CHAPTER

21

That night Karl’s sleep was dark and deep. He woke up late and didn’t reach the office till nine. As soon as he entered, he sensed that something was wrong. He wondered if the janitors had gone on strike again. The department director’s door was closed, which increased his suspicion. But when he reached his own office, he was relieved to find everything running smoothly. For a full hour he sat and answered letters. In some of the letters he was asked about Hochhut’s plans. His responses were brief and to the point. The gist was: for the moment we must wait. In the afternoon his secretary entered and announced, “Schmidt the lawyer died last night.”

“Which Schmidt?” asked Karl.

“Martin Schmidt.”

The rock fell down from the mountain.

He rushed out and without thinking headed for the Green Eagle, where he had left Martin the night before. As he stood outside the place, he realized the foolishness of having gone there. Still, he opened the door and peeked in. The place was empty and dark. Karl went back out to the street.

“What’s the matter?” he asked himself in his normal voice. He stopped and thought for a moment and then broke into a run in the direction of the hospital. Only once he had come to the Royal Grove did he realize that there was no reason to run.

Dr. Meisler greeted him with a nod. Conversion, Karl realized, had done nothing for the doctor’s face. It had become even more Jewish, and now with his beard, he looked just like his father, who had owned a bakery in the old center.

“I sat with Martin last night until nine,” Karl told him. “He didn’t complain of anything.”

“At a quarter to ten he was dead,” said the doctor, and a pained smile spread on his face.

“How did it happen?” asked Karl.

“Just like that, my dear fellow. Just like that.” The doctor spoke in the manner of an old Jew.

“We quarreled, but in a friendly way,” said Karl.

“This didn’t happen because of one conversation or another.” Meisler absolved him of guilt.

“Aren’t there warning signs?”

“There are, but we usually ignore them.”

Later, he thought of going to see Freddy, but he lingered in the hospital. From the psychiatric ward, which was housed in a separate building, terrible screams were heard. Several hefty patients stood at the barred windows waving their arms at the passersby. No one went near them. The thought that Hochhut, too, was now among them made Karl’s knees buckle momentarily. He started for Meisler’s office, then changed his mind and headed off to find Freddy. The maid told him that peasants had awakened him before dawn and he had gone out to the village and not yet returned.

From there he went down to the river. Memories from their gymnasium years were mingled with visions of the past few days. He thought if he hurried he might meet up with Freddy, who would be returning by way of the bridge. The pale winter light hung wearily on the trees, and heavy shadows spread over the ground. The moist air brought to mind the trips along the river that he and Martin used to take together in the winter. Those were days of great excitement, and hunger, and boundless energy.

The next day he and Freddy sat together in the Green Eagle, lost in the crowd.

“He didn’t take very good care of himself,” said Freddy.

“But he always seemed so strong and self-confident.”

“As a physician, I should have warned him.”

“He insulted me a lot, but I never said a thing to him,” Karl stammered.

Later, Karl spoke angrily about the tragic waste of Martin’s life. He blamed Martin’s wives for embittering him, and nor did he spare Father Merser, who would pressure Martin whenever he needed a big contribution. In the end he said, strangely, “We need to avenge his death.”

The funeral was short and cold. Father Merser, who led the memorial service, spoke of Martin as a Christian whose Christianity had not been inherited but chosen and deliberate. He recalled Martin’s generosity, his many contributions to the church and the orphanage. The heavy odor of incense permeated the air, and Karl found it hard to breathe. Most of those attending were attorneys, along with a few of the judges before whom Martin had argued cases. Everyone sat silently. Martin’s wives didn’t come, not even the one with whom he’d lived in a hotel. No one wept. It was as if everyone had agreed that this is the way one must leave this world. Later, by the grave in the open air, Karl was still having difficulty breathing. A Jewish funeral may be hasty and disorganized, he thought, but it’s human. A funeral without weeping is empty and cruel.

As he walked among the mourners, he passed a grove of trees draped in a thin layer of frost. Karl recognized them. They were the tall birches that surrounded the playing field next to the cemetery. On bright, cold autumn days, the shadows of their thin branches would quiver on the ground with the delicacy of a Japanese painting. In their last gymnasium year, he and Martin had played a lot of volleyball. Martin was one of the best. His leaps at the net were precise and elegant. He rarely missed a shot or a block. Now before his eyes, Karl saw those leaps in slow motion.

