He had a wide, rugged face, and his eyes, which were quite close together, were kind and radiated sincerity and calm. That he had trained as a doctor was something Immanuel had read in the newspaper obituaries when his father-in-law, the patriarch Samuel Fischer, had died. There had been intense discussion in the press at that time over the future of the publishing house. Immanuel could instantly picture this man in a white coat and was sure his patients would have had great faith in him. The obituaries had not failed to note that the heir, on whose shoulders contemporary literature now rested, in a manner of speaking, had hastily renounced surgery for literature. Rilke and Hölderlin had made him lay down his scalpel, joked his young wife, Brigitta, whom everyone called Tutti. Admittedly the publishing house had little to do with those particular poets, but Tutti’s comment was avidly quoted. Nor had the newspapers been slow to point out that Samuel Fischer’s daughter would also be joining the board with her husband, Gottfried Bermann Fischer, who had added his wife’s name to his own, in the same way she had adopted his.
They were both called Bermann Fischer now, and this was the name gracing the book covers too. Tutti was a delightful young woman in every way, as deeply committed to the company as her mother had always been, and passionately interested in design matters. Their books would be the most beautiful in Europe, she proclaimed, proudly turning to two novels by Franz Werfel and a new edition of Ibsen’s plays. Ibsen’s The Lady from the Sea had once been the publisher’s most outstanding success, alongside Gerhart Hauptmann’s Before Sunrise.
Gottfried and Tutti became acquainted at the home of Bruno Cassirer and his family. They had both been invited to make music with Cassirer’s daughter Agnes and her friends, and had quickly become close. Only a few weeks later they were engaged. What happened next was a shock to many. It didn’t take long before the father-in-law, who was concerned about the future of the firm following the early death of his only son, invited the young doctor to join them with the aim of taking over at the appropriate time. He had barely any qualifications, but those were different and quieter times. Little did Samuel Fischer know that his books would soon be piled high and burned, that they would be devoured by flames on Opernplatz only a few moments’ walk from the firm’s offices on Bülowstrasse. He didn’t know that the publishing house was doomed if it remained in Berlin, nor that before long his daughter and son-in-law would have to sign contracts with authors and translators in Switzerland. Soon they would be forced to find offices in the Austrian capital in order to resume publication of Mann and Hesse, von Hofmannsthal and Zuckmayer.
Despite all this they had been busy years filled with enjoyment. The offices they found on Esteplatz were excellent, only a few minutes’ walk from the city center. Vienna’s colorful literary figures had all become involved in the firm’s activities in one way or another, including in their increasingly uproarious events. They were swiftly joined in the life of the company by leading lights from the world of theater and music. The home of the young Bermann Fischer family on Wattmanngasse soon became a natural meeting place, on a par with the Herrenhof and Zartl cafés. Their daughters, Gaby, Gisi, and Annette, settled in the district well. Writers and musicians would come and go as if they were part of the family.
Until suddenly it was all over.
Now the publisher was sitting at one of the tables by the window in the Opera Bar in Stockholm, the new city, with a thick sheaf of manuscripts and a cup of tea in front of him. He had managed to set up the publishing house in Sweden and had again begun issuing the most important of the works that were banned in Germany. He had invited the German columnist to meet him here to discuss a manuscript about Queen Christina and—provided the meeting went well—to establish a relationship with the company.
Bermann Fischer was engrossed in his papers and didn’t notice that Immanuel had entered through a side door and hung up his coat. Now he was standing so close he could see the wrinkles around Bermann Fischer’s eyes and the slight sheen on his brow. The publisher was wearing a gray suit of heavy wool, a pale blue tie, and a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. His hair was neatly combed, with the parting surprisingly far down on the right side of his head.
Opposite him sat a young man in a light-colored linen jacket and orange tie, his legs crossed. His brown hair was slicked to his head. He had a soft, melodic voice exuding goodwill. His German was faultless, but his intonation almost comical. He sang out his sentences as he read aloud from some kind of contract, suggesting deletions and amendments. He was clearly Swedish.
