The article appeared a week later. And the statements, my goodness, the ignorance and pretension! Reading it made me a little sick.
“The salmon is fresh but slightly undercooked for my taste.” How did she want it? Like shoe leather? She ate enough of it, anyway; there wasn’t a scrap left on the plate when it came back to the kitchen. She must literally have licked it clean, lapped up the sauce with her tongue!
“The duck was tasty but the tiniest bit tough.” The only person who would find this duck tough is someone with bad teeth. “Melts in the mouth,” said Elizabeth David when she visited us once. And which of them do you suppose is the more reliable? Elizabeth David herself or this monster in human form? This dollop . . . this tub of lard?
“And she didn’t even pay,” I complained to Anthony. “She ate here free. Imagine!”
“Disa, you didn’t want her to pay.”
“I won’t let people walk all over me like this.”
“Don’t even think of retaliating. It’ll just make bad worse.”
“Saying the duck was tough . . .”
“She did praise everything except that and the salmon.”
“. . . and the salmon undercooked.” No, her words wouldn’t be allowed to stand.
I sat down in the conservatory and in less than an hour had written a response. Instead of posting it the same day, I took Anthony’s advice and slept on it until the following morning. Then I adjusted a word or two but left it largely unchanged.
As time passed I regretted having responded to this dollop. Not, you understand, because I was worried about what I wrote, far from it, I could have been much more pointed. But I should have realized that some people would side with her out of pity.
Certainly some people were shocked when I offered to post her the bones of the duck which she had left behind on the plate. “It won’t matter,” I wrote, “if the parcel takes a while to arrive as there’s not a single morsel of flesh left on the bones.” I said I was also prepared to increase the number of dishes on the menu before her next visit as “she obviously went home hungry, having managed to put away only four starters and three main courses. Not to mention dessert, of course.” I also promised to invest in wider chairs for the dining room.
When I attended a conference of Restaurateurs de l’Europe in London that autumn, I was surprised that people should still be talking about my article. Some fell silent when I walked by, their eyes shifty like those of children caught in some naughty act, others behaving as if I made them nervous.
“To hell with this rabble,” I said to myself. “I have never needed them. To hell with them. I will never be reduced to that.”
In the autumn of ’38 Jakob became seriously worried about his family in Germany. Admittedly, he had never been one of those who regarded the rise of Nazism as no more than a nasty infection which the country would shake off sooner or later, but even so he didn’t realize where it was heading. He made fun of the fact that Aryans were forbidden to work for Jews, saying that no one would listen to such ravings. Frau Hoffman, his parents’ housekeeper, disregarded this ban and she was no exception. I suspect now that it was largely his mother’s letters which blinded him because she avoided referring to anything unpleasant in them, not wanting to worry him or cause anxiety. “Concentrate on your editorial work, my dear,” were the closing words of every letter.
“There’s not much news of your father and me. We enjoy God’s blessing of being in pretty good health, though your father’s prostate bothers him at times. But Dr. Werfel is keeping a close eye on him so he is free from the worst discomfort. Yesterday we had tea with Herr and Frau Krull . . .”
Descriptions of the weather and accounts of trips to concerts, a few words about a book she had read, news of friends.
“Frau Blumenfeld read in an American magazine that our intestines are thirty feet long. I don’t know why she told me that . . .”
As the summer passed Jakob began to sense a different tone in the letters. Although she didn’t complain about anything and gave no hint that there was anything wrong, it was always as if there were something left unsaid, as if she had made every effort to wield the pen with caution and discipline. Her letters grew shorter but the descriptions of the weather grew longer. She no longer mentioned trips to concerts or parties, and accounts of friends and acquaintances became few and far between.
We weren’t the only ones to notice these changes. David, who was starting his studies in London, was no less anxious. He also heard more stories about the situation in Germany than we did and confirmed that everything was not as their mother implied. She didn’t even mention the identity cards that Jews were now forced to carry and played down the order that they must not be called by any name except those the authorities ordained. Anna, David’s girlfriend, was studying in Holland that winter and he was relieved that she was there rather than in Germany. We didn’t miss her. Nor were we ever clear about what exactly she was studying, but for David’s sake we didn’t ask.
It was in October that Jakob decided to visit his parents. At first both brothers meant to go but eventually Jakob determined that David should stay behind and concentrate on his studies. “There’s no need for both of us to go,” he said, smiling: “Unless there are some old girlfriends you want to see. And what would Anna have to say about that?”
Jakob booked his flight for early November and let his parents know. His mother did what she could to dissuade him from coming but he stuck to his decision and marked the day on the calendar which hung in the kitchen window. He drew a red ring around the number ten. Under the name of the month, there was a picture of snow falling on fir trees with a round moon hanging over the wood like a paternal eye. Among those trees nothing bad could happen.
We went to London at the beginning of November. Jakob had been offered a position as a teacher at a private school in town and a job was waiting for me with Boulestin, so the time had come to look around for a flat.
