Berlin Cantata (16 page)

HOLLY ANHOLT

Fear

THERE WAS NEVER A MOMENT
when I entirely got over the anxiety I felt for having made my bargain with the Schiessls. Nobody, not Anja, not even Nils, could quite convince me that it was not in some way a fraud. Anja did her best. She explained that my parents were precisely the sort of people that the claims law was intended to benefit, and that I was of course their rightful heir and there was no reason there could not be a mutual rescission of the subsequent sale my father made to Schiessl, in the interests of justice and so on. But it still felt like a fraud. A little bit, anyway. And if it was a little bit fraudulent, wasn't I? I began to have fears that someone in the house, Simona or Mrs. Baum, would discover the little irregularity and hire a lawyer and it would be in all the papers, headlines to be imagined, but something about an American woman making a deal with Nazis to force some honest Germans out. The propaganda I found on my windshield of course aggravated those feelings.

Even the piece of paper with my father's signature, the bill of sale, caused me to cringe when I thought of it. The two pieces of paper, really; the Schiessls' copy and mine. I wished they didn't exist anymore, I wished I didn't have to think about them. But of course the Schiessls wouldn't want that; the pieces of paper were what they had to hold me to my end of the bargain. But then what was my hold on them? We hadn't even committed our arrangement to paper, the lawyers had agreed it was better not to, it was all done on a handshake. There were nights when I imagined the Schiessls finally taking it all, taking my inheritance, and what was I going to do? Anja said I could sue and win for sure. But would I really file a suit against the Nazis in which our whole deal together would come out? Even Nils would be tempted to write that one up for his paper.

With the news that our claim would be coming up soon, my fears intensified. I was living in Velden now. Was I really ready to sell it? I tried to imagine Anja going to their lawyer Rosenthaler with a little request, “you see my client is involved in this little psychodrama, she needs a little time, can we sell the place in a year or two?” Even the thought of dealing again with Rosenthaler disturbed me. And it disturbed me that I had never met the Schiessls, that I had gone a little bit out of my way not to, or it was they who were avoiding me. It seemed craven of me not to know what they looked like, what they sounded like. I should go, I should seek them out. Maybe they'd be like Nils' parents, maybe that was the template I should be considering, rosy-cheeked people who made jokes and baked all day. But I didn't believe that. I continued to believe that I'd made a pact with the devil.

And I missed Nils, missed the chance to sort it all out with him, to be held and advised.

DAVID FÜRST

Work

ONE STRATAGEM I DEVISED
for revving the motor of Skin Enterprises was to get on the American television program
60 Minutes.
If we couldn't sell cars in Germany, why not America? Or better still, a rebound, the Germans discover my product through its popularity in the States. I present myself as a post-Cold War hero, the evil empire is slain, but into its ruins comes the enterprising hero, making free market lemonade from the old Commie lemons. And better still, for American tastes, the Jew and the neo-Nazis. I recalled from my three years in New York the phrase: what could be bad? I introduced this idea to my satisfied customer the American girl Holly Anholt on the day that she and I and her then-boyfriend Nils and our then-alive friend Oksana Koslova picnicked on the Wannsee.

“Well why not? You might as well try,” she said. I could tell from her furrowed brow that she was trying very hard not to tell me that my idea was about as likely as a great white shark leaping out of the lake and eating our lunch but leaving us alone.

“Do you know anyone at
60 Minutes
?” I asked hopefully.

“Of course not.”

“Just my luck, I meet one American a year, they know no one at
60 Minutes.
”

She needn't have added that America is quite a large country,
et cetera
. It was only then I felt my bitter disappointment.

I made calls to the
60 Minutes
offices in New York, I sent special delivery letters and faxes. I continued to wait for a response.

It is no small sadness when others don't see the human interest in your case.