“Paragraph four is superfluous. I pointed that out the last time we went through this draft, didn’t I? We’ll simplify things for ourselves and delete it. The translator’s rights are covered in the sections that specify the editions relative one to another. It’s the same book after all, regardless of language and regardless of the size of the edition. Besides, we have standard contracts that were drawn up for Bonniers decades ago. As I understand it, they can be adapted for translations into German. There’s no difference. What difference would there be?”
Oddly, the young man talked on without waiting for a reply from the publisher, who barely seemed conscious of his colleague’s painstaking reasoning and pedantic remarks. In pencil he underlined names and sentences on a typewritten manuscript. It was uppermost on one of the thick bundles of papers that were spread out across the table in such a way that the teapot and especially the china cups had been nudged alarmingly close to the edge. Now and then the publisher gave a barely perceptible nod as indication of his awareness that work was being done.
Immanuel was on the point of trying to interrupt the conversation, which was essentially a monologue, when the young Swede stood up and strode briskly toward the staircase leading down to the foyer and cloakroom. He caught sight of Immanuel and held out his hand in quick greeting.
“There you are! We were waiting for you.” Without further explanation the man hurried down the stairs to the gents.
Immanuel surmised that this must be the Bonnier family lawyer, Ivar Philipson. The shareholders would naturally have to be consulted if Bermann Fischer was intending to add to his editorial staff. It was a good sign he was there, although Immanuel endeavored not to pin too much hope on the lawyer’s presence. Perhaps it had nothing to do with him. Either way, Bermann Fischer looked up in typically calm fashion, met Immanuel’s eye, and said affably, “Do sit down. Here, let me move Mr. Philipson’s briefcase. So good of you to come. I’m sitting here with an almost endless list compiled by Thomas Mann and some members of the Swedish Academy with whom he’s kept in touch. It’s all been done with the best of intentions, but it makes no sense to me at all. Silfverstolpe. Who is Silfverstolpe?”
“When the sun of culture is low even dwarves cast long shadows,” Immanuel said with a lighthearted laugh, but instantly realized the aphorism didn’t go down well. This was entirely the wrong occasion to be sarcastic. He handed back the list of authors’ names, regretting his attempt to show off in an area he knew so little about, and added contritely:
“It’s barely three o’clock and it’s getting dark already. What a strange country we’ve found ourselves in.” He looked out of the window facing Kungsträdgården and observed that the oblique sunlight that had just now imparted a golden glow to the large elms in the park and thrown long shadows onto the pavement from passersby had dimmed and assumed a colder shade of blue. He had never known such a light, not even in the northerly cities of Breslau or Warsaw. Definitely not in Munich, where the afternoon light made one think one had already crossed the Alps to northern Italy.
No, this light existed only in his new city. It was November 30, 1939, an uncommonly clear afternoon in Stockholm.
The fact was he hadn’t read a word of the writers mentioned, neither Gunnar Mascoll Silfverstolpe nor any of the other intimist poets who were without doubt held in very high regard by the country’s renowned, albeit to the outsider extremely arcane, academy. The truth was, he wasn’t conversant with any of the young Swedish writers with whom he had just feigned familiarity. Nor did he know anything about the esteemed Finnish author Sillanpää, who in a few weeks would be receiving this year’s Nobel Prize in Literature. He was basically a political reporter with literary interests, not an expert.
“Have you heard that the Nobel Banquet has been canceled?” Immanuel said to change the subject. “It’s perhaps just as well. At least they won’t have three empty seats in the concert hall, now that Hitler has prohibited German prizewinners from attending.”
The publisher gave an absentminded nod, but it was unclear whether he had grasped what was said. He seemed to be absorbed in his manuscripts again.
It was hardly surprising that Bermann Fischer was interested in finding new literary voices in the city in which he had chosen to seek refuge, given that the book stock had been moved to Amsterdam and plans to relocate the business to London completely scrapped. Even if they did manage to set up in America, the publishing of books in German could continue with Sweden as the base. Suddenly he looked up, his expression more alert.
