unusual victim, thereby arousing the urge to attack.
The enemy leaves his cove
r and, surprised and flattered, takes a step forward. As there do not seem to be any obstacles in his path, he falls headlong into disaster. Overestimating one’s own strength is one of the traps that defeats, above all others, strategists well practiced in conflict, because they are used to victory. But equally, underestimating one’s own power can be dangerous, as this example illustrates:
On May 10, the opera singer Werner Kurzig was taken away by five young men in SA uniforms. Kurzig was sitting over breakfast with his friend, discussing a concert that was to take place the following day, when the men entered. They pretended they had been sent by the electricity board to check the meter. The maid, who had been in Kurzig’s service for over ten years, and whose integrity was beyond any doubt, opened the door in good faith. Before she could call to her master for help, she was struck on the head and fell unconscious to the floor.
As though well acquainted with the opera singer’s living space and habits, the men entered the dining room without any detours. They grabbed Kurzig. After damaging the grand piano in his study, they dragged him to the waiting vehicle. They drove to a fallow field south of the city. There they formed a circle around Kurzig, contemptuously called him “little lady,” and ordered him to undress. Kurzig did what they commanded.
They rained blows down on the naked singer, using rubber truncheons and dog whips. They particularly aimed at his sexual organ. Then they pulled a potato sack over Kurzig’s head and took his clothes, a silver ring, and a gold wristwatch.
About an hour later, the proprietress, Hilde Andacht, came across him lying there. Mrs. Andacht notified the police and called for an ambulance. Kurzig was taken to the university hospital. They found several bones were broken.
Kurzig’s friend, the pianist Otto Wagner, escaped with a light concussion. The men had hit his head several times with a canelike object. It kept him in bed for a week. When he was up and about again, he went to visit Kurzig in the hospital. He spent several hours every day there in the company of his friend, who was convalescing slowly. He brought books to read from to distract him and cheer him up.
Wagner learned from Kurzig’s agent that the doors of the opera houses would be closed to Kurzig from now on. Wagner, indignant about this turn of affairs, tried to set up a singing evening with the help of some influential friends from the music world. But he could not find a suitable hall. The owners of those that were possibilities (three of them) feared rioting.
Although the incident caused quite a stir among the public and was unanimously condemned by the press — not only was Kurzig an exceptionally fine singer, he also enjoyed a certain popularity due to his friendly nature — several important concerts were canceled. By the end of the year, Kurzig felt compelled to emigrate to a neighboring country. There he remained, after a failed attempt to revive his career, in a modest guest house until his death.
Although Kurzig tried to persuade his longtime friend to go abroad with him, Wagner stayed behind in Germany. They did, however, keep in touch with each other.
When Kurzig was declared an enemy of the state some months later, Wagner publicly distanced himself from him. One year later, he was appointed director of a large opera house. That same year he got married to a young actress, whose career was just beginning.
Wagner never saw Kurzig again. He learned about his death from a common friend. That was on a Wednesday. Afterward Wagner went to the opera house, where a rehearsal of The Magic Flute was taking place. Fifteen years earlier, Kurzig had had his big break with this opera. Wagner could still remember how he had stayed seated, stunned at his place up in the gallery as the last note of Sarastro’s aria faded away: he had never heard a sound of such purity. He had looked down in amazement at the small man who seemed to him at that moment like a god even as he fumbled awkwardly at the heavy folds of the burgundy velvet curtains and popped out under the spotlight, like a tongue out of a woman’s red mouth.
3.
Victory used to be easy. In silent agreement, enemies would throw themselves into the heart of the fray. To take victims, even if it involved some risk, was a matter of honor. And to offer up some tasty bait, soon to prove inedible, brought many to their knees. Yes, in those days defense tactics took a backseat to methods of attack. The strategist did not consider what he could lose; he thought of victory, and this was often the upbeat of a dominolike succession of sacrifices.
Nowadays, if you want to come into contact with your enemy, you first of all have to cunningly coax him out of his shell. Many ways have been tried, many ways remain to be discovered: each new case demands the creative ingenuity of the strategist. However, there is only one method of attack that stimulates even the most indifferent of people. In technical terms, it is known as strategic placing of casualties or, even more categorically, sacrificing of pieces. It has everything to do with the clever exploitation of circumstances planned in advance, and the main shape this exploitation takes is that of a perfect circle. The opponent is coerced by the carefully plotted ambush to give up his best men, and then to sacrifice himself. Yes, he who has never looked upon the whites of the enemy’s eyes as he dies shamefully has never known victory.
