The Magician

by Colm Toibin

  Once in the hotel, Georges discreetly called for the manager. Thomas noticed him handing a large banknote to the head porter. Having introduced the manager to the Manns and, having had a quiet word with him, Georges prepared to depart.

  “Your name is not on the books here. Your rooms are in my name. It is important that no one can find you. Someone will come looking for you, probably a reporter. He will not find you in this hotel.”

  As they traveled up in the elevator, Thomas would not have been surprised if Katia had insisted that she was tired and would have supper alone. Instead, however, as they approached her door, she stopped and said that it would be nice for them to have dinner, just the two of them.

  It struck him as he took in the valley from the balcony in his room that Klaus would be interested in this, his father’s first journey back to Germany. It would have been good at the end of each evening to have had a drink in the hotel with Katia and Klaus, with Klaus commenting on the speeches and the officials and the tone of the crowd. This new Germany, coming in two zones, was an experiment and would make a subject for the sort of book that Klaus could have written.

  In ways, he thought, he was too old for all this change. He wanted to be in his study, and already he was thinking about a novel he might write and hoping that he would live long enough to complete it. He had seen enough Germanies, he thought, for a single lifetime. This new one would have to make progress without his presence, or the presence of his son.

  Over dinner, Katia reminded him that Georges had been born in Russia and spoke Russian as well as he did German, French and English.

  “The family is worth a fortune.”

  “I never knew where the money came from.”

  “First it was fur,” she said. “That is why they were in Russia. Now they have, as Georges explained to my mother once, money that makes money. And like a lot of Swiss, his father did well in the war.”

  * * *

  A week later, Thomas and Katia took the sleeper from Zürich to Frankfurt while Motschan traveled by car with their luggage.

  There had been threatening letters sent to German newspapers and so the Swiss police accompanied them to their carriage, making them highly conspicuous. In Frankfurt, as they were taken briskly with a police escort to the city’s official guesthouse at Kronberg, they saw the rubble heaped up in gaps between buildings. Entire streets seemed to be missing. The sky itself was a deadened, murky gray as though it too had been bombed and cleared of all its color. The block they drove by had been razed to the ground; there were just puddles and dried mud where commercial buildings had been. And even the lone figures trying to walk on the unpaved surfaces looked abandoned and forlorn.

  Thomas gripped Katia’s hand when they came to a crossing where they could see buildings that were half-ruined. Somehow, this sight was more direct and graphic than the scene of total destruction. What had survived, even though the windows were blown out and the roofs fallen in, gave them a sense of what had once been here. He studied a building whose whole front wall had been blown away leaving each floor visible as though for some elaborately layered theater performance. He could see the radiators still attached to the wall on the first floor, like a parody of their prewar purpose.

  When Motschan appeared, it was agreed that all the journalists who had gathered would be told that Thomas would give no interviews until the next day.

  That evening, at the large reception, he moved around in a sort of dream. People asked if he remembered them from readings and dinners and conferences long ago. All he did was smile and make sure that Katia was close to him. A few times, he inquired from Motschan if Ernst Bertram, whom he had contacted, had come. Until now, he had harbored no interest in meeting Bertram again, but in this mêlée, with so much confusion, with men and women reaching to touch him or grab his attention, he would like to have seen Bertram coming towards him.

  In the morning, when he spoke to the press, every question centered on the possibility that he would visit the Eastern Zone, which was under Soviet control. No one was satisfied when he said that he had not made up his mind. When it was agreed that there would be one final question, a voice from the back of the group asked him if he was intending to return to his fatherland for good, now that it was free.

  “I am an American citizen,” he said, “and will be going home to the States. But I hope this will not be my last visit here.”

  That evening, in the Paulskirche, as he received the Goethe Prize, he noted the delegation from East Germany in the front row. At the end of his speech there was a standing ovation. If he was not welcome here, he thought, then the authorities had worked out a perfect way to disguise it.

  When, after a dinner, they eventually arrived back at the guesthouse, Motschan informed him that a friend of his was also staying there and wished to speak to him before he retired. For a moment, Thomas presumed that the friend was Bertram. On hearing the name, Katia said that she would prefer not to have to meet anyone else that evening. She went to her room.

  Thomas was preparing what he might say to Bertram, how he might begin, but when Motschan led him into a small reception room that was almost an office, he did not at first recognize the man who was waiting for him and introduced himself in an American accent. He had a crew cut and a square jaw.

  “It is years since we met,” he said. “I am Alan Bird. We met in Washington at a dinner given by Eugene and Agnes Meyer. I think it was quite a heated affair. In my world, quite legendary. I work for the State Department.”

  Thomas remembered his name, and he remembered being suspicious of him even then.

  Bird indicated to Thomas that he should sit down; he made a sign to Motschan that he should close the door behind him as he left. Thomas was intrigued by his air of pure intent. Bird was, he thought, like a hungry hound. He resolved to speak as little as possible.

  “My mission,” Bird said, “is simple. I represent the U.S. government and I am here to tell you that we do not wish you to travel to the Eastern Zone.”