“Of course you’re aware of the role of Scandinavian authors in our publishing house. Admittedly I don’t share my father-in-law’s taste for Ellen Key’s visions of family life—they feel outmoded now—but think of Jacobsen and Brandes! Not to mention Ibsen.”
As he lifted the teacup to his lips, he came out with a final name, like a fanfare. “Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson!”
He swallowed a mouthful of tea. After an unduly long silence, and in a quieter voice, came the real matter to which the whole conversation was leading.
“Our Nordic library was probably my father-in-law’s most lucrative venture. And I understand the enthusiasm for Ellen Key’s The Century of the Child. Thirty thousand copies sold in two years. Not bad! Why not have a shot at something new, new voices, new books for our times? What’s your view—is it something you could work with?”
They didn’t know each other, but nevertheless, wasn’t Bermann Fischer aware that the man he was about to employ had arrived in the city that autumn, and thus had only a rudimentary command of the language of his adopted land? He had indeed written articles for Swedish newspapers, not least Dagens Nyheter, but surely Bermann Fischer didn’t think he could instantly pass judgment on the latest literature?
Perhaps Bermann Fischer could read the apprehension in his thoughts, because he added, “Let’s forget Silfverstolpe. We don’t want to publish poetry anyway, others do it so much better. I know nothing about him, but naturally Mr. Mann has excellent contacts in the academy here and has put me in touch with several of the members. We don’t need to affect interest; everyone must understand that we’re principally looking for prose writers. And new drama, of course. Unbelievable that Brecht is one of us now. He’s hiding here in Stockholm. I’m sure you know that, on Lidingö.”
“Hiding? Far from it, he makes his presence felt every day. We saw him recently in the city hall at the reception put on by the council in honor of Thomas Mann, didn’t we?”
It was Philipson’s melodious voice again. He had approached without a sound and sat down at the table. “His articles appear in quite surprising places. He has offered his services to the Communists at the Ny Dag newspaper under the pseudonym Sherwood Paw. Don’t ask me what that’s supposed to mean. And he has already made connections here that might bring his work to the theater. There are going to be lectures and soirées, there are whispers of a small symposium at the Royal Theatre. His wife, the actress, was spotted at a premiere. And Tor Bonnier has promised to bring forward the publication of a collection of his poetry in a translation by Johannes Edfelt. A fine young poet himself.”
Philipson turned to Immanuel and quietly asked him a string of questions that, had they not been couched in such a friendly manner, would have sounded like an interrogation.
“You’re also a socialist, I’ve heard, sir.”
“No, a Social Democrat.”
“Are you numerate—I mean, can you add up? Can you deal with simple bookkeeping? The proprietors are in total agreement that our editors can’t walk around with their heads in the clouds, even if they are socialists.”
They were alone with the two unruffled but reasonably attentive waiters, apart from a middle-aged British gentleman peacefully reading his newspaper. Immanuel could make out the headline about seven shells detonating in the Soviet village of Mainila, by the Finnish border, and realized it must be yesterday’s edition of the Times. Radio Moscow’s report of the Finnish army opening fire on the Soviet unit and killing four soldiers had been worrying him all day. It could only mean that war was inching closer.
“Philipson will help to formalize a brief we sincerely hope you’ll find attractive enough to accept,” Bermann Fischer said. “Now that Viktor Zuckerkandl is leaving us for America, we’ll seize the opportunity to change procedures to suit us both. Everyone in the company appreciates your rather more pragmatic approach, your desire to understand the political situation. Yes, we identify with your values and are delighted to have you on board.”
Bermann Fischer took a bundle of documents from Philipson, who without further ceremony bid them goodbye and left by the side entrance opposite St. Jakob’s Church. Relieved that the meeting had ended so positively, Immanuel followed him with his eye until he disappeared behind the elm trees in Kungsträdgården. When the publisher resumed speaking, his voice had a different, easier tone.
