jurisprudent
08-15-2010, 08:54 AM
“Love is blindness,
I don’t want to see”
U2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iYXEkRUpFk
She was a beautiful lady. In her long white dress, with a white hat and a red scarf round her neck, she was walking up the staircase in the three-storey house on Johannesplatz, the square with a small fountain, a grocery shop and a tramway. The warden, a man of fifty and more years, had noticed that this young girl with a red scarf comes almost every evening, with an elegant and swift step. Because of the brim of her hat, he could not manage to see her face very well, but he was sure she was a beautiful lady.
The apartment was a small one - a living room, a kitchen and a bedroom; Bastian had turned the living room in a study so that he was sitting next to the open window, overlooking Johannsplatz, and could feel the scent of the night coming in. There was a nice Flemish painting on the wall and the room was neat and tidy, with a vase left on the desk. The desk – Bastian’s jungle of papers, scattered, randomly placed, a conglomerate of confluent information. Often she would sit next to him and start putting the schemes and plans in order, while he was smoking next to the open window, the smoke flying away above the rattling trams, as he was watching her long white hands move graciously in the evening dusk.
When she left her hat on the sofa, he saw her red hairs spray down her shoulders and neck, a luminous, flaming river. He loved that contrast between the paleness of her flesh and the fiery colour of her hair. When she was naked, with him, he would rather lie in the bed, without sheets, in the dark, and observe her gestures, her motion, as if she was a mechanic device he studied cautiously. Her steps were so light, her fingers were so white, as if she was created from a different matter, a mixture of milk, honey and ambrosia, with a streak of divinity. Who was this genius, an unknown engineer, who had manufactured this body, Bastian was not aware of, but he should have been supreme.
Kat left the scarf on the sofa and sat next to Bastian, who was meticulously writing down some figures. She kissed his cheek and his forehead, but remained silent. He was entirely absorbed by his work. When he finished, the two of them moved to the bedroom. The window was open, he was staring at the full moon centred in the black sky, with the puff of cigarettes flowing out from the room. Kat was sleeping, a shock of her red hair lying on his shoulder. “Bliss”, he thought. He was born a Calvinist, but, as a man of sciences, he had never believed in God at his heart. Now, lying next to this warm breathing flesh, he was convinced that Eden did exist. “God exists.” In a strange nature and form, in the seconds of subliminal explosion of sensations, in the sudden sunrays that may reveal an unnoticed patch of her white skin. “God certainly exists”, he thought. The cigarette smoke was hovering, leaving the room, flying to the outside world.
Kat was living with two more girls, Brigitte and Hanna, who were Kat’s former school mates. Brigitte was working on the market, Hanna was in Herr Manlich’s shop, while Kat was in the city library. A big, monumental building, a cathedral of knowledge. She was spending her days in this marble symphony of books, among studies and manuscripts, fetching what the readers wanted, walking to and fro in the stale air of the halls.
Sebastian used to stay in the library from early morning to late evening. At that time he was not yet living in the cozy apartment at Johanessplatz but quite far, on the second floor of an old mill. He had just arrived and was about to start his doctorate thesis in engineering science. He had studied in a different town but, after he graduated, his father, who owned a small factory, suggested that Bastian should widen his knowledge in order to be even better manager of the family business. So he arrived here, in the bigger city, enrolled at the university and started researching. He was spending his days at the library, buried by the massive volumes, and would rarely notice the surrounding world. His desk was always covered by a multitude of papers, schemes, plans, and he was entirely consumed by the vision of his great doctoral work.
Bastian was reading a lot and the late evening sessions were not rare. Often he would walk out, breathe some fresh air, smoke a cigarette, and then return in the almost entirely vacant hall. During one of these short pauses he watched the librarian – a girl in a white dress, with long red hair, walking with some heavy books in hand. He sat there, smoking, studying her graceful gestures, her smile when she was talking with readers. Then he started following her, asking about this and that book, and she would suppress her occasional laughter, as she had already noticed the keen interest of the man. He was funny. Somewhat clumsy, with a sweaty forehead while trying to catch her attention, with the charming chaotic mess of papers that always marked his desk at the library hall.
