The Inventory: A Novel

by Gila Lustiger

  She stood on the scales and noticed with satisfaction that she had lost a pound. Men could fool themselves easily. But for a woman the signs of aging could not be ignored. She screwed the cap off a little bottle, dipped a cotton bud in the oil, and dabbed the skin under the eyes.

  She remembered her first period and how she had run to her mother, scared by the bleeding. Her mother had told her that from now on she would have to be careful, but she did not know what of.

  She had been disappointed. She had imagined it would be much more romantic. She had kept her bra on out of modesty. Not that there was anything to see back then. Mrs. Lewinter pulled back the covers and slipped into bed. Poor Emma, she thought, and fell asleep.

  Father had left without even saying hello to her. And her mother had not let her into the library to see him. Now she was in the library, and Father was no longer there. Lea could not understand it.

  Mean. It was simply mean of her mother, she must have known that her father was going out. She had done it on purpose. Lea tore up the picture she had painted for him in india ink. He wouldn’t get that picture, nor any other ever again, her mother either. She ran into the kitchen, through to the drawing room, and, when she did not find her mother there, up to her parents’ bedroom. The closed door told her Mother was sleeping. She did not intend to spare her. She threw open the door and kicked it shut behind her.

  “You are horrible. Horrible.”

  Lea stood in front of the bed and started to sob.

  “What happened?”

  Had she slept too long? Mrs. Lewinter was seized by panic and scrambled for the alarm clock that was on the bedside table next to a novel by a contemporary author, recently deceased. She was jinxed, she could not rest for even half an hour.

  “You knew it. When you told me to get washed, you knew it.”

  Mrs. Lewinter looked at her daughter and decided there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. “What did I know, my little angel?”

  Lea kicked at the dressing gown that had slipped from the chair with her new patent leather shoes that already looked like hand-me-downs from an older sister. She raced out of the room. Mrs. Lewinter sighed and pushed back the covers.

  Her mother knocked at the door. Lea did not open it. She did not even consider opening the door. She would stay in the bathroom for a long time. Lea turned the tap on and splashed her face. Then she watched herself crying in the mirror. Her eyes were red and swollen, her chin was quivering. She sat down on the toilet lid, stood up again, got the towel from its holder, sat down again and pushed the towel between her back and the wall. She would stay in the bathroom for an hour at least.

  Lea crept to the door and put her ear to it. Nothing … nothing stirred. Neither Erika nor her mother. But perhaps there was something after all? She slowly turned the key. The corridor was empty. She stepped out, went to the kitchen, passed through the living room. There were voices coming from the dining room. Lea stood in the doorway and looked at her mother. She was discussing the seating plan with Erika. Oh, how she hated her mother.

  Mrs. Lewinter combed through her wardrobe. She could wear the bolero dress of printed piqué or the beige blouse with the puffy sleeves, but the suit she wanted to wear with it was at the cleaners. That left the wraparound skirt that disguised her hips to advantage, or the severe gray woolen dress, which looked delightful on her as her delicate feminine features meant she suited a boyish cut.

  Well, HI be wicked, thought Mrs. Lewinter. Not that she would have been wicked. Anyone who was closely acquainted with Mrs. Lewinter knew that it was all a carefully constructed game, that she, like the barking dog in that proverb, had never yet bitten. Although there had been plenty of opportunities. She herself did not know why not. Out of love, or feelings of duty?

  Mrs. Lewinter decided on the woolen dress. She would wear the pearl earrings with it and the lascivious little sandals that fastened round the ankle. She observed herself in the mirror, lifted the skirt, and turned sideways. Not a bad figure, she thought. Since I started massage, my legs have firmed up. Mrs. Lewinter smiled to herself.

  Once she had been in love with another man. The excitement had not been good for her. For months on end she had not been able to sleep. Especially not when her husband said offhandedly, over lunch for example, that the other man would come around the next day. She was in a daze every day. She could not concentrate on anything else knowing that he was in the library with her husband, that there they were under the same roof, only a door separating them, a mere centimeter of wood. She felt his presence in every part of her body.