“Philipson has many good points; you must forgive those foibles about socialism. There is a great deal of irritation over your predecessor’s excesses, and Philipson has been under considerable strain. The practice where until very recently he was a partner has disbanded because their main client, a subsidiary of a German firm, suddenly demanded the dismissal of all the Jewish employees. Tor Bonnier has reported pressure from the Germans. He has the utmost confidence in Philipson. They are united as advocates for the Jewish cause in this country. Yes, at heart he is a very good person.”
Bermann Fischer calmly returned to his cup of tea. As he leafed through a bundle of letters, something obviously bothered him. He sighed deeply and pushed the letters away with an exaggerated gesture, before exclaiming, “It was delirium tremens. As a doctor, I can say that with some certainty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry. It’s an old story that has dogged me since long before Roth died.”
“Joseph Roth, the writer?”
Once again the publisher flicked through the letters. He cleared his throat and took another sip before explaining.
“Precisely. He hounded me with all manner of accusations, all founded on misunderstandings. Now he’s dead, and we’ll never be able to clear it up.”
“What a pity! A great pity,” Immanuel said dutifully.
“Yes, it’s awful,” the publisher went on, still leafing through the correspondence. “We’re reissuing his Radetzky March jointly with Allert de Lange and Querido Verlag. Exile publishers have helped us with another of our authors too. I’m told that Stefan Zweig is gathering material for a novella he calls symbolic, whatever that might entail. It has something to do with chess. Zuckerkandl has devoted his days to ceaseless research into the subject instead of concentrating on his own job.”
Immanuel recalled the heavy books he had been asked to bring from Mittag-Leffler’s mathematical library.
Bermann Fischer put down his cup and continued.
“But it is largely to Zuckerkandl’s credit that Zweig is now one of our authors and he did in fact complete his first novel, Beware of Pity. As you know we published it jointly with Querido, but whether there’ll be a novella, I don’t know. Have you read it?”
Immanuel hadn’t even held Stefan Zweig’s novel in his hand. He hadn’t realized that Zweig was one of the writers of whom he was expected to take charge if he worked for the publishing house. As luck would have it, he didn’t have to admit to this, as they were interrupted by one of the waiters clearing the table in so methodical a fashion, it could only be a sign that after several hours it was high time they left or placed another order.
For the first time in weeks Immanuel actually felt content. He looked around the bar, whose decor surpassed anything he had seen in Warsaw; it was even more elaborate than the dining room at the Savoy on Ulica Nowy Świat, where for many years he used to meet colleagues. He raised his eyes to the splendid glass roof with its ornamental motifs reminiscent of flowers, berries, and fruits. The profusion of color was remarkable, as if every little leaf had its own shade. Stile floreale was the term for art nouveau in Italy, he remembered, and this really was a prime example of how the organic suppleness to which it aspired could be achieved in cast iron and glass. The curved lines were continued into the bar itself and its light-brown wooden paneling, with elegant arabesques here and there ending in pine-cone wreaths. The small interior windows separating the tables were crafted with loops and winding strips of iron. The publisher’s heavy head, with his neatly groomed, slightly graying hair, was outlined against the blue glass mounted in the wood.
The sedate English gentleman in the corner had been joined by a young man, wearing a bow tie and a checked jacket. Probably another Englishman, Immanuel thought. He was about to stand and express his thanks when the publisher addressed him again.
“You’ll be aware that the Bonnier family will not permit me to publish more than eight books a year initially. But I’ve already found ways to extricate myself from this straitjacket, and we’re seeking new joint editions. Cooperation regarding the Scandinavians is a chance to expand publishing significantly. Tor Bonnier fully agrees with these ideas. Apropos of cooperation, have you had a look at the Cassirer?”
