IT WAS ONLY A short walk into town but Monika insisted on driving. In fact, she insisted on his driving, even after last night when he had clipped the brick post-box as he turned into the drive. The car was undamaged but the pillar was dangerously askew.
‘Hopefully a Jensen brat will grapple it down on itself.’
It was a painfully bright morning and, as he drove, the sun split prismatically over his hands through the many cracks in the windscreen. His head was clearing but clouds of silence still pressed upon those barely conscious parts of him so that his movements, and his responses, were automatic. Monika was no different, and hid behind a scarf and a pair of the largest and darkest glasses he had ever seen. She was lacing up her boots as they drove, with some difficulty because of the rugged track.
Now the night before was coming back to him – how Monika had pushed him forward, trophy-like, into every conversation, daring her friends to take an interest. How Hannelore had flirted with him openly, according to some strange law that he wasn’t privy to, and how the others, even the sullen redhead, had eventually come around. Gustav was as attentive as ever, although his attentions had shifted from Grethe Harp on to the redhead, a Frau Dolzschen. Carl soothed the forsaken Grethe Harp by not letting her go. She stayed on his lap and accepted his nuzzles, murmurs and kisses, and, although she drank more than usual, gave no other sign of disappointment. They had played cards long into the night, and Monika rarely left his side, and, when she did, either to empty an ashtray or feed the stove, Mobius couldn’t take his eyes from her.
They agreed that as soon as the money order was cashed, they would breakfast at the café, then get the business of shopping over before taking a picnic into the country.
The cashier at the bank was as diplomatic as the occasion would allow. Cash transactions would soon be forbidden, he revealed, according to a recent edict, to certain members of the community, and all of them would soon need a card that attested to their – how should he say it? – ‘purity’ of background. The cashier leant forward and whispered confidentially that there was a new computational machine from America, he had heard, which, even as they spoke, was sorting through the genealogies of every citizen, back two or three generations, he couldn’t remember, a machine that would catch any ‘cheats’.
‘But surely they will cheat because of the new law, not because they are cheats. You’re looking at it the wrong way around,’ Monika had replied, to which the cashier, a young man with a moustache the colour of rust, already bald and pinched in the shoulders, had merely pouted and shrugged. Why bother with a woman who didn’t seem to appreciate the currency of information that made his position amongst friends and family unassailable? Who, after all, knew more than he that the old adage, a country is only as stable as its currency, applied also to every individual and every account, so that every transaction represented a whispered secret that only he was able to hear? The gentleman before him, for example, although he looked slovenly and poor, must certainly be a man of some importance. To trade such a beautiful Reichschecken even for such a grand sum, a Reichschecken stamped and signed by a Sturmbannfuhrer of the SS no less, that he would shortly facsimile for his own collection, seemed somehow unfair. He therefore included with the crispest cash his most obsequious smile, careful not to show his bad teeth, but with as much knowingness as his eyes could muster. Was the gentleman a spy, an informer, a cadre about town? There were some secrets that even he couldn’t decipher. He made a mental note of the gentleman, however, and left it at that, for now.
They took one of the three outside tables that fronted the café. The young waiter hadn’t forgotten Monika’s admonition and served them with the bare minimum of politeness, that is, until he saw the bill-fold tumble out of Mobius’s pocket. Mobius picked it up off the pavement, grateful for the lack of wind, and, realising that it wouldn’t do to stuff it in his sock, put it back in the same pocket.
‘Just relax,’ Monika advised him, when the waiter had gone.
‘My nerves, you can tell?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Of course I can tell.’
There was a poster beside them on the café window, with a comic picture of a fat man talking loudly to a skinny friend at a table such as theirs, while a sinister young man with red socks listened in. It warned them, in the manner of a recycled wartime poster, To Beware! – Out of loose lips slip secrets!
