time, I didn’t either. So there is no point repeating the bare facts that you must already have read in the newspapers, because I know it won’t make any difference. I think the only way to persuade you that my concerns are real may be to tell you about something that happened to me yesterday. It was what finally inspired me to write to you.
I was on a tram to Schlingesdorf. It was the middle of the afternoon & the tram was quite empty. Everyone had distributed themselves evenly among the available seats, as they always do, so that nobody had to share an armrest with anybody else. There was also a man in Nazi uniform, I think he must have been a member of the Schutzstaffel, who was standing up near the front of the tram even though there were all those seats available.
We came to a stop & a man got on. He wore a shabby overcoat & shoes with the soles almost falling off, & he had one of those faces that, even to another Jew, seem so characteristically Jewish that they almost approach caricature. He gave the Schutzstaffel man an uncomfortable glance, then carried on past him, twisting his whole body so that he couldn’t even be accused of brushing against the man’s uniform. He sat down next to an old woman with some shopping bags. The Nazi watched him for a while, sneering, & then said ‘Jew. Why do you assume that a good citizen like that will be willing to sit next to you?’ The Jew shrugged & asked the woman if she objected. The woman shook her head. Then the Nazi said ‘Jew. You are intimidating her into silence. Unless she specifically tells me that she is willing to sit next to a dirty Jew, I cannot allow you to sit next to her.’ The Jew obviously didn’t wish to make life difficult for the old woman, so he got up & moved to another seat, next to a businessman. The Nazi said ‘Jew. Why do you assume that a good citizen like that will be willing to sit next to you?’ But the Jew didn’t want to be made to move a second time, so he looked at the businessman in hopes of support. The Nazi said ‘Sir. You must say “I am willing to sit next to a dirty Jew.” Unless you say those exact words, I will conclude that he is intimidating you into silence, & I will insist that he find another seat.’ The businessman hesitated & then looked down at his newspaper. The Nazi said ‘Jew. Find another seat’ but the Jew didn’t move, so the Nazi said ‘Jew. Unless you find another seat I will arrest you.’ So the Jew asked where he could sit, & the Nazi said ‘Well, I don’t know. Is anyone on this tram willing to sit next to a dirty Jew like this?’ I raised my hand.
The Nazi turned to me & said ‘Say it out loud.’ I said ‘I am quite willing to sit next to that Jewish gentleman.’ The Nazi said ‘Is that because you are a Jew yourself?’ I said ‘I am Jewish, yes.’ So the Jew came & sat next to me. He didn’t thank me & I didn’t want him to. For a few minutes, there was silence on the tram — silence like you’ve never heard on a Berlin tram! And then the Nazi began the second act of his production. He said ‘Do you two Jews realise that young couple sitting opposite you now have no choice but to look at the two of you? You are right in front of them.’ Neither of us answered, so the Nazi continued ‘Why do you assume that two good citizens like that will be willing to look at you?’ Again, neither of us answered. ‘Unless they specifically tell me that they are willing to stare at two dirty Jews, I cannot allow you to sit opposite them.’ Egon, I have dealt with bullies before, and I decided I had had enough. I got to my feet and
Loeser crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. It went on for pages and pages and frankly he had better things to do. It was just like his former mentor to tell some long, convoluted, implausible anecdote about public transport because he thought it would get him some sympathy — undignified for a man of his age. He started on Achleitner’s letter.