  Her husband, of course, registered none of it. And nothing happened. Eventually she arranged never to be home when he came by. Mrs. Lewinter folded up the silk blouse that she had gotten out of the wardrobe and laid it back on the pile.

  She could not understand what people found so nice about it. One could not think straight anymore and behaved awkwardly. She had hated herself back then. But now that was all in the past. She was glad that tranquil nights had returned.

  “Not here,” said Mrs. Lewinter, shooing Lea off the bed. She laid out the sandals for Erika to polish. “Go and play.”

  Lea didn’t want to go to her room. Nor did she want to play. She sat on the floor and clung to her mother’s legs. Her mother shook her off and gave her a little slap.

  “Go on, my little one, go through to Erika in the kitchen.”

  Lea got up and nipped her mother’s arm.

  “You little witch. Go away.”

  Lea shook her head and started to cry. Everything had changed since her brother came along. She sank down on her knees and clasped her mother’s legs with both arms. Her mother shuffled to the door and called for Erika. She banged against the edge of the bed, but the pain did not bother her. She would not let go. No way would she let go.

  This could not go on. She was exhausted. She had sent Erika out with the little one, although there was so much to be done. She’d had to promise that Erika would buy that dreadful stuff that sticks to your teeth and makes them rot.

  She licked the spoon and added a pinch of pepper and nutmeg. Then she stuffed the mashed potato into the piping bag and pushed out fat rosettes onto the baking tray. Pommes duchesse: elegant and inexpensive.

  She went into the dining room and cast a critical eye over the table. She adjusted a fork, lined up a knife, stepped back, and viewed the set table appreciatively. She had gotten out the silver cutlery. Her pride and joy, inherited from her grandmother. Very lovely, she thought, in spite of the yellow gladioli. She jumped. The doorbell always gave her a fright. She hurried through the corridor and opened the door furiously.

  “Can’t you remember your …”

  Bewildered, she looked at the two men standing in the doorway. She smiled, and hastily ran her fingers through her hair.

  First they went to the playground. Then Erika bought her some cotton candy. She pulled it off the stick using two fingers and let it melt on her tongue. She still wanted to have a ride on the pony, but Erika said there was no time for that. The guests would be there soon.

  Lea fiddled with a piece of chalk, now completely moist. “Will you give me a piggyback?”

  “No.”

  “Just to the front door.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please.”

  “Shh, be quiet.” Erika took a firm hold of Lea’s shoulder.

  “You’re hurting me.” Lea rubbed her arm.

  What was up with Erika now? What had she done wrong? She had not done anything. Erika yanked the child, about to cross the street, in the opposite direction.

  “Let’s have some ice cream.”

  “But we have to go back home.” Lea looked at her plump nanny. She didn’t understand. And then she caught sight of them, by the front door. Lea wanted to break free and run to her father — he was sitting in a big black car — but Erika held her tight.

  “Let me go.”

  That was why they had sent her out. That was why she
was allowed to eat cotton candy. That was why Erika wanted to buy her ice cream even before dinner. Everything was clear now.

  “Let me go.”

  She watched her mother go into the car, she watched the French au pair, whom she could not stand, had never liked, hand over the bundle that was her brother. Lea tried to break free from Erika’s arms. Everyone knew about it. Everyone apart from herself. Her father, her mother, even her little brother, would drive away in the big black car.

  “Shh, shh, my darling. Mommy and Daddy will be back very soon.”

  Lea sank her teeth into the woman’s hands. Even Erika had known about it.

  “Hush, hush. Mommy and Daddy are just taking Leo to the doctor because he is sick.”

  The stranger stepped into the car and shut the door. Erika stroked Lea’s head. The car drove slowly past them.

  Lea looked at her father. He was in his shirtsleeves, and stared downward.