The crude poster did nothing to improve his nerves. Even the short walk from the bank to the café had seemed an eternity. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the money in his pocket, more money than he had had in his possession for many years, or rather the fact that he was so securely held by Monika. A great weight of self-consciousness had come over him, a terrible anxiety that even affected his ability to walk. Whenever they approached a pedestrian or group of people gathered on the pavement, he involuntarily made to cross the road, to avoid their eyes he supposed, but was guided by Monika’s grip on his forearm. To avoid people whenever possible, to avoid their eyes in particular, was a practice that had become so habitual since his release from the veterans’ home that only now, suffering the mostly empty streets and therefore the curiosity of the locals, was he able to appreciate why he hadn’t left the anonymity afforded by the city. After all, he had strayed dangerously far from his rituals of application and contemplation. If he was now more aware than ever that this old life afforded little in the way of happiness compared to his present state, at least in the slow movement of hand upon page and drift into thought he had always been able to garner a measure of understanding and thereby an enduring pleasure of sorts. That this delicate pleasure, combined of recognition and discovery, was able to shield him from the eyes that he didn’t see and the propaganda that he didn’t hear and the shame that he rarely felt, if this vital nourishment had been abandoned for the sake of the immediacies of touch and of feeling and of all the many things about himself that he didn’t understand, and the overwhelming forces of a world he didn’t appear ready to comprehend, then, either way, he must learn to pay attention, he must try to understand, because without understanding he was nothing.
A blonde Labrador pup passed from table to table accepting the affection of the customers, and he was glad when it paused beneath him and he was able to stroke its head and shoulders and pat its silky coat. After a length of time, the dog decided to move on and, finding nothing in the way of encouragement from Monika, returned to its master to beg.
They finished their ham and egg roll breakfast and set off to find the draper’s. Monika had accepted his suggestion that he buy himself something more suitable for the country with an enigmatic smile. She appeared impressed by his ability to make a living out of his research, and, although this was Mobius’s opportunity to point out to her that the most recent payment was exceptional, he had not taken it. Several times throughout the morning, she had asked him what he was working on and where she might find more of his work to read. That she had shown no interest until that morning, other than the questions about Wallenstein and the ‘you hide it well’ comment, which still troubled his vanity if he was honest enough to admit it, didn’t seem to matter. Perhaps it might motivate him to greater things, as a replacement for the encouragement he had lost at the death of his father. With his loyalty, and her strength, who knew how long they might last, what they might achieve and how happily they might live? A vital optimism flooded through him, and he knew at that moment that he was in love with Monika, and that if she would have him, he with his strange ways and she with her own, then they might endure whatever life threw at them. He took her hand and held it tightly as they crossed the empty road.
The cobbled street didn’t disturb him. He walked at his ease along the duckboard and pavement. His reflection in the shop windows didn’t make him anxious. When passers-by stared and, yes, even whispered, it didn’t matter to him either. Monika was oblivious to them in any case, and although he couldn’t quite abandon his sensitivity to their being there in the public street, as though it were something unusual, with a little difficulty he was able to turn his attention away from himself and on to Monika. She appeared indifferent to the old church and town hall, the spotless streets and empty squares, and the flags that flew there. Her method was imperious and calculating; she was prepared for anything. He had begun to wonder, it was true, how much of the persecution she claimed to suffer was of her own creation, if not of her own making, but, as he watched her and the reactions of others to her polite requests and subtle demands, there was clearly something to it. Many of the people she greeted appeared uneasy, and many she ignored seemed purposely hostile. An old woman and her dog turned pointedly from them and pretended to gaze within a shop window, but Mobius could see that she was secretly watching them pass. On one occasion, a wolfish laugh burst from a group of young men and women, who disappeared quickly into a doorway when he turned. Monika appeared unconcerned, although she clearly must have heard it. Her face never lost its strange and fragile smile, nor the distant, unfocused joy in her eyes. Her voice wooed him from shop to shop, and street to street. She was looking for something, something for him, and this seemed to occupy all of her attention.
