“What?” she demanded. “All those things all over again?” She was referring to the coins she would have to unwrap for a second time.
Blumenfeld did not answer; he just nodded sadly. When she left him that night as usual, he said to himself that there was no such thing as perfect happiness, that the expression she had used to describe his coins had slipped out of her otherwise shy, smiling mouth by accident.
Nonetheless, although Blumenfeld had forgiven her immediately, some of the magic surrounding their shared happiness had evaporated.
After that he saw the lady less and less frequently, much to his mother’s delight, and in the winter he broke the relationship off altogether. When the first birches were blossoming,
Blumenfeld bought a coin he had wanted for ages, so beautiful that the other coins paled in comparison. It was an example of the high point of Greek coin minting, a silver drachma. On its reverse side was the finely crafted, beautiful head of the nymph Arethusa, Daughter of the Night. Blumenfeld gazed at the coin before going to bed, and laid it on a velvet scarf by his bedside at night. He thus found his inner peace again. The secretary was already forgotten.
One year later, his mother died. With his cousin’s help, Blumenfeld saw to the formalities and quietly buried his mother next to his father, deceased twenty years earlier from a heart attack. Using his inheritance — a respectable sum his mother had gathered carefully over the years — he bought thirty coins that had been missing and were necessary to confirm his reputation as an important collector and expert on numismatics. It must have been then that something struck him that can only be viewed as a kind of momentary madness: intoxicated with the diversity and appearance of his collection, he got it into his head to acquire one specimen of every classical coin, and thus to possess what every numismatist longingly dreams about: a complete collection.
Blumenfeld put an advertisement in the numismatist’s magazine, expressing his wish to purchase well-known pieces from the classical period. Within a week, he had received two answers. Delighted, he wrote back immediately announcing his imminent visit.
It was in this way that he got to know Dr. Heillein, a quiet man of advanced years, who was indirectly to save his life.
Dr. Heillein was a bachelor too and lived in an apartment so small that it would have been as little worth mentioning as the terraced building it was part of, had his collection not drastically improved the first impression.
Overcoming his natural reserve, Blumenfeld, after introducing himself and taking off his coat, went up to the shelves and, extracting a velvet cloth and a magnifying glass from his pocket, looked at every piece laid out there. Step by step, he went round the whole room, then turned to the man standing patiently by his side, who waved him through to the bedroom.
Speechless, Blumenfeld sank down on the bed. Even in Berlin, he had never seen such treasures. There were silver pfennigs from Gratz next to kreutzers from Vienna, Roman coins of raw copper next to golden guilders and delightful Greek tortoises. The crude fare he had taken in a restaurant near the station weighed down like lead in his stomach; nor did the man’s explanation, feeling obliged to account for the largesse of his collection, cheer him up. He slowly got up and on the host’s invitation took a glass of wine, toasting good health and the prosperity of numismatics. He left shortly afterward and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep in his hotel room.
Like a cloud chased away by the wind, one that had prevented his seeing clearly, Blumenfeld’s delusion waned after this meeting. He understood that it would take more than one generation to build up a superior collection, perhaps more than two.
To avoid ending up a pauper, as his mother had predicted, and to spend the years left to him calmly and peacefully, he decided to give up collecting. Since he had doubts about his willpower, he put his plan into action that very week.
Two weeks later, Blumenfeld had sold all of his coins, apart from the Daughter of the Night, which never left his side. With the proceeds he acquired a little house in a fishing village in the French Riviera, where he spent his days in a most pleasant fashion.
So it came to pass, then, at noon one late spring day, that Blumenfeld was drinking his first glass of red wine, brought to him out on the terrace on a wooden tray, along with some olives by his part-time housekeeper, a middle-aged widow who had only recently shed her black attire, at the very moment when five of his relatives were arrested, during an operation planned two weeks earlier, as a consequence of the religion to which they belonged. (Blumenfeld did not hear until two weeks later about the operation and never fully understood its implications.)
Nor could his subsequent handling of events — selling the Daughter of the Night to spend the proceeds trying to buy the freedom of his younger cousin Alfred, his fiancee, and her niece Andrea — be attributed to his perception and understanding of the political situation.
As surely and confidently as he could estimate the year a coin was minted, so was Blumenfeld’s capability to comprehend political events limited, for he could draw no relation between them and his own reclusive life.
Blumenfeld only felt, without being able to put it into words, that the Daughter of the Night with her domineering beauty was keeping him from the life offering itself to him in a new unfamiliar light in the figure of his shy, smiling housekeeper.
The Future
(A Department Store)
THE YOUNG LADY DID NOT MARRY, as expected and generally hoped, Reinhard Lipmann, but instead a certain Karl Schneider, whom she had gotten to know at the university: he played an excellent game of tennis and cut a fine figure in jodhpurs. She was a daughter of Oppenheimer of Oppenheimer and Baum. And the young man? He was nothing much, apart from being very fond of the young lady. The reason for this was, why hide it, the capital O that shone next to the illuminated capital B on the roof of the department store.