Immanuel had of course carefully studied the manuscript about Queen Christina that the publisher had given to him at their last meeting. His concerns that it would be too specialized a piece for him were quickly dispelled. As a matter of fact, it was a scholarly but accessible cultural history of the Swedish queen’s life and work, and an attempt to understand her declaration that Descartes’s private tutoring had contributed to her conversion and that she had his teachings to thank for her first step on the road to Rome. The publisher had asked him to work through the manuscript, which he had handed over with a sigh and a word or two about having managed hitherto to avoid the philosopher’s insufferable prose, but in this case having found no opportunity to decline. Professor Ernst Cassirer’s open lectures in Gothenburg were extremely popular, and now Tor Bonnier had decided on a Swedish translation before a German original was anywhere near completion. It was therefore a matter of urgency, but Zuckerkandl had botched the job.
In short, it was time for a change, and Bermann Fischer had decided to do something about it. The new editor would take over both titles forthwith. Enough of in-depth studies into the mysteries of chess: Cassirer’s manuscript would be edited with a light touch, as rapidly as possible. He had underlined a number of passages that in his opinion rendered the text cumbersome.
Immanuel had taken a closer look at these, but he hadn’t finished the whole manuscript. He read aloud one of the passages with his suggested amendments.
The publisher nodded his approval. “Then we had the section about the soul and sex; how does that bit sound?”
“I’m letting those lines stand, by and large; I think it’s perfectly clear. It sounds like this now: ‘Such a strong and one-sided rationalism, seldom encountered in men, is expected even less in a woman. But this is a preconception that must be overturned in response to Christina. The soul, she observed, has no sex: l’âme n’a point de sexe.’ ”
The publisher nodded in a way that could only be taken for agreement. The main thing was to get a move on with the publication, he said. Zweig’s symbolic novella might also materialize one day, if only the firm’s editors would stop distracting the author. It had reached the point where Bermann Fischer had quietly discarded a number of the postcards with notes about the philosophy of chess that Zuckerkandl had addressed to Zweig in England.
“The dwarves casting long shadows at culture’s sunset must be a quotation from Nietzsche, I suppose. I think we should steer clear of that sort of thing, however brilliant it may sound. No one else in the publishing house has a taste for the exaggerated rhetoric our colleague Zuckerkandl cultivates with such finesse.”
Immanuel nodded, choosing to interpret the words purely as criticism of his predecessor and thereby curbing the impulse to explain that Nietzsche had nothing to do with it. With some mundane comments on the best way of traveling around the city, the publisher said his farewells and paid the bill at the bar. With a hearty handshake he thanked Immanuel for coming and for declaring his willingness to report to the office the following week. “It will be a great pleasure for the staff to have you with us. There’s quite a jovial atmosphere in the office, despite the difficult times. Miss Stern, my secretary, has proved to be a veritable rock. You’ll work together very well.”
He packed up his manuscripts and donned his hat and coat before hastening down the short staircase. There was a sudden need to be at one of the family’s musical soirées, and naturally he wanted to get home before the first guests arrived, even though Tutti was handling all the practicalities of the evening and would be ably assisted by their daughters.
After the publisher had disappeared into the twilight, Immanuel debated whether to leave or stay for some peace and quiet to read through the day’s articles on the Finno-Russian conflict, which appeared to be escalating into war. He looked around and observed that a lively little group had joined the Englishman. There were two other men and an elegant young woman who looked like a Swedish actress. She was dressed as if for a party and had kept on her wide-brimmed hat. There was no doubt that the man with the slicked-back hair, the one sitting with his back to Immanuel, was dominating the conversation. He was gesturing wildly and evidently had a string of such enthralling tales that the others listened without interrupting. Now and then they burst into laughter, the young woman repeatedly tossing her head back so violently, it was a wonder the hat didn’t fall off. The previously staid gentleman in the checked jacket was in extremely good spirits and raised his glass to each of them in turn with a theatrical flourish. He slapped the man with the raft of stories warmly on the back and then turned to the waiter by the bar, demanding attention.