Mobius, on the other hand, couldn’t help but notice. It took some degree of concentration because he felt, after all, that he should follow Monika’s lead, and yet the cleanliness of the town, the vast emptiness that seemed to thrive in the house-proud streets, the shopfront windows and their perfect arrangements, the polished cars and the well-groomed dogs, the immaculate flowerbeds and carefully sculpted trees, all of this order worked to foreground what he had failed to notice in the city. The flags were ubiquitous and larger than was necessary, and the artfully printed cards that refused service to Jews, which greeted them at the entrances to the majority of shops, were incongruous precisely because of their signalling discretion and tact, as though it were a service provided to reduce offence. The newly built war memorial, a cenotaph inscribed with the words ‘a soldier’s blood is most sacred’, was tied with pretty bows and laced with fresh flowers, in the same way that one might adorn a shrine, except that there was a photograph of the Fuhrer at its centre, rather than the virgin. In the lending-library window was a statue of Hermann, the hero of the Teutoburg forest, rather than the usual bust of Goethe. This same statue was also to be found in the window of the sheet-music shop and the art shop and the baker’s. Clustered outside the baker’s was a group of uniformed Hitlerjugend, eating cream cakes and blocking the pavement. The boys were all in their early teens, with the same peaked egg-white haircut and stitched little eyes.
Mobius was wary of them; their arms and legs were bruised and scratched; they had clearly been on an exercise. Their tongues darted into their cakes and dug out cotton balls of cream that clung to their lips. Despite this, they were intimidating; it was in their posture, poised and coiled like one long snake ready to strike. When they refused to budge for her, Monika marched right through them, and Mobius collected their elbows and grunts of alarm. Cream on their noses and cheeks, they waited for their leader, a tallish blond boy who pretended to give chase, and Mobius couldn’t help it – he felt his heels quicken and his heart race. ‘Dirty Jew!’ the boy shouted after them. ‘Nach Palestina! Homosexual!’
Monika laughed. ‘I’m not, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Not what?’
‘A Jew, of course. Although here we are. Herr Fleischer, one of the few who remain.’
Herr Fleischer, the tailor whose shop doubled as his front room, was busy at his machine. He leapt to his feet at the blast of light and clanging bell that announced them into the darkness, but his obvious alarm faded once he recognised Monika. ‘Frau Phelps,’ he said with little enthusiasm, but a great deal of relief. ‘What a pleasure.’ Fleischer was standing absolutely still, yet was able to give an impression of swiftness and dexterity. His closely cropped head and jug ears were sallow but his clever blue eyes easily pierced the gloom.
‘How are you?’
‘Quiet, and getting quieter,’ he answered peremptorily, his attention having fallen already upon Mobius’s suit. ‘My God. I haven’t worn a suit like that for a decade.’
‘Herr Fleischer was also an actor. You must forgive him his–’
‘Forgive me nothing. Just give me something to do.’
Fleischer moved one step towards them and resumed his original expression of eager impoliteness.
‘We have one hundred RM for you to work with. How soon can you begin?’
‘I see it is rather an emergency.’
‘We’ve had the tour,’ interjected Mobius. ‘But –’
‘So I am your last resort, Frau Phelps?’
‘Far from it, Herr Fleischer. That we would end up here was all part of the plan.’
‘I’m not sure I like the way you say end up here.’
Monika frowned. ‘That doesn’t concern me in the least. But having seen the rest, Herr Dr Mobius will no doubt appreciate your work even more.’
‘Compared to these fools? I bring more than technique and style to this Saxon backwater. That is why they want to get rid of me.’
‘They want to get rid of you, Herr Fleischer, because you are a Jew.’ Monika pulled her coat about her, and shrugged. ‘Now, I have one or two things to attend to. Mobius, I leave you in capable hands.’
With that, Monika was gone, out into the sunlight.
‘Herr Doktor, eh? I never would have guessed. Not with such a suit. You have more than one?’
‘No.’
Fleischer peeled off the jacket, exaggerating his care lest it fall into threads. He then began paring away Mobius’s trousers, in preparation for the inside leg.
‘I can tell you two have just met. You must have a million questions. Fire away!’
Mobius thought about it while Fleischer went about his business, which he knew well enough to save himself the trouble of asking what kind of suit Mobius wanted. This was something Fleischer had clearly decided for himself.