Though in this regard I have a small item to brag about. I did a wholly gratuitous favor for the American girl. I had not a single ulterior motive which I could accuse myself of. It was after she and Nils had split and she was living in the country all the time. I had a friend in Dahlem who had come into possession of a Greek pot and wanted an opinion as to its authenticity and quality. I recalled that such work or something much like it was what Miss Anholt had been doing in Paris. I phoned her up. She was both surprised, and, if I may say so, ecstatic. I heard later that she thought it was a terrible pot. But she continued to be grateful. She sent me a bottle of champagne.

HOLLY ANHOLT

Pot

A FOURTH CENTURY GREEK KRATER
arrived by messenger in Velden, courtesy of David Fürst. It was a joy for me just to see the crate. My life went on. My life had continuity. Work makes you free, that cruel old cliché again, exhibit A for the slipperiness of words. But work anchored, anyway. Even a little work anchored. It was, when I got the packing straps and bubble wrap off it, a disappointing pot. Three young men chasing a dog, but the faces of all three men were obliterated and the dog was little more than a stick figure. Still, I allowed myself what I always allowed myself with artifacts, a few moments in an otherness so profound it seemed to wake me from the world I came from.

GERTRUDE BAUM

Sister

I WILL TELL YOU EVERYTHING
. Why should I not? I have nothing to be ashamed of. People think we should be ashamed, but this is only because they think nothing of us. We are here. We have been here.

Of course for a certain period there were certain things we didn't say. I kept my peace as others did. You can call this hiding if you wish. I don't know what you call it, nor do I care. We are old people. Our lives are done. It would be better if you just left us alone.

But I'm not stupid. I see this is not possible. I can see that there is money involved. She comes to the Writers House and she denies this, of course. She denies this has to do with money and owning things. No, she says, this is about her parents, finding out this and that. We don't believe in these stupid things you see on the television. The American discovering herself. Oh please. We are in enough pain already. This was our attitude.

If you wish to explore, go discover America. Or better, go to the moon. Go do your exploring on the moon. Don't come here and tell us you're exploring. Explore what? Oh, please. Do you think we are Indians?

This also was our attitude.

She was not the only one, of course. If she was the only one, perhaps we could accept. There was also the woman who wanted Anspach's house. In her S car and her ski parka with jewels that must have cost thousands, telling Anspach he must tidy up, sweep his walk, for it would all soon be hers. Why should it soon be hers? Because her father lost it, Anspach should lose it now? I had no love of Anspach, you understand. What a seedy man. But no wonder his mind went over the cliff. He set a fire, you know. He set a fire and then he goes and hangs himself. If the police had not come, I don't know if he would have hung himself. The claims office. It was this he set fire to. You could read it in the news. If the deeds were lost, he thought, then claims couldn't be made. But he was mistaken. There must be copies somewhere. The police came. He hung himself.

He was a seedy man, but he had ideas. Do you know he turned his house into a museum? Museum of Colonization. Come see his photos! The woman in her parka, his tormentor! Even one or two of the American girl, who was ours! Do you know what he did to the American girl? I should not put it quite that way, did “to” her. He gave her a cake which he baked himself. He brought it to her. Then she sees that it is green and shaped like her American money. The sign for it. Everyone was very sober then. We didn't laugh. To laugh out loud, it would be impolite.

So Anspach hung himself from the rafter like a side of beef. But he was not a side of beef. Nor was he always this way. The changes did this to him.

Have you a picture yet of our village? I am not a busybody. Any who say so are jealous liars. It soon became impossible even to have a job without the others being jealous. This too, you see, we laid at their feet. Before, we were poor but we had jobs and houses. Poor jobs, poor houses, who cared? We were all the same.

Then comes Miss Anholt, the American girl. Miss Anholt this, Miss Anholt that. Who could not think of her? And with her terrible German. Yes, she could speak German, she would try, always, of course. But it was terrible, a child would not speak it. We should all speak English to her? Of course not, thank you very much. A thousand times better she should not understand us! And why was she “Miss,” why was she not married? She was pretty enough. I'm not saying to be
still
married, but not married ever? This was curious. She made no sense, in our eyes. Or it was too difficult to see. She had money as well. So why never a husband? She must have a terrible flaw.