But he did not ask her out until he had a proper place to live – the small Johannessplatz apartment she loved so much. In the evening, when he would usually leave the library, he got home and stood by the windowpane, smoking, waiting to see her – clad in white, with a hat, the ends of her red hairs resting on her shoulders, while she was crossing the square. The light steps. The graceful moves. Like an apparition. Once the warden asked of the girl’s name and Bastian said she was called Kat. Everybody knew her as Kat. She rarely disclosed her full name, Katriel.
With the beginning of the winter, when the snowfall covered the city streets and the apartment was much warmer than the library, he decided to stay at home and made her move to his place. The flat was small, but they did not care about that. It was so cozy; she bought new curtains, put one more vase, and another, much more cheerful picture of a couple wandering in a French wheat valley under the noon sun. In December, Bastian received a new letter from home – and more money. They started going out in the evenings, in the locals and the cabarets, for one or two drinks in the stuffy foyers full of the dusk and sound of the shows. Kat was watching these performances like a bemused kid – she had never been to the theatre or opera and Bastian wanted to take her to all these places. She was sitting at the edge of the stool, her eyes fixed on the stage, her brown almond-shaped eyes entirely focused and absorbed by the move of the bodies. In these situations Bastian would never talk to her, he would leave her live the enchantment of the show, feel the spell and breathe the magic, so that, when going home, she would energetically dwell on what she had seen. So charmingly. He held her hand; she was so beautiful.
In New Year’s Eve, they were out again, striding in the crowded streets; she was talking about a short play they saw, and he was absent-mindedly listening, watching her boots trample the snow. When they reached the square, they heard loud voices and cries: “Happy new 1933!”. He turned to her, kissed her thin lips, and wished that their life would be forever as perfect as it had been up to that moment.
For her birthday, Bastian bought a necklace; golden, cheap, nice. She was pleased, smiled, kissed him. Then, when she was naked, he gazed at the small necklace she was always wearing beneath her clothes, the silver thing he had never asked her about, and she simply said it was the only thing that was left from her parents. They had both died before she was five; her childhood was a bleak period of constant wandering, without permanent home, without real family, and she had always been fascinated by the idea of a house, a place she can be safe. Bastian’s apartment had become such a haven for her.
The silver necklace had a small silver star, and he recognised, long ago, it was the Star of David he had once seen in a book. But he never talked with her about that. She left the silver necklace in the drawer, put on the new golden one, and kissed Bastian.
As he completed his thesis, he had no official reason to stay in the city and had to return home. Kat’s eyes were filled with tears; she did not know what to do. He said it was just a matter of time to call her to his home town and there they would be married. But he, firstly, had to talk with his family, and Kat agreed. She returned to the place she lived with Brigitte and Hanna. Now Brigitte was singing in a cabaret and Kat was fascinated; “that’s where I would spend my evenings while I wait for Bastian”, she thought. Kat saw him off, went with him to the railway station and held his hand while he was smoking his last cigarette in this city. He kissed her forehead, she smiled, and he disappeared in the train compartment, and then faraway.
The cabaret where Brigitte was working was a vast place; the light was dim, the men were sitting amidst the gush of smoke, drinking, surrounded by beautifully dressed women. But Kat did not notice this; her eyes were focused on the stage. She was laughing, smiling, shouting with fever, waving her hands, almost dancing. The fleeting images of the cabaret nights stayed with her in the daylight, while she was in the library. She could close her eyes and recollect the scenes, the sounds, the smells. Brigitte was ardently talking about the men who used to give her flowers, write poems for her or ask her out. She was a tall blond woman, with a passion for gifts and luxury, wearing expensive lingerie as (she said) “I am food only for the best”. Soon she moved out. Kat was going to the cabaret almost every evening and Brigitte said that there were “certain gentlemen” who were asking of the lady with red hair and pale skin. But Kat had not seen anybody of these men.