‘Let me help. Do you have rivals for her? Absolutely not. Have I slept with Monika? No.’
‘There is one thing – an atmosphere, on the streets –’
‘Ah, that. Why is she still in disgrace? Who can say? It is one of the mysteries of village life.’
‘She said that it appears to be getting worse.’
‘Then get out while you can. They only pretend to be civilised.’
The disdain in Fleischer’s voice was unmistakable.
‘By that you are trying, I gather, to convince yourself.’
‘Where would I go? In the city there are thousands of tailors, and even more out-of-work actors.’
Fleischer had Mobius by the seat of his trousers and was tugging. Mobius tried to keep his feet as Fleischer buffeted and yanked, prodded and gripped.
‘Although Monika is correct,’ he added. ‘It does appear to be getting worse. Even to speak as we are speaking...’
‘I trust you,’ replied Mobius.
‘Trust is foolish in such times. He has plenty of supporters amongst Jews, as you must know.’
Mobius paused, because Fleischer had ducked behind him. ‘I didn’t know that, no.’
Fleischer slid his arms around Mobius’s waist. He stepped back and his arms were replaced by a measuring tape. ‘But I have taken advantage of you. I really should have said earlier – that I know your work.’
‘Well...’
‘I have embarrassed you.’ Mobius shook his head, despite the pins at his neck. ‘Of course not. I only admit to some surprise. It was a long time ago.’
Fleischer continued to work at the imaginary collar. His breath smelt strongly of medicinal sweets.
‘We have an amateur historical society here. Wallenstein is, of course, a major figure. In any case, as you can imagine, in our modest library, with our scant resources and amateur methods, a work such as yours...Invaluable.’
‘Thank you. That’s ...very kind.’
‘Thank you. It is a work that bears much revisiting, particularly now. I still can’t walk in the fields without those images, the soldiers and their games, the murder of the peasants, the cannibalism, the smoke of burning witches, the religious chants. And Kepler, quietly at his labours, in the service of the mad General...’
‘You judge him for that?’
Fleischer waited before answering. He had been speaking through the pins in his teeth, but now he removed them, one by one, and stabbed them into his sleeve. ‘I can’t decide. In any case, my colleagues mock me when I suggest that, perhaps once again... The sparrows are singing it from the trees, as my grandfather used to say.’
Fleischer strode to his machine and withdrew a pad and pencil from a drawer beneath. With a flurry, he wrote down Mobius’s measurements. ‘Are you on the way up or on the way down?’ ‘Pardon?’
‘Are you getting richer or are you getting poorer? I wouldn’t trust Frau Phelps to feed you properly. I walked past her garden once. So? Do I make allowances?’
‘No, I’m happy as I am.’
‘So you should be. Pleased to meet you. Call me Heinrich.’
Mobius took the wiry hand into his own. ‘Mobius. The same.’
In the dark room, Mobius towered over Fleischer, who had begun to jiggle his foot. ‘We must speak again.’
‘Of course. Perhaps when I...?’
‘Last year you would’ve waited a month, maybe more. This year, a few days. I look forward to it.’
Monika was waiting for him, luxuriating within a cloud of
smoke.
‘An interesting man.’
‘Yes, a sad figure, but an interesting man. I took you to him for that reason. He’s what passes for an intellectual in this town.’
‘Do you see him socially?’
‘No,’ Monika laughed. ‘Although Herr Fleischer is a bachelor, he has always claimed that a real bachelor is a person who never makes the same mistake once. Like most bachelors his age, therefore, Fleischer prefers the company of other men.
They play whist at a lokal on the main street, where they talk
exclusively, according to my sources, about women.’
Mobius chuckled. ‘You know that I love you, don’t you?’
Monika tamped down her cigarette with a precise twist of her toe, then kissed him quickly on the cheek.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And that you can depend on me.’
Monika took his hands and held them to her face. Her eyes were very clear.