  Thomas nodded and smiled.

  Bird opened the door quickly, checking there was no one on the other side before closing it. When he turned back to Thomas, he moved from English into fluent German, with some minor mistakes in pronunciation but otherwise faultless. He began to speak as though from a script.

  “Relations between us and the Soviets are deteriorating. Events like this evening and your visit to Munich are helpful for us. One step over the border, however, will be a propaganda coup for them. It will be reported all over the world.”

  Thomas nodded again.

  “Can I take it that this is understood?” Bird asked.

  Thomas did not reply.

  “I saw the delegation from the East there this evening,” Bird went on. “A grim bunch they were. From our side, the best thing would be a press conference in the morning saying that you will not go into the East until it is free, with free elections, a free press, freedom of movement and no political prisoners.”

  Thomas still said nothing.

  “I need your assent,” Bird said.

  “I am an American citizen,” Thomas said. “I believe in many freedoms, including my own freedom to visit my own country.”

  “The Eastern Zone is not your country.”

  Thomas folded his arms and smiled.

  “While an American citizen, I remain a German writer, faithful to the German language, which is my true home.”

  “There are many words in that language the people cannot say in the East.”

  “If I visit, I will say what I please. There are no restrictions.”

  “Don’t be naïve. Everything that happens if you cross that border will be restricted.”

  “Are you attempting to restrict me?”

  “I am talking sense to you. I represent a country that rescued you and your family from fascism.”

  “Goethe was born here in Frankfurt, but he lived his life in Weimar. I have no interest in whether Weimar is east or west.”


  “Weimar is Buchenwald. That is what Weimar is.”

  “And is Munich Dachau? Is every German town and city so tainted? Can I not reclaim the word ‘Weimar,’ give it back to the language as belonging to Goethe?”

  “Buchenwald is not empty. It is where the Communists now have their prisoners, thousands of them. Will you pass the camp by with your gaze averted? Is that what Goethe would have done?”

  “What do you know about Goethe?”

  “I know that he would not want to be associated with Buchenwald.”

  Thomas did not reply.

  “We don’t want you to go,” Bird continued. “If you do go, you will find America a cold place on your return.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Thomas asked.

  They stared at each other with open hostility.

  “I will be in Munich for your speech,” Bird said as he turned to leave. “Maybe you will have come to your senses by the time I see you there.”

  “You are keeping a watch on me, then?”

  “After Einstein, you are the most important German alive. It would be negligent of us not to know what you are doing.”

  * * *

  Georges Motschan drove them with princely authority from Frankfurt to Munich. His voice was powerful enough to be heard clearly in the back seat.

  “I did not like the cut of those men from the Eastern Bloc last night. I would not enjoy having them as prison guards.”

  “Your accent reminds me of Davos,” Katia said. “You make me almost miss the sanatorium.”

  “Of course, as we know from The Magic Mountain,” Georges replied, “those clinics were little factories for killing people at great expense. How wise you both were to leave!”

  What was strange, Thomas thought, was that, despite the constant flattery directed at his work, it was Katia whom Georges was interested in; it was she he sought to impress. He had adjusted his mirror in the car so that he could see her face as she spoke.

  Georges, Thomas thought, had a way of endearing himself to others without being in the least obsequious. His good manners were perfectly pitched. He seemed to know how much he should speak and what subjects he should range over and what tone to take. Being with him reminded Thomas of those early days in Munich when he had been in the company of cocky young artists, knowing that he himself was a timid provincial. Georges Motschan, with all his carefully modulated tact, made him feel not only provincial but also old and out of touch.

  He comforted himself in the back of the car by dreaming about what Georges would look like in some well-appointed bedroom when he was naked, with light from snow, blue and white, coming in through the window.

  In the morning, when Georges had asked Thomas and Katia if, on arrival in Munich, they wished to visit the house on Poschingerstrasse, they both had immediately answered no. When, smiling, he asked them further if there was anything at all they wished to see in Munich, they both also said there was not.

  “We want to go to the hotel,” Katia said, “stay there, attend the event and the dinner and then leave in the morning.”

  In the city center, there were craters in the roads so they had to proceed very slowly. They passed through ghostly streets. No building had been left undamaged, some were in total ruins, one or two standing alone, but with gaping holes and windows smashed and doorways boarded up.

  Thomas pointed to a half-ruined building, with rusty girders poking out through gravel heaps in front of it. He claimed to recognize it, believing that they were driving along Schellingstrasse. Katia insisted that it could not be Schellingstrasse.

  “I walked here every day. I know all these streets.”

  But as the car edged forward, they saw a sign that said Türkenstrasse on a half-demolished corner building with coiling water pipes spilling out of it like guts.

  “I should know that building,” Katia said, “but I thought it was on some other corner. I am confused now.”

  Thomas was aware that they were nearing Arcisstrasse. He knew the names of each street that led to it, but he could not clearly identify any of them. It was only when they passed the Alte Pinakothek that he was confident that he had got his bearings. When they came to the corner of Arcisstrasse, he saw the Nazi building that had replaced Katia’s parents’ house.