In the spring, in the time of rain and showers, Kat received a letter. She smiled - Bastian’s handwriting, a bit chaotic and stray, as usual. Her smile petered out, fading into tears. His father was very sick; the business was in bad condition. His parents insisted that he should marry a local girl, the daughter of the factory’s creditor. She was a pretty girl, but not like Kat. Kat was perfect. Bastian refused. They tried to talk him into, then his father went mad, wrote a new will excluding Bastian from the business. Now he had nothing, nothing at all. Bastian travelled for a few days, thought it over, and finally repented and bowed down. Now the will was torn and there were wedding preparations. I love you, darling, I will always love you, but this is the only thing I can do. Love.
Kat drifted. She walked down the boulevard, with the letter in her pocket, feeling cold. It started to rain, it was getting stronger and heavier, but she was simply walking under the rain, her red hairs wet and sticking to her head. She was striding alone in the deserted streets. The tram passed her by, she stared at the window of Bastian’s former apartment, where a couple was watching the sudden downpour. Kat stopped in front of a red brick wall, there was a swastika painted on it, and she looked to the symbol, understanding that she had never noticed it before. Walking back home, she saw many such symbols, and there was a stirring sensation within, as if she was waking up. Her body was wet, shivering, she threw her clothes and looked at her naked pale skin in the mirror. She could see the web of bluish veins beneath. Kat felt the beat of blood in her chest, in her arms, legs, forehead. The whole world, within and without, had suddenly sprang onto the stage of her life.
The windows of the shop, where she was buying fruits, the place where Hanna worked, were broken one night, and there was an inscription on the wall, rude words against the Jews. Kat began to see many such cases, each day, day after day. She asked what was going on, and Hanna said: “You haven’t noticed what is going on? For years?” Kat shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing special”, she retorted. But, one night, after Brigitte’s show in the cabaret, Kat went to her backstage room and Brigitte told her:
“Listen. You seemed you have never thought about it but… I think it is too late. You might have run away a year or more ago…”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to tell you why. It’s too late to discuss this. I know certain men, dear. I will give you advice, and you should listen to me. Where’s your necklace? The medallion?”
“The one with the Star?”
Brigitte was one of the few who had seen it.
“Throw it away. Destroy it. Nobody should know of it.”
Coming home from the library, one evening Kat saw a group of SA beating Herr Manlich in his shop. He had already repaired the windows, now they were broken again. He was lying in a pool of blood. Kat rushed to the place, entered, and saw the men surrounding the shopkeeper. They turned to her, she stepped back and ran home, faster and faster. There, she took out the necklace, put it in a small box and threw it, early next morning, in a river flowing outside the city. She stood watching the box bouncing on the water, disappearing in the distance. Then she walked back, in the morning echo of a Herr Hitler’s speech broadcasted on the radio.
Brigitte’s show had become magnificent – several dancers, loud furious sound, and she, in a short silver-coloured dress, with her long blond hair, seductive under the cabaret limelight. There was a man who came every night to see her. Usually he was bringing some more with him, too. That evening Kat was in the bar and Brigitte called her to the front table where the men were seated. Kat shyly walked amidst the tables and found herself in the company of two men. Brigitte’s friend, a bit drunk, in a uniform, was singing something in a low voice with a bottle of champagne in hand. “This is a night of celebration “, he said, and Brigitte nodded, looked to Kat’s surprised questioning face, and said loudly “The new laws, he means the new laws!”
The other man, a hefty blond person in a stylish suit, who was smoking a cigar, shook his head, turned to Kat and said: “Dear lady, the new laws come into force. The Nuremberg laws, against Jews. We are celebrating.” He smiled, kissed Kat’s hand and wanted to know her name.
“Kat? – Katherine?”
“Just Kat, Herr.”
“Just Herman”, he replied, and ordered another bottle of champagne.