Jakob was relieved by this plan. As soon as he had drawn the ring on the calendar he cheered up. Moreover, for the first time in ages we agreed that maybe we should get married while we were in London. I had never told him outright what my mother’s reaction had been, but he couldn’t help drawing his own conclusions. This time it was I who suggested going to the registry office and I was pleased by how well he received the idea.
Admittedly, we had a quarrel on the way but fortunately I was the one who gave in. There’s some consolation in the thought that it was I who made the first gesture of reconciliation.
Jakob had booked a table at Boulestin but didn’t tell me until we were on the train to London. He had meant to surprise me. However, I hadn’t yet forgiven my patron for his behavior before we moved out to the country and so asked Jakob to cancel the table as soon as we arrived in town. He tried to talk me round but I wouldn’t give in. It was then that he lost his temper and spoke sharply to me, probably for the first time. I raised my voice in return but regretted it a few minutes later.
I’m glad I was the one to give in.
When we arrived in London on November 6, the weather was cold and damp, with rain about to turn into snow any minute and a bitter wind. The skies were as gray and chill as the faces of the people in the streets but we tried not to let it affect us. We took a taxi from Paddington and sat in silence during the journey to Camden, where an acquaintance of Jakob’s had lent us his flat while he was on a business trip in Manchester. We were relieved when we reached our destination and lit a fire straight away in the sitting room. It warmed up quickly and we lay on the rug in front of the fire to thaw out. When I put my arms around him I forgot the grayness outside, the bitter wind and the cold, forgot everything except what was beautiful and good.
During the next few days we looked around for a flat to rent. We had to force ourselves to go out. All we really wanted to do was to laze about and be with each other. I had begun to dread his absence but naturally didn’t mention this to him because I knew it would onl
y make him anxious.
Then, on November 9 we found a flat a short way from Hyde Park, which we both fell in love with. It was small with a balcony at the back and high, narrow windows overlooking the street. There was a tree in front and an empty nest in its branches directly below the sitting room window. The owner was a punctilious little man. We decided to sort out the rental agreement as soon as Jakob returned from Germany in a week’s time. The owner wore a hat. I was amused when he doffed it in parting and called me “Madame.”
In the evening we dined at Boulestin. There was a big fuss when we appeared in the doorway, and Mrs. Brown flung herself at me, giving me a smacking kiss on the cheek. We sat nearest the kitchen and Boulestin came out and greeted us. I think I can say that my patron and I had buried the hatchet, though we didn’t have much to say to each other. One delicacy after another was brought to our table and later, when most of the other diners had left, Mrs. Brown sat down at the piano. We sang and Jakob lit a cigar in honor of eternity, as he expressed it. Yet it was as if some sense of trepidation hung over us. It made itself known when least expected and then Jakob’s expression would become distant, until suddenly he came to himself and put his arm around me.
On the way home we decided to visit the registry office the following morning.
But it was never to be.
Jakob’s flight was cancelled. We wandered like ghosts around the flat, the newspapers strewn on the floor by the kitchen table, their headlines screaming at us like vendors on a street corner. I felt as if I were suffocating and opened a window to let in some fresh air. A thrush was singing somewhere in the branches of the tree; the weather had cleared up and in the quiet following the rain its song sounded almost ominous, as if it had received news of something we weren’t aware of. A book lay on the bedside table and I picked it up, without looking at it. I don’t know what book it was, but when I put it down after a long while, there was a damp hand print on the red spine and my palm was blood red. I was filled with horror, and rushing into the bathroom, washed my hands frantically, scrubbing them with a nail brush until the color was gone. By then my hand was stinging and I had drawn blood in two places.
While we had been enjoying ourselves the evening before, Hitler’s bully boys had been rampaging round the cities of Germany, attacking Jews. They destroyed their property, set their homes alight, desecrated their synagogues, beating some and killing others. This night became known as Kristallnacht,the night of crystal, for the streets were littered with broken glass from the Jews’ shop windows.
All day long Jakob tried in vain to telephone his parents. He was on pins and needles, ringing incessantly, though he knew he wouldn’t succeed. We had no appetite and didn’t sleep during the night, two ghosts on the prowl, shadows of shadows in the dying light. David came to us around noon and stayed for the rest of the day. He was weak with fear and wouldn’t stir from the chair in the corner, from where he could watch his brother alternately lifting and replacing the telephone receiver.
“Are you going to try again?” he asked each time Jakob picked up the phone. And: “Couldn’t you get through?” a few moments later.
This monotonous refrain made me even more nervous and I wished he would get out of the chair, put on his coat and leave. “Are you going to try again? Couldn’t you get through?” like the ceaseless whining of a baby. His delicate features, which I had always found likable, now only offended me, suggesting the weakness and egotism of a spoiled child. I restrained myself from speaking my mind but sensed that Jakob understood me.
When he finally got a connection late the following day, David had dropped off and was sleeping curled up in the chair in the corner. It was as if he had put down roots in it. Jakob asked me to wake him but for some reason I decided not to. I said I hadn’t been able to bring myself to.