  “That is where our house was,” Katia said. “I would not willingly have come here, but I am glad I have seen it.”

  Thomas thought of nights at the opera, the glamour, the opulence. Where were all those people now? Where did they live, the ones who had survived the war? Munich would be built again, and, as Georges drove, they saw signs of reconstruction. He did not know how long it would take. All he knew was that he would not live to witness it. This was the city Klaus had seen at the end of the war. Thomas was close to tears when he realized how much joy Klaus would have got from a Munich that was coming back to life.

  When he thought about going to East Germany, Heinrich’s image came into his mind. He knew that the Communist leaders were still interested in having his brother return to Germany and live permanently in the East. Just as Germany was divided, so too, it appeared, were the Mann brothers. Thomas had paid homage to power in America and benefited from the country’s largesse. He would naturally be presumed to be loyal to the West. Heinrich, whose left-wing credentials were impeccable, had not become famous in America and felt no pressure to do the country any favors.

  Thomas determined that he would not be told by the Americans where not to go in Germany. He noted that Alan Bird wanted him to give a press conference to announce that he would not enter the East. Even if he refused to do that and kept quiet about his decision, the Americans would certainly leak it. Word would then spread that Thomas Mann had been bossed around by his Yankee masters.

  If he did decline the invitation to go into the East, he knew that he would be despised by his fellow German writers, including his own brother. He would be denounced as an American stooge as Georges had warned. He now had to choose between being vilified as a writer who had exchanged his honor for influence in Washington and comfort in California or being seen by the Americans as deeply ungrateful and disloyal. It came to him clearly that he would be more content to be ungrateful and disloyal. He would travel into the Eastern Zone if he pleased.

  That next morning, once more, the press conference focused on his proposed visit to the East. He noticed Alan Bird sitting in a relaxed pose alone in one of the back rows, his elbows resting on the chairs on each side of him. Thomas smiled at him and bowed. Should he go to Weimar, he told the journalists, it would be to emphasize the essential unity of Germany. Since the German language was not separated into zones, then he saw no reason why he should not visit every part of Germany.

  By the end of the press conference, when a precise question about his intentions was directed at him, he let it be known that he had, in fact, decided what to do. He would be traveling to Weimar. He looked at Alan Bird and bowed before he was accompanied out of the room by Georges Motschan, who had been standing in the wings as his protector.

  Katia and he sat down to lunch, remarking on what had also come to their attention in Frankfurt, the sumptuous menu. Even in the Savoy in London, where they had stayed, the menu had been restricted because of postwar rationing. This did not seem to be happening in Germany. He thought it strange that the streets were so empty and yet the supply of food had been restored. Perhaps it was only in hotels.

  * * *

  “We will be forced,” he whispered to Georges as they entered the banqueting hall that evening, “to shake fleshy hands that not long ago were sticky with blood.”

  While in Frankfurt the aura of ease and good cheer had been merely distasteful, here, because it was his own city, it unsettled him deeply. In his dreams, he had expected a Germany to arise in which a dinner like this would be attended by a new generation nervously ready to re-create democracy. But everyone in the banqueting hall looked to him middle-aged and overfed as well as jolly and at home. The more wine and be
er consumed, the louder the voices grew and the more feverish the laughter. Soup was served, followed by some kind of fish, then there were several meat courses, including platters of pork and roast beef. He watched as the men around him, the figures who held power in Munich now, took advantage of each course, the man opposite him calling hungrily for more gravy to be poured over his beef.

  He could, in his mind, hear Klaus back in the hotel talking fervently about the book he would write called The New Germany in which he would do justice to the atmosphere in this hall. Katia, to his right, was being entertained by Georges Motschan. Neither of them appeared to be paying attention to anyone else. Since the man on his left, some kind of high official, did not say anything of any interest when they first spoke, Thomas saw no reason why he should engage him further. He simply sat in his place, picking at his food, as more and more platters came.

  He thought of the Munich he had known, the city of young artists and writers and impassioned debates in cafés at night, the city of Katia’s parents that was so open to high eccentricity as much as to high culture. In that old world, everyone was famous, the poet who published in a stray magazine was famous for his verse, as the artist who had made some woodcuts was pointed out in the street. Munich was a city in which there was a rumor about everyone; it was a metropolis that became even more socially engaged and sexually careless when inflation rose and even money ceased to be solid.

  Money, he thought, was solid here in this hall. As dessert was served, with waiters carrying huge vats of cream to cover pies and tarts, he suddenly realized where he was. Rather than the Munich of delicate souls and exalted social textures, this was the coarseness of the Bavarian village come into the city. The guests were so comfortable here that, after a while, no one paid him too much attention, the guest of honor. He studied their mouths opening in raw laughter, the swagger in their gestures, the uncouth, thickset way they dealt with one another. They and their kind would prevail, he thought. He could talk about Goethe all he pleased, but this was the future.