Herman was a strange man. He did not like talking. Upright, with a well-built physique and clear, almost transparent blue eyes, he was polite, reserved and observant. Kat liked this. His quietude resembled a solid stable ground for her. As she had never had a family and never been part of a community to identify with, she had a strong desire to belong, to be a part of a couple, to have that impressive man she could rely upon. They were meeting at the cabaret, he was always bringing flowers and little gifts. “You have such a beautiful golden necklace”, he said. But she put it off, left it home and never took it out again. Never. Now she had many new things. Rings, earrings. A new golden necklace. Brigitte used to say that Kat should be fortunate, this was a man of great potential. Often they went to weekend picnics. Brigitte, in an aggressive red blouse and skirt, Kat in her white dress and hat, Herman in a brown elegant suit and the other man, Karl, who was always wearing his uniform. The car took them to the outskirts of the city, they placed their camp near the river and the two couples separated, each heading in a different direction.
Kat and Herman reached the river banks and sat there. Herman spoke first.
“It’s time to leave the library. Move to my house. It’s a brilliant place for a couple.”
He placed his hand round her shoulders, she felt the heavy touch, the overwhelming strength. She nodded. Kat knew that was the direction of events. Herman was both mild and strong. Yes, he was secretive, mysterious, but this is what she liked. Deep water in which you can swim without hitting the bottom. “You have never told me of your job”, she said.
Herman smiled. “Should I tell you? You can see it yourself.”
But she had not seen anything. “Tell me.”
“I and Karl serve the State. The Reich and the fuehrer.”
Gestapo. Herman was an aristocrat, his father was a pilot in the World War, died when he was a boy. In 1929 Herman joined the Nazi party. Last year he became a captain. “Karl is a captain too. He will marry Brigitte.”
They looked to the river and the thick web of branches of a willow tree next to them. Herman stretched his hand and lifted a small tattered cardboard box, where he found a silver necklace with a Star of David. He stared at it, disdainfully, for a second, then threw it in the water. Kat watched as it slowly delved the waves, submerging deep beneath.
Herman’s house was in the centre of the city, immense but lonely. His parents were dead, he had no other relatives. Kat embarked upon making this place a lively home. She left her job in the library and started buying furniture, ordering new wallpapers and curtains, paintings and cupboards. He was very satisfied, watched his beautiful girl take up her time in house tasks and could feel the warm tide of her love and regard when coming home. Herman would often stare at her while sleeping, studying the whiteness of her skin, so pale as if transparent, divinely pure. He could touch her breast or stomach and sense the steady beat of blood, of life, under this enticing flesh. “She is my jewel”, he was thinking, “my jewel.”
The house, this big three-storey building with a wide terrace, a vast foyer and a hall of paintings and mirrors, slowly but overwhelmingly became Kat’s fortress. Her entire world. Her niche of existence. She had two servants so she was only rarely going out. She put a small library in the study, filled it with romantic books, and spent the afternoons there, waiting for the coming of Herman. In the evening, they would sit in the living room; he was reading the newspaper and listening to the radio, while she was huddled next to him, estranged from sounds and images. These were instants of complete perfection. Raised without parents, now she felt what atmosphere she could have had. And was devotedly swearing to cling to it.
Sometimes, they went to the cabaret, where Brigitte was still singing, and Kat was bemused again, sitting at the edge of the stool, enchanted by the stage and its sparkle and glitter. Herman was watching her love and enthusiasm with a smile, ordering alcohol, smoking, clapping to the changes in the show. When they went home, she would lie next to him, rest her red-haired head on his shoulder and whisper words of love. “My darling”, Herman said, and kissed the white forehead.
It was the first spring of the War when Herman, arriving one evening, called Kat to his study, closed the door and said: “We are going to Paris. Next week we should be there.” At first, she was simply astonished, surprised. Then, she started to feel at loss, as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted. She did not want to leave the house, to go anywhere else. This house was the castle of her love and life. But Herman was enthusiastic, he was a major now and expected a high profile job in Paris. “And”, he added, “that’s Paris, dear!” Paris! But Kat was sad. She sorrowfully collected the paintings, the curtains, the vases and put them in boxes and cases. “This is our place, our shrine”, she was repeating, but Herman was intent on going.