Egon,
Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’m back in Berlin now and you wouldn’t believe how hectic things are here. You were right — my long holiday in the castle couldn’t last for ever (although it did seem to last about nine tenths of for ever). We’ve been expelled from paradise. Buddensieg’s been called back to the city and he insisted we all come back with him. It’s all right, though, because he’s given me a job, so I can pay my rent. And I reveal the following in confidence, Loeser, because I deduce from the tone of your last letter that you need a bit of cheering up, but you’d better not tell Hecht or Gugelhupf or Ophuls or any of the others out there with you: I have to wear a uniform! Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? But at least I don’t really have to do anything — much the same as your cushy post on that committee, or so it sounds. Oh, you’ll never guess who I saw in the street the other day. Blumstein! Yes, the old bore’s still around. I went up to say hello but after he saw the uniform he wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Probably still wishing the November Group years had never ended. Well, they have. They really have. So how are things in the Golden State? Have you found Adele yet? No, I thought not. I hope you’ve at least found somebody willing to reset your stopwatch, as it were. I’m surrounded by vigorous men in riding boots so as you can imagine I couldn’t be happier. Well, I suppose I should go, we’ve got a reception in a minute for some lunatic who says he can see psychic runes or something. Stay out of the sun, it never agreed with you.
Hugs!
Anton
The Gorge House
Over the huge Georgian fireplace in Gorge’s billiards room was the stuffed head of a grizzly bear, its jaws fixed open in a way that made it look not so much ferocious as just very impressed. ‘Sit down, Krauto,’ said Gorge, who reclined in an armchair with a glass of strawberry milkshake. ‘Anything to report?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Still German?’
‘I believe I am, yes.’
‘Can’t be helped. Job for you, if you’ll take it. Should damn well take it. Reek of idleness, Krauto, don’t mind me saying. No room for idle men on Gorge land. Now, Marsh — remember him? From CalTech. Building my auditorium.’
‘The fellow from the Executive Council. Yes.’
As he spoke, Gorge kept glancing over Loeser at the bear’s head. He had an expression as if some kind of turbid struggle was going on in his brain. ‘Heap of delays, but theatre’s finished now. This Christmas, first play. Needs a director. Want to put you forward to Marsh. Couldn’t refuse you, Marsh, if I did.’
‘First of all, Colonel Gorge, I’m not a director, I’m a set designer, and second, even if I were to direct for the first time, a Christmas play at a university theatre…’
‘Doesn’t matter. Not about the play, this job. Look here: gave a million dollars for that theatre. Enough to get invited to the banquets at the Athenaeum Club, all that horseshit. But doesn’t get me any closer to the scientists. Need to find something out about this man Bailey. Met him, but he’s zipped up. Need a party on the inside. Scrape up some intelligence.’
‘In other words,’ said Woodkin, whose telephone call had summoned Loeser to the mansion, ‘Colonel Gorge hopes that if you are accepted into the community of the Institute, which is only three miles from here, you may have a good chance of harvesting some information about Professor Bailey and his activities. Colonel Gorge is very interested in these—’
But then Gorge jumped from his seat with a roar and ran out of the room. Before Loeser even had time to give Woodkin a puzzled glance, he had returned carrying a double-barrelled shotgun with an engraved bronze stock.
‘No, sir!’ cried Woodkin.
Gorge stopped, raised the weapon, and took aim. Loeser dived to the floor. There was an explosion and the bear’s head tumbled from the wall.
‘Got the fucker!’ said Gorge in triumph, barely audible over the ringing in Loeser’s ears. Then he looked at the perforated trophy on the carpet and blinked several times in confusion. Motes of cotton stuffing swirled in the air. The wall above the fireplace was speckled with a halo of buckshot. One of the bear’s glass eyes lay like some sort of ominous cocktail olive in a puddle of pink foam where Gorge’s half-drunk milkshake had been knocked over. ‘How do you think he got in the house?’
‘That was not a live bear, sir,’ said Woodkin, calm again. ‘That was merely the head of a bear that you shot once before in Montana.’
‘Head! Right. Beg your pardon.’ He looked at Loeser, who was returning tremulously to his seat. ‘Should have explained, Krauto. Noggin’s gotten worse. All sorts of trouble. Tell him, Woodkin.’
‘Colonel Gorge’s condition has deteriorated further. Some of the doctors are now calling it an “ontological agnosia”. As well as confusing representations with the objects of those representations, he now has difficulty distinguishing, for instance, the living from the dead.’