He had a doctorate in business and wanted to achieve the maximum profit possible with the means at his disposal. He therefore carried out random spot checks to test the father’s readiness to pay up, garnered the affection of the mother through certain services and gifts — an open ear, bouquets of flowers, and lots of chocolate — and after a month in which he did not show his face, knowing that for something to be of value, it not only had to be useful but also scarce, he received, as a reward for his careful calculations, a golden watch. A beautiful apartment in 5 Hölderlinstraße followed. And three years later delightful twins, clad like he and his wife, exclusively in Oppenheimer and Baum (O.B. for short).
Fourteen years later, when the old man died, the two charming sons by this time towering above the desk in his office and equipping themselves secretly with O.B. cigarettes, magazines, and other distractions, Schneider, husband of the young lady, still a lady if no longer as young as all that, was the man appointed director of the O.B. department store by the board of directors and the major shareholders; that is to say, by himself and his wife.
In a word, he inherited. He inherited the department store and along with it the writing desk made of oak, which he had had his eye on for a long time and behind which, albeit briefly, he felt completely at home. And so he sat down behind the heavy oak table, blackened by the passing years, and reflected and, although advised against it for several reasons — the aryanization process was enough to make a man of German origin think twice before opting for ruin — had his name changed from Mr. Karl Schneider to Karl Israel Schneider, the Mr. being left off for Jews.
He did this because he did not want to divorce his wife, the Jewish Liselotte Sara Schneider (maiden name Oppenheimer). He had grown to love her over the years. Nor did he want to be separated from his sons, the two Schneider twins. Among the store’s employees, they were now privately known as the Jewish bastards, because they were the sons of an Aryan and a Jew, which made, if one were to calculate exactly, two half Jews, or if you added, divided, multiplied — you could do whatever you wanted with Jews — one full Jew or four quarter Jews or five fifth Jews or eight
eighth Jews.
Logic dictated otherwise, but he could not do it. The market value of Jews had sunk. But he could not do it. He knew the time for betrayal was upon him; however one looked at it, there was no concrete use to be found for Jews, yet they had become vital to him, more important than the O.B. department store for which he had married the young lady almost twenty years ago.
He converted. In 1939, he converted. Then he sold off the store cheaply. He could not keep it of course, he was a Jew, not from birth, granted, but nonetheless a Jew, and so the store had to be aryanized. It was purchased by the estate broker Paul Raeder with a flawless family tree and a blond spouse with an impressive bosom, for an eighth of its value.
And he, what did Schneider buy with the proceeds? For the price of 1,033 marks and 75 pfennigs he purchased three passages on a boat to Casablanca from Hapag. Three, not four, as he wanted to wait until he had tied up all the loose ends.
After all, theirs had once been one of the most important and most highly respected families in the country. Numerous ministers had dined with them. There was a lot to do. There was the department store, which had to be aryanized, as was the case for chain store Leonard Tietz Corp., later called Kaufhof, and for the chain store of the brothers Alsberg, bought up by the purely Aryan employee Horten and continued under his name, and for the chain store Rudolf Karstadt, which was taken over by the Didier Works in Wiesbaden, the Münchmeyer Insurance Group, and four banks.
Then there was the apartment to be aryanized, and the houses, and the summerhouse, aryanized, and the three cars, and the family bank account, and the business bank account, and the insurances and the shares, the bonds, the paintings, the carpets, the sculptures, and everything that a person collects in a lifetime: what he had hoarded, what his wife had held on to, and her father, who had been an art collector, and her grandfather, also an art collector, and her great-grandfather with his medals, and her grandmother and great-grandmother.
He took it stoically. He who opts out of the realm of justice will have his downfall one day, he thought. He asked for the necessary documents for emigration as three members of the Schneider family were fleeing to Casablanca, slipped a banknote into the official’s hand, and when the emigration office could no longer see any reason, no legal impediment, to prevent the three members of the Schneider family from emigrating, Schneider submitted the inventory of their move in two copies. When two weeks later he had received no answer he made his way personally on foot to the foreign exchange office, slipped the official a banknote, and after a further two weeks received permission according to foreign exchange law for:
2 Bundles of Cleaning Cloths and Accessories
20 Mathematics Exercise Books
1 Flashlight
1 Little Box of Fake Jewelry
4 Handkerchiefs
1 Suitcase
6 Coat Hangers
3 Nightgowns
2 Knitted Waistcoats
1 Underskirt
4 Pairs of Underpants
1 Blanket
7 Pairs of Stockings
3 Brassieres
1 Pair of Slippers
3 Scarves
4 Belts
1 Pair of Ladies’ Shoes
2 Bags
2 Pairs of Stockings
5 Dresses
1 Umbrella
3 Tablecloths
3 Ties
1 Shirt
2 Suits
1 Traveling Rug
Permission according to foreign exchange law was denied for the following items:
Winter coats
25 Sanitary Towels
1 Set of Stationery
1 Coral Necklace
1 Shoe Cream
1 Sewing Set
1 Package of Persil for Washing Clothes on the Voyage
1 Package of Sea Sand Almond Bran for Skin Care
1 Pair of Men’s Shoes
14 Bars of Chocolate
1 Box of Pralines
1 Carton of Cigarettes
4 Novels, English Binding
And when all this was decided, he took his wife and sons to the ship.