Kat, who had never travelled anywhere, was surprisedly observing the world on their trip to France. She knew, vaguely, that there was a war going on, but she could not imagine the scale and magnitude. She thought it was a brief action, a tumultuous hour in the long harmonious day. Alas. She was listening to the number of deaths and was feeling so scared. Then she would huddle into Herman’s massive stature, and there she would be safe and sound. The apartment in Paris, where they arrived, was an impressive one – just behind Place Concorde, a former home of aristocrats, with huge windows and long corridors. It was cold, a bit lonely, but nevertheless she liked it. Kat decided to turn that place into her new fortress; hence, she changed everything – rugs and carpets, curtains, paintings, wallpapers, chairs and sofas, so that everything resembled her German home. And now she began to feel happy.
She was going out only with Herman, who took her with his car to the Paris monuments, along Seine, and to the cabarets and locals, where shows were staged for German soldiers and officers. But she missed Brigitte. Her husband, Karl, was sent to the Eastern front and she was crying all the time; that was what she wrote in her letters. Kat found a map and was astonished how far Russia was. She could not even imagine it. In the evenings, the servants, who were French and had a distasteful, sly, gruesome look, used to make fire and Herman and Kat sat by the fireplace, she was lying at his feet, like a mild and calm cat. She loved the feeling of belonging; the whole world was a couple, a bond between two beings, and it ended there. The war, the dead, the angst of the French eyes she could occasionally see – did not exist all. It was a stream of fleeting objects and images.
While Herman was reading reports, she would make coffee and sit next to him, simply watching his fixed stare, the clear eyes, the aristocratic posture of his body. At some instant he would look at her, smile at her white face, kiss her cheek and go on. The reports were important, she knew that. Once, after three or four glasses of perfect French wine, Herman boasted that the time of the “final solution” had come. Kat did not bother to ask him about that. She leaned to his shoulder, and stared at the flickering lights of the chandelier hung from the ceiling. So beautiful. But Herman was excited, he was reading the plans and sometimes he shared with her that he was involved in a large scale operation on French land. A mission of the ages. A feat of Teutons. “If you ever see or find a Jew, dear”, he said, “tell me immediately; immediately. I should get grip of all of them”.
Later, Herman’s face started getting tired, worried. She could sadly see his eyes fill with tears while reading reports. At night, in the wide bed, while she was slowly falling asleep, he could say in an odd voice: “I see it crumble, dear, crumble, and what shall we do then?” Once Kat looked up to him and retorted: “We shall be together, like now.” And he smiled, but with a sense of concealed despair.
That morning she spent in the study, choosing a new sofa from the catalogue. Charles, the servant, was nervously roving in the apartment, and she called him, told him to stay quiet and stop walking about, but he was anxious. “Go home”, she said at last. She could not stand the feeling of pressure and awkwardness. Go home, Charles.
Then Kat was alone in the apartment. The hours were long, she was waiting for Herman to come home, and it was getting late. The phone rang, it was for Herman, a loud, almost shrieking voice from the headquarters, but he was not at home. Kat took a book from the library and read a paragraph on Napoleon and his Russian campaign. Why people do all that, she thought in bewilderment, why don’t they stay at home with their beloved, what else to do? If her husband was not an officer, she thought, if he was a merchant, or a baker, or a scientist, or a university professor, she would have been the same - loving, expectant, sitting and waiting for the door to open as to see him, kiss him, hug him, and everything was always and would always be so beautiful.
It was seven, it was getting darker, so she called the headquarters to ask for Herman, but nobody answered. Strange. She was roaming, randomly passing from one to another vast room, even switched on the radio, something she would rarely do. There was a stream of horrific news coming from it; she was puzzled by all that, she did not even suspect all these things were happening, as if the whole world was in frenzied motion. She switched off the radio. It was nine.