‘You said it yourself, Paul. It shall be an adventure...’ She kissed his mouth. ‘I could see it from the beginning, and so I’m glad that you’ve finally told me. But now, I have something to show you!’
The drive was longer than he expected, but, after an hour of turning on to smaller and smaller roads, an hour of fence lines and farmland and wildflowers in ditches, during which time they ate their lunch of apples, cheese and pickles, Monika slicing and feeding him as he drove, the farmland parted and gave way to a thick forest, a spruce plantation overrun by silvery birch, eerily dark and suddenly cold. The tentative road began to wind through the fungous gloom, humped with roots and pine needles and fallen sticks, the watchful trees pressing towards them, syncopating the tired engine drone and introducing a wariness to Mobius’s driving. Reading his mind, Monika lit him a cigarette, leaving both hands for the wheel.
‘We’re nearly there. It’s just a track, so get ready.’
‘The enchanted forest,’ Mobius murmured. ‘Yet I feel somehow put upon.’
‘It can make the hackles rise. Why some people have always lived here.’
Monika didn’t elaborate, but was looking to the forest, one hand on his forearm, and ready to direct him.
The track ended in a glade, the fringes of which were marked by fallen trees. This gave the impression that the clearing was recent, although the slate roof of the house was laden with an ancient moss. The glade belonged to Monika, who had bought it cheaply from some Wends moving back to the Spreewald.
At one stage, Monika said, she had tried living out here but had found it too lonely, even for her. The ‘widows’ came to pick mushrooms when in season, and to picnic, but otherwise the house stood empty.
As soon as Mobius cut the engine, they were consumed by an intense silence. The air was so fresh that his cigarette seemed to burn faster. The damp, pine-needle carpet squelched as they approached the house. A long wall of firewood ended at the front door, beside a basket full of kindling, and a roughly hewn rocking chair that still smelt of dog. Above the door hung an icon painted onto wood, of a saint that he didn’t recognise. Mobius peered closer to read the inscription, faded and scratched.
‘Can you read it?’
‘Abandon hope, all ye who –’
‘Paul!’
‘All right. Only the humble . . . something . . . understand humility.’
‘They told me it said “Bless this house”.’
‘Because it’s haunted?’
‘Because it needs so much work.’
The ground floor was a stable built according to custom. The staircase that led to the second floor rose above a stall for a horse and a trough for pigs. The smell of manure and straw was still sharp enough to make him cough, and this awoke a goose in the stalls, who roused herself and waddled shyly towards them. ‘Have you run away again, Gretchen?’
The goose began to taste Mobius’s trousers, fondly stapling the seam with precise little bites, looking up at him trustingly. When he made to move, it followed him without letting go. By this time, it had worked its way up his inner leg, and, when he tried to brush it off, it transferred its tender bite to his fingers, forcing him to bend down.
‘She wants you to scratch her chest.’
Mobius did so dutifully and the goose released him, threw back its long neck and wheezed in delight.
‘She belongs to a neighbour but hides out here.’
Upstairs, the simple wooden furniture and walls, unpolished floorboards and lack of a ceiling gave the impression of a shepherd’s mountain hut, provisional and bare, the centre of gravity the cold black stove that dominated the room. The only other concessions to comfort included a small bookshelf and a shrine of a sort he had never encountered: a triptych Catholic virgin and some blackened candle stubs on a shelf full of preserves and pickles, and an enormous ham curing on a hook, above a large demijohn containing a clear spirit.
‘It does feel like a hideout.’
‘It used to be the Wends’ summer place, when the animals came to forage. Would you like a glass?’
‘It’s certainly cold enough.’
Mobius accepted a glass of the fiery spirit, so harsh that it reminded him of the schnapps made by Frau Kunstler’s cousin, Marty from Tegel. ‘I certainly couldn’t find my way back from here.’
Monika blindfolded him with her fingers. He could feel her warm breath against his neck and her tightly closed eyelids at his temple. She didn’t remove her hands from his eyes and nor did Mobius move to take them away. All would be well, he felt, as long as he didn’t look and she didn’t let him see.