His wife wept. He wept too. That was no problem, though, for they had received permission according to foreign exchange law to take four handkerchiefs they could dry their tears with.
He said good-bye to his family, hugged his sons, kissed his wife, telling her to be brave, and handed her an envelope of money that should keep them going until everything was over — a matter of a few months, they thought, or perhaps a year.
He stood for a long time, watching the gray point on the gray horizon of the Hanseatic city until it disappeared. Then he turned and left. He still had a bit of money in the account. He still had some friends. But he had no more hope.
He was a businessman and knew the facts: the Jew was good business. Stealing his fortune was a fruitful affair. The little bit of effort bore no relation to the profit, for many civilians helped with the plundering free of charge. Soon the simple operation would be restructured into a regular branch of business.
The future held no bright promises. He sighed and entered the department store. He exchanged greetings with the secretary and went into the office that had not belonged to him for several days now. He opened the drawer of the desk that also was not his anymore and took out a revolver. He had not declared it, therefore it had not been aryanized and still belonged to him. He held it to his temple.
He sat there, with everything going on as normal outside, and thought about Paul Raeder. He had given him a jovial thump on the back at the signing of the contract. He thought he had to make it clear to him too, that one could not so good-naturedly overlook the injustice that had taken place. He looked out the window and imagined the blood-flecked desk where his successor would take his place — surely after suicide at least the man would start having his suspicions. He imagined his secretary racing into the room as soon as she heard the shot, and the cleaning lady who would have to wipe away the blood with soapy water, and the numerous employees — they would whisper, their hands in front of their mouths. He sat like that until dusk, then laid the revolver back in the drawer, and left the store through the service entrance.
Out on the street he stopped beneath a lamppost. He took the golden watch out of his pocket, the one he had been given by his wife, and looked at the face.
“Good God above, good God above,” he whispered and saw the first salesperson push open the door and go out into the evening.
He could tell by the way the man walked on the cobblestones that it was an apprentice, whose calves were not yet hurting from all the standing.
“In the shoe, toy, or tobacco department,” he said, or maybe — there being no male staff in the ladies fashion, underwear, or household goods departments — in the tool department, ironically known in the store as Daddy’s Hunting Ground.
Oh, how he would love to change places with the young man. How he would love to be going home to mother after a busy day at work. Or to be going back to the first room he could call his own. A room with a washbasin, and a girlfriend waiting for him. He was a strapping young lad, and was sure to have a girl already, preparing something for his dinner.
On the weekend, he thought, watching the young man light up a cigarette, they would go to the movies. Or they would simply stay at home, sitting next to each other on the bed, hatching plans, just as he had once done before he was married.
Back then everything had seemed possible. He wanted to embark on a career, or if necessary join the civil service treadmill like his father. And then, because he could not make up his mind, and had not yet had his fill of student life, he started a philosophy course. Outside the lecture theater he got to know a young lady. He liked her immediately, and liked her all the more when he found out that she was the daughter of the old O. They had married. He had believed that now nothing stood in the path of his dazzling rise. Back then he had many dreams.
He put up the collar of his coat and looked up at the fam
iliar illuminated writing, not yet dismantled, on the roof of the building, and at the advertisement: “The Temple of Your Desires.”
He had introduced the slogan four years ago, just before Christmas, against the will of his father-in-law. The old man thought the slogan blasphemous. A department store, he had shouted angrily in the office while selecting the spring fabrics with the representatives, is not a holy place. People’s desires could not be satisfied by material goods. Schneider smiled. He had always wondered how this uncompromising man had made his fortune.
He got out his notebook and looked up the name of a university friend, whom he intended to stay with. Soon he would join with his family. They would be waiting for him. For how long, he could not tell.
“If only everyone was like the old man,” he said, thinking of his father-in-law’s face when he had argued with him that value was dependent on the market.
“There are values,” the old man had thundered in response, “that are eternally valid.”
Schneider had smiled cynically and answered that where there was no recognition of a deficiency, there was no need to remedy that deficiency. The old man had refused to speak with him for two weeks because of that. His wife had had to act as mediator between them.
He went into a café and asked whether he could make a quick call. The future would decide which of them was right.
You Have Cast Out Love
1.
I am a useless person. I do not like working, get up late whenever possible, and can never turn down a drink. I do not drink to drown my sorrows. My ambition is not sufficient to be wounded by failure. I am not striving for any success. I am neither content nor worried, and do not take it to heart when my mother scolds me for wetting the bed again.
The Inventory: A Novel Page 16