  They were all lying. Her parents were not going to the doctor’s. Her brother was not sick. They were going away on a journey. They were all going on a journey in the big black car. And her father didn’t look at her, and her mother didn’t even think to wave. But she had seen her. She had even turned around.

  Why hadn’t they taken her with them? Was there not enough room? She could have sat on her mother’s knee. She could have made herself really small. Why hadn’t they taken her with them? Lea looked at Erika, who was rocking her in her arms.

  “Shh, shh, my sweetheart, shh, shh. Mommy and Daddy will be back soon.”

  “You liar.”

  Lea kicked Erika, who let her. Once, twice, three times. Everyone was going on a journey with the two men. And she was left behind, all alone.

  La Ronde

  1.

  The Scouring Cloth

  The life span of a scouring cloth

  Can be noticeably extended

  If its center

  Is darned with a patch

  Made from the leftovers of the old

  Cloth, ruined

  In the center.

  In addition, one should

  Always wring out scouring cloths

  Following the line of the thread.

  La ronde was begun by Miss Barbara Dahl, the accountant, unemployed for over a year. For reasons not completely understood by Miss Dahl, her long-term employer, naturalized since 1918, Richard Kahn, a full Jew, had his citizenship revoked. When he was expelled in the middle of 1934, Miss Dahl found herself abruptly deprived of her salary. Whether because she had “served” a Jew, or because there was a shortage of jobs, Miss Dahl could find only temporary positions. She worked at an optician’s, for a far dealer, in a bar, finally spent several months sitting at the information desk booth in the Dresdner Bank, was dismissed for not recommending the fixed-rate bonds warmly enough, and, having tried her hand at cleaning cameras, was now devoting herself to sewing clothes.

  She found this activity very enjoyable. She loved the diversity of the materials, caressing them lingeringly with her finger tips, and the whir of the sewing machine she had bought for Christmas.

  Since she had not learned the seamstress trade and was not confident enough to try out her own designs, she had subscribed to a woman’s magazine that had patterns in it. She thought it would help her progress. It was produced by the Party and opened Miss Dahl’s eyes to the true nature of Kahn, her erstwhile employer, and offered plenty of other worthwhile information to work with.

  It so happened that this very magazine was having a competition. The third and final part of it consisted in creating a new look from old scraps of material, a task to which Miss Dahl had dedicated herself with particular fervor for quite some time.

  If she could not win one of the top six money prizes, Miss Dahl would have been happy with at least the mounted flower prints (she had just recently bought the framed, color picture of the Führer), and so decided to take part. Not long before she had made a dress for her neighbor out of an out-of-date checked jacket and a light-colored linen skirt that was too tight. As the dress had turned out very nicely, and everyone had admired it, Miss Dahl got out the pattern, wrote down the material requirements on the back along with the instructions, and sent it off to the fashion and housekeeping editor.

  To Miss Dahl’s great surprise, she received a letter three weeks later, briefly but warmly informing her that she, Miss Barbara Dahl of?. I had been chosen as first-prize winner. Not only was the fashion expert extremely enthusiastic about her design, so too were the deputy editor and the editor herself. The money arrived the next day. Moved, she read the congratulations card adorned with a lovely saying. Then she went through to her neighbor, informed her about their victory, and gave her a present of a copy of the magazine: she had laid aside four at the paper shop.

  Luck, against her for so long, was smiling on her again at last. After a nearly two-year sentence of unemployment for her lack of racial awareness, she was given a job in a large bakery, just a month after being crowned the Queen of Recycling. The famous salt pretzels, known to one and all as “crick-cracks,” were made there.

  2.

  Second prize went to Mrs. Helga Pfeifer. If the first prize was intended to commend the imagination shown by one reader, the magazine wanted the second prize to draw the attention of readers in all the provinces to the practical sense of a housewife, mother of four boys, who had immeasurable experience in recycling old clothes.