Immanuel, who had decided it was time to go and was looking forward to telling his wife the reassuring news about the job, put his papers back in his briefcase. It had become too noisy in the bar to concentrate on reading, anyway. The jolly gang were sitting around two small tables immediately adjacent to the stairs, and as Immanuel approached, the man with the slicked-back hair appeared to sense something happening behind him. He twisted round and looked briefly over his shoulder.
How strange! This truly is a small city, Immanuel thought, having immediately recognized the man’s profile. There was no mistake: the man in the gray suit entertaining the party with such aplomb was the British businessman whose acquaintance he had made only a few days earlier.
Alfred Rickman was plainly just as quick to recognize who was coming toward him. He turned, stood up, and held out his right hand.
“Well, good evening! So nice to see you! Let me introduce my friends. I’ve told them about our conversation and that you’re prepared to help us. They’re all very grateful for that. And here’s Biggs himself!”
He flung out his arm in a grand gesture in the checked jacket’s direction, as if introducing an artist.
“This is Ernest Biggs, an advertising mastermind of the highest order. The very same Mr. Biggs I was talking about. I intended to introduce you to each other in my office on Monday, but this way was quicker. Excellent! Excellent!”
With some difficulty Biggs stood up, and Immanuel remembered Rickman saying something obscure about a one-legged war hero. Was he hiding a wooden leg behind the impeccable crease in his trousers? Immanuel had scarcely finished shaking hands with him before attention moved to the slightly older gentleman as Rickman continued with the introductions in a style worthy of a music hall.
“And here we have Sutton-Pratt! Needing no further introduction. We call him the ambassador—to us he will always be the ambassador.”
The middle-aged man looked rather embarrassed. He held out his hand and explained apologetically that he wasn’t an ambassador at all, but he did indeed work for the embassy. Rickman was an aficionado, and to him all the officials in the legation were ambassadors, he said. Everyone laughed merrily.
“And lastly my fiancée, Miss Johansson.” Rickman raised his arm to the woman in the hat. “I met her at the reception desk at Belfrage’s guesthouse. What a godsend, what a godsend! Didn’t you say you were staying there?”
Immanuel knew the guesthouse on Blasieholmen; it had actually been recommended to him before the rooms with the Weil family were arranged. It was a mere stone’s throw from the Grand Hôtel.
“No, we’ve never stayed there. You’re confusing me with someone else. But it’s possible that one of the others at the publishing house has had a room there. Maybe Miss Stern? Bermann Fischer was here, by the way, but he had to go. You’ve only just missed him.”
“But do sit down! This is a wonderful coincidence.” Rickman moved along to make space for another chair by the small round table. He added, “Miss Stern, yes, she has already been extremely accommodating. Kindness itself. A very helpful woman. But won’t you sit down and drink a toast to our future collaboration?”
Immanuel remained on his feet, searching for the right words. He had opened the envelope Rickman had given him when he was alone in the kitchen at home and Lucia was out. It contained anti-Nazi leaflets composed in such poor German that they needed to be completely rewritten. And somehow that task had fallen to him.
He had no desire whatsoever to join this exuberant group of people, who were behaving as though they had something to celebrate. No, it really was high time he was on his way home. But he didn’t want to appear awkward or to offend Rickman.
“We’re in a festive mood here. Our ‘grand opening’ looks as though it’s going to work,” Rickman added, with a meaningful wink.
Immanuel recalled something about a Mr. Grand. “That’s good,” he said. “But I regret my family is waiting, and unfortunately I have to rush away.”
Rickman didn’t look particularly disappointed. He called on everyone to raise their glasses in a symbolic vote of thanks. Immanuel nodded with as much grace as he could muster and turned to the stairs down to the foyer, his heavy briefcase under his arm.
“To our German friend, who has shown himself to be most helpful,” Rickman said, clapping Immanuel heartily on the shoulder. “And incidentally, I’ve forgotten to introduce you to Fraser here, but there’ll be other opportunities. We all look forward to the meeting in the office. Cheers!”