The telephone conversation was spasmodic and long-drawn-out. Their mother said that the book shop had been burned to the ground but the family’s other property had been left alone, perhaps due to an oversight. They had been deprived of their shares in the newspaper about a month previously but she didn’t want to discuss it. Their home had been spared, she said, and that was the most important thing.
I could hear from Jakob’s voice that he thought she was hiding something from him.
“Let me talk to Father,” he said.
Silence. I moved nearer the phone and heard that she had begun to sob. When she calmed down she told him that his father had fallen ill the morning after the atrocities. She suspected the shock was responsible for preventing him from being able to pass water. He was bursting, she said, wrenched by spasms of pain but couldn’t relieve himself however hard he tried. Shortly after midday they had crept out to the car. She couldn’t drive so he was forced to take the wheel. They went to Dr. Werfel’s surgery without an appointment. She said she was immediately aware from the expression on the nurse’s face that all was not well. Dr. Werfel wasn’t available, she said. When would he be available?
“He won’t be coming in today.”
But they could hear the sound of his voice.
“I must talk to him.”
“He’s not here. Good day.”
“I can hear him!”
“Good day!”
When the nurse made as if to show them to the door, Jakob’s mother burst in on Dr. Werfel. He had been speaking on the phone.
“I’ll have my license taken away if I treat Jews,” he said. “I can’t take the risk. I’m a family man. Three children . . .”
He slipped a note into her hand.
“You mustn’t tell anyone that I have given you his name.”
“Dr. Hermann Hölle” was written on the note along with an address. They walked out. The old man was in a bad state but managed to creep back to the car with the help of his wife. Dusk was falling. The streets were wet and slippery. He drove faster than usual and had difficulty controlling his feet when the pain shot down his legs. Eventually, he lost control of the car, which skidded off the road, crashing into a fence. The windscreen shattered and their hands and faces were cut, though not deeply. The steering wheel had split in half but he managed to get hold of two of the spokes which had broken only halfway down and finally maneuvered the car back up on to the road. The rain fell on them through the windscreen. She wiped the water and blood from his face so that he could see the way. One of the headlights was broken.
He collapsed when they entered Dr. Hermann Hölle’s surgery. Dr. Hölle drained off his urine but first made them pay four times more than Dr. Werfel usually took for this operation.
Now the old man was in bed.
“He’s taking medicine,” she said. “You mustn’t worry about us. It’s over now. I’m sure things will start to settle down.”
Two days later Jakob got a flight to Germany. I tried to make him stay in London but couldn’t press him too hard. He was restless, convinced that he could help his parents.
“I have to get them out of the country,” he said. “The sooner the better.”
I accompanied him to the airport in the cold rain. The chairs in the departure lounge were hard and uncomfortable, there was a reek of wet clothing in the air and a fog on the window panes. We held hands in silence while the wind seized sheets of rain and whipped them like clear plastic across the airfield.
We held hands.
When the rain stopped, I said good-bye to him for the last time.
I’m going to address this to you for my own amusement and to pass the time.
In the smoking room they’re betting on when land will be sighted. “To the minute,” said the learned Dr. Palsson and went round with his hat so that those who were interested could put in a hundred kronur. I thought of you when someone said: “What if there’s a fog?” At that moment I thought of you, perhaps because I had just caught sight of a Bible in the drawer of the bedside table or maybe just because I have always found you rather a misty figure.
I have set eyes on the devil. And whatever you can say a
bout him, you can’t deny that he’s enterprising. He definitely doesn’t sit with his hands in his lap debating with himself. Doesn’t say: “What if I did this, what if I did that?” Doesn’t ask: “Should I be sending everything up in flames? Perhaps it would be better to let others see to it. Or wait till tomorrow. Yes, I expect it would be more auspicious to postpone it until tomorrow.”
No, he doesn’t shirk his tasks, and the results of his work can be seen every day. War, disease, death and famine; false promises and treachery, envy and deceit. One person is set against another and mankind is forever being divided into factions. We hear whispering in dark corners and know that plots are being hatched. No, his works don’t pass anyone by. He is always busy, the fellow downstairs.
But you? What about you? Where are you when you’re needed? Why do you hide in the mists then?
Once I would get angry with you. I couldn’t understand you and used to look into my own heart, in the blind belief that I was responsible for my own happiness. But gradually my eyes were opened and I began to suspect that your indifference wasn’t accidental. Is he a coward? I asked myself, or perhaps he just can’t be bothered with the struggle anymore. He makes people live in the hope of salvation, promising them life after death. It wouldn’t be bad if I could run Ditton Hall in the same way: serve empty plates, promising the guests that their hunger would be assuaged while they slept.
Do I believe in your existence? Oh, I don’t know. No doubt I’d feel better if I could answer unconditionally one way or the other but unfortunately that’s not possible. Sometimes I even mix you two together, you and the fellow downstairs. Which of them can be behind this? I sometimes ask myself when leafing through a newspaper and reading about some disaster, but I never find the answer. Then the sun will shine through the window onto my table, onto the mushrooms, blackberries, duck or goose, and the wind will whisper sweet nothings to the poplar outside and my thoughts will fortunately turn to other things.
The Journey Home: A Novel Page 10