  Mrs. Pfeifer resisted any unnecessary frills and instead sent in her suggestion on how worn-out elbows on sweaters could be prevented for a considerable length of time — not forever, unfortunately. The only indulgence she allowed herself was a title as a heading to the ten sentences or so of explanation, written on a page out of one of her son’s exercise books.

  “Elbows on Sweaters are the Bane of Our Lives” was not only practical, it was also easy to carry out. Mrs. Pfeifer suggested removing the worn-out elbow and changing it with the other one, by swapping over the two sleeves: the right sleeve sewn into the left shoulder seam, and the left one into the right seam. Mrs. Pfeifer was unanimously declared second-prize winner and four weeks later the prize was sent to her along with a letter of congratulations. Mrs. Pfeifer deposited the check at her bank. Since the letter had encouraged her to treat herself to something, she ignored the pleas of her three youngest sons, did not buy a single penknife, went to have her hair done, and bought a telescope marked down thirty percent.

  Now it turned out that those same three sons had taken up a new hobby a few weeks earlier. Their equally enthusiastic classmates wholeheartedly urged them to pursue it. It involved closely observing the carpenter’s wife, living directly across from them. She got dressed and undressed with the window open and no curtains. Her anatomy was discussed in detail in the schoolyard.

  To quench their thirst for detail, the sons borrowed the telescope, although it was strictly forbidden. No sooner had their mother left the room than the eldest son pulled the telescope out from under the bed, rolled up the blind, and, wrapped up in his blanket, waited for the light to go on in the room with the window. But nothing happened. Slowly, he went from floor to floor, ignoring his brothers impatiently tugging at his arm.

  Mrs. Pfeifer was sitting beside the radio, drained, when a quiet but determined quarrel broke out in the children’s room because of the telescope: the younger brothers also wanted a look at what had drawn a soft whistle from the eldest.

  “What is going on here?”

  In one fell swoop, Mrs. Pfeifer opened the door, went into the dark interior of the room, and saw the telescope being passed from hand to hand. Whether he wanted to draw attention away from an imminent scolding, or because the sight had really shocked him, words came bubbling out of the eldest son about what he had seen. Mrs. Pfeifer snatched at the telescope. Sure enough. Two men were sitting closely entwined on the sofa, stroking each other’s hair.

  That very evening, the indignant woman told her husband what was going on in the other building. Mr. Pfeifer co
ngratulated himself for having such an alert son, went up to the fourth floor, found out from the neighbor the name of the elderly man living over the way, conscientiously noted down the name and address of the relevant person, added to it a brief written explanation, and handed over everything in a white envelope to his boss, who was a member of the Party. One week later the elderly man was led away. Mr. Pfeifer, on the other hand, was given a raise in salary.

  Mr. Bernhard was arrested for his asocial behavior, noticed by a source that would remain anonymous, and taken to a bright green building. After a ten-hour interrogation, in which he saw reason, he was allowed to go home. There, he drank a cup of strong freshly made tea, packed a few items of clothing, and left the country that same night.

  Five weeks later Operation II S was successfully completed. Twenty-five men in total were arrested for breaking § 175 of the Civil Code, as they were strongly suspected of having sexual relations with members of their own sex.

  3.

  Because of the strict legislation, ten of the twenty-five men had gotten married. Another four lived with their parents. Only three of the men had frequently been seen in the company of someone of their own sex.

  All the men were freed after the first intense interrogation. Four of them tried to escape, thereby proving their guilt. Three of them were rearrested after their attempt to escape failed. Only one of them managed to leave the country, but he was tracked down two years later in a small harbor town and turned in.

  Two of the homosexual men, one of them a sports journalist whose captivating coverage of the Olympic Games was still fresh in people’s minds and the other a young workman, hanged themselves.

  Eight men active in the public sphere, among them the respected theater director, were fired on the spot. Private businesses that employed a further nine of the men were casually advised by courier in an informative manner to do the same, which they promptly did.