You see, when people wish to hold something against someone, they can find many things.

She came, the very first thing, she took her tray to her room. Now there is a sign in the kitchen, big as you please, DO NOT REMOVE TRAYS FROM KITCHEN. So I say something. Of course she pretends to be apologetic. The next thing I know, the next morning, she has taken everything back down to the kitchen, her tray, her tea, all of it. So I said to her, again, “If you do that, what is there for me to do? It's my job. I am housekeeper.” You can't win with these people.

I asked her very plain, very polite, if the Writers House becomes yours, are you going to let us all go? Not only myself, but for Mrs. Kirschner also, and Giessen, I asked. Of course. I wouldn't ask only for myself. And she says to me, “I do not know.” She didn't know! If she didn't know, what was she doing here? I said this to her. She had no answer at all. Again she apologized. I spit on apologies. What do they get you? Can you buy bread with an apology? Her apologies were only an excuse.

Now you will say, with all this hatred of her, how did I become the one who would help her? But I didn't hate her. Yes, I did not like her. I did not like her coming here. But why should I hate such a silly girl?

Of course she was silly. What else could we think? We can scarcely deal with today and she comes only thinking of yesterday. And because she is thinking of yesterday, our todays become harder. Did she notice this?

Oh yes, she says, I'm so sorry for this, so sorry for that. Then go home, Miss, and thank you very much.

But, oh, this wonderful past of hers. This is the joke, of course. This is where you see.

How many times, she talks on the telephone, not to me of course, but on the telephone, to this person or that person, all this about how happy her parents were, how happy they were when they were here.

But if they were happy, why did they hide in the woods? I'm not stupid. I understand. The fascists. All I am saying is that she viewed time one way when there were other ways too.

And then of course she wasn't content. If she could be content, that would be one thing. Alright, here is the house where they were happy, so sit and stare at the trees or the bookcases or whatever is so contentment-making and be content. But no sooner is she sitting here, then she wishes to find where they had to hide. She wishes to find their
dis
-content. So that she can be discontent herself? You see it makes no sense. She brings her discontent with her. It is our misfortune.

Again, I am not stupid. I understand that she wants the
whole story.
But why? At whose expense?

So, yes, no one helped her. No one said, “I'll help you with this or that.” Until I did.

Why should they? They could be kicked out. She could make who knew what more problems. Isn't it always the messenger who is punished?

But then why did I? Because I have a big heart, of course. I have always had a big heart. Even my mother said so. She said, “Your big heart and your big mouth, together they'll get you in trouble, Trudi.” Of course they have.

But how could I help myself? When Anspach hung himself, everyone gathered in his house. This was before the police came or the ambulance. Such a mad house, with all of poor Anspach's displays, all his photos and all. No one dared touch him. No one cut him down. He hung there. It was very sorry. Until Miss Anholt came. You know you hear these things, Americans do this and do that, it's all very unbelievable and silly, but in fact in this case Miss Anholt saw poor Anspach hanging, and who knew what she felt or why, but she took a stool and climbed on it. It was all very unbelievable. Everyone watched her as if she was as mad as Anspach, but in this case she wasn't mad, I suppose she just couldn't stand watching him hang there or some such thing. With a kitchen knife that Giessen passed her, she sawed on the rope, and even I, I admit, and Giessen, held her stool so she wouldn't fall – I believe Giessen also finally sawed as well, which was surprising to say the least – and when Anspach's poor body slumped, it slumped on us and on her, too, but we did get it to the floor and laid him out there.

So you see. This is why. Only this. A simple reason. She acted once like a human being.

You can't imagine the impression this made. Though on the others, I'm less sure. Why did she do this? How did she do this, or even think to do this? Why didn't she only stand in horror and wait for the police? I believe, actually, she didn't know better.

Or she could have been, in her own way, as desperate as we are.