The president of the Bar Association read a eulogy praising Martin’s contribution, speaking especially of the organization’s bylaws, which Martin had taken great pains in formulating. Then those in attendance shook hands again and spoke about business and public affairs. Winter was everywhere, and dark clouds moved across the sky.

Meanwhile, Karl remembered that in the second year of gymnasium Martin had written a poem on winter. The teacher, Mrs. Sperber, had praised it and said, “Martin is sensitive to colors and sounds. Let us pray that he doesn’t lose that sensitivity.” The word “pray” had sounded very strange back then. Now that word seemed to return across the distance of years and glow, like Mrs. Sperber’s face, which he had loved to look at.

After the funeral he and Freddy went to Kirzl’s. The place was full of drunks, and they could barely find a place to sit. After the first drink, Freddy started to cry and say strange things: “We’re so few and so isolated, and now we’ve lost Martin too. You could always turn to him.”

“The work you do is so important.” Karl changed the subject.

“It’s a drop in the ocean, believe me.”

“Everything I do is a lie. It’s all manipulation and paperwork. I’m fed up with it,” Karl groaned.

“Martin’s wives really put him through hell. You were smart not to marry.”

“What good has it done me?”

Thus they sat and talked and rambled on, like two old men whom the tempest of life had tossed up on a barren shore.

The next day the anniversary of his father’s death, Karl went to the Jewish cemetery. The guard greeted him and handed him a yarmulke. As he stood among the gravestones, the sight of Martin stayed with him. Before every volleyball game, Martin would skip rope to warm up. The agility of his entire being was expressed in those skips.

“How are you?” the guard asked him.

“My friend Martin was suddenly snatched away.” He couldn’t hold it in.

“I heard. Years ago, when I owned a shop in the center, he would come to me to buy lollipops.”

“We were unable to help him.” Karl couldn’t control his emotions.

“He was always scrupulous about coming on his parents’ Yahrzeit. Just a month ago he was here. He knew the Kaddish by heart.”

“I can’t understand how we failed to see his distress.”

“That’s how life is—short and untidy.”

The evening lights faded on the trees, and Karl returned to Salzburg Boulevard. He was moved by the warmth of the cemetery guard. An old power, a power he hadn’t felt for years, once again throbbed in his arms. It was cold, and he was hurrying home. But a few minutes from the house he suddenly veered off in another direction and soon broke into a run.

In a short time he was standing in the courtyard of the rabbi’s house. Immediately he rushed to the back of the house, leaped in through a window, and shouted, “Get out! Everyone in this part of the house must get out!” There was no answer.

“I repeat: Everyone in here must get out! Otherwise I’ll throw you out!”

The darkness was absolute, but from his corner he could just make out the squatters sprawled on the floor. The smell of beer mixed with tobacco hung in the room.

“Who’s there?” one of them said, getting off his mat.

“Never mind. Just get on your feet and get out.”

“This is our house.”

“It’s not your house. It’s the rabbi’s house. You’re squatting here illegally.”

“What rabbi?”

“The Neufeld rabbi.”

“We’re Christians, if you want to know. What do we care about a rabbi?”

Karl didn’t say another word. He leaped over to the man’s mattress, grabbed him, and pushed him out. Then he made a bundle of his belongings and threw them out the window. Two others, seeing what Karl had done to their companion, shouted, “Thief!” Karl shoved them out too.

“If anyone dares come back in, he’ll regret it. The rabbi is an old man. You are not to disturb him.”

“Who are you?” Another of the squatters woke up.

“I’m from the police.”

“And you’re defending the Jews?”

“We defend all citizens, no matter their religion.”

“Since when? Where are we supposed to sleep?”

“Outside, or in the city shelter, but not here. The whole world isn’t up for grabs.”

“Hey, we’re not kids anymore.”

“We expect a little respect from adults. And I warn you: I’ll personally beat up anyone who threatens the rabbi or extorts money from him.”

“We can’t stay here?”

“Not anymore.” Whoever is found here will get the living daylights beaten out of him. We’re going to make an inspection every night.”

When he got home, Gloria asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

After dinner he told her that he had gone to the cemetery to visit his parents’ graves. The cemetery was well tended, and the headstones hadn’t been damaged. Gloria made no comment and asked no questions. During the summer, before the High Holy Days, she used to visit both Jewish cemeteries of the city, the new one, where Karl’s parents were buried, and the old one, where his Aunt Betty’s grave was.