Three years later, Otto Wagner, in the meantime having become the director of the most important theater in the city, was invited one afternoon to come to the Ministry for Theater and Film. When he arrived, he was asked to give an actress by the name of Kernig the main role in a play that was currently being rehearsed and was to open the season.
Wagner did not initially understand the secretary’s request. There was no doubt that Kernig was not up to the part. She had neither the talent nor the looks — she was a powerfully built, bulging blond — to successfully portray the tragic female lead. And, he took the liberty of responding, the role had already been given to an excellent actress, who would certainly do a fine job. He was referring to, as you will doubtless have gathered, his wife.
“Yes,” replied the secretary, growing impatient, “I agree with what you say, but there are other factors at work here.”
He told him something that Wagner should have been well aware of as director of the most important theater in the city: Kernig, the actress, was with the rich and influential Paul Raeder, one of Göring’s close advisers. Therefore, it was a fait accompli. Wagner promised to set the wheels in motion and went back to the theater with an uneasy feeling as he imagined his wife’s anger.
Indeed, Mrs. Wagner, usually rather careless, was taking this performance very seriously. She had already gathered historical background material, with the help of the dramaturge. It was piled high on the drawing room table, waiting for the actress’s fine, carefully manicured hands to start leafing through.
The following morning she learned via her husband’s secretary that she would be taking a vacation from work. Without even putting on her coat, she ran back to the apartment, went past the maid without a word, and smashed Wagner’s records against the bedroom wall.
Meanwhile Wagner was spreading his bread with fresh butter in the rustically decorated dining room of a small inn. He was aware of his cowardice, and felt wretched. But what else could he have done? The season started just five weeks from now, and he had to conserve his strength if he wanted to have a successful fall. As the mere thought of a fight with his wife was enough to exhaust him, and to a certain degree also bore him, he was hiding out for a few days. He pushed his plate to the side, lit up a cigarette, and compassionately thought of Heller, his secretary. He would bear the brunt of his wife’s fury, and would have to be promised a raise for his troubles. Wagner planned to give his wife a present: the lead role in a play to be performed at Christmastime. She would sheath herself in a white toga, and bemoan the fate of women.
But things turned out differently. During rehearsals, Mrs. Wagner’s glance had chanced upon the young dramaturge Johannes Schellenberg. Until then he had struck her as insignificant, but now his general knowledge changed that indifference to enthusiasm.
Young Schellenberg had taken adv
antage of the beautiful actress’s interest. As they looked through the old books and catalogs that he had lugged over to the Wagners’ apartment, he inched closer and closer to her. After a few timid days, a passionate relationship flamed up between the two of them. They kept it secret for obvious reasons.
For quite some time, Mrs. Wagner had felt a weariness with her husband and her marriage. It had now reached a point of aversion; without being aware of it she was looking for a reason to leave her husband, to whom she felt duty bound.
When she saw herself crossed in such a cheap manner — his passing the buck of bearing the news was like a slap in the face to her — she felt such anger that she told the dramaturge what had long bothered her about her husband. She did not spare a thought about the destructive results of her confession.
The next day the whole theater already knew what had been disclosed during a minute of weakness on the velour sofa. Wagner knew nothing of it.
While the newly engaged actress Kernig was at the minister’s weekend house, the dramaturge at the Wagners’ apartment, and his secretary, Heller, was spending Sunday with his mother, Wagner was marching through the woods, humming a Mozart melody. After an expansive dinner, he went to bed early. The next morning he planned to take the first train back to see how things were simmering at the theater.
He got to the theater around ten. He did not notice the stolen glances in his direction. He opened the door to his office and was relieved to find it empty. He ordered a pot of tea with milk, and took out the message book. Bored, he read his secretary’s delicate tidy handwriting and reached into the cookie tin that he always kept on his desk for energy. When he read that he was to contact the ministry immediately, he dialed the familiar number.
The Inventory: A Novel Page 7