Herman was dead. His body was lying in the street, ripped, bleeding, torn. His face was entirely smashed, and the body was severely crippled, too. As the Paris riot began, the orders to the rebels were to blow up as many officers as they could find. Herman’s car was bomb-attack and destroyed. In the craze of the street battles, his aid-de-camp saw that Herman was killed and called his wife. She was sitting by the window. He said what happened and hung up. She heard the low, mechanic sound of the dead line. The dead line.
Life for the mistresses of Nazi officers was not good. Some tried to run away, other committed suicide. Kat had no chance to move back to Germany, so she was trapped in Paris, in this vast cold apartment. There were no servants anymore. She had to go out to the shop and had to face the other people. She was walking, in her expensive dress, with a hat, her long red hair spraying down; there was a majestic and aristocratic sense in this figure, in this profile. But, surprisingly, people could recognise her; everybody seemed to know who she was. And they were looking at her, with fixed stares, with angry eyes, with malicious intent hidden within. There were shouts, threats, even violence. A woman slapped her and said her husband had been killed by the German. Kat cried; she was standing in the shop, surrounded by a crowd, and her cheek was red. So many eyes around her.
She did not want to go out, to see other people. The radio was her only link with the outside world. She put a photo of Herman - tall, hefty, blond man at the height of his abilities - above the radio. Kat was sitting on the chair, listening to French and English channels, and occasionally looked to the photo, as if this was Herman, alive, well and listening, too. Sometimes she even spoke to the photo. She could not believe what was happening. She imagined a great construction - a massive theatre, a stage cabaret show of the war: Hitler, with a sweating forehead and a shrieking voice, was franticly trying to put off the charges of a violent pack of wolves – the red ones from the East, and two more in the West. Germany was bombed. So many dead, she thought, crying for Herman. What had he done? He was soldier. Soldiers go home after the wars. They could have returned to their German house, to the place of happiness. Let Hitler pay the war he waged.
One day, as she was walking along Seine, breathing the fresh summer air, a passing man hissed, “Murderers” and went away. Murderers. The word reverberated in her head. Later she listened about the horrific find of the Allied forces – in the heart of Germany there were prison camps were Jews were killed or worked to death. She sat and thought, but she could not even imagine that. High walls. Sheds. Ragged bodies, thirst, hunger. Smell of ominous death. She could not imagine it. But she was called to the police and interrogated. Kat knew nothing of Herman’s job. The officer was studying her, seated in her summer dress, hat off, her red hair in a shock, and the golden necklace above her breasts.
“Listen, *****”, he said, “your husband was sending French Jews to the camps.” She sat there, silent, feeling nothing but great confusion. The entire world had been displaced, she resembled a person waking up to find that the day had turned into a night and the place where sleeping was not bed at home but a cold cell for tortures. The officer smoke and watched her, walked around her like a circling shark, and finally slapped her, so strongly that a streak of blood went down from her lower lip to her chin, making a contrasting red line on her white face.
After the war ended, she briefly sold the apartment and left Paris, longing for her home German city. There she found only ruins. The city was bombed many times and her house had disappeared, only the walls of the first floor were lonely standing, sheltering poor and homeless people. She waded through the broken pieces of her life with Herman, finding a burnt photo, a particle of a vase, a torn cloth. She stopped going to the house, it was useless and brought her only tears. Kat hoped that the eyes of anger would not follow her anymore, but they were still there, surrounding her - the people who remembered her and watched her with bits of remorse in their stares. The beautiful lady with the cars. With the Nazi gentleman. We need not know her name, we only need her face, this stamp of shame on her.
She was living in a small apartment and was thinking about going back to the library. The library of calmness and quietude, where people were always polite, knowledgeable, absorbed by their searches, plans and thoughts. She longed to be there again, but half of the library was destroyed, too, and needed reconstruction. One evening, walking home after an attempt to find a job, she saw a man nervously striding to and fro in front of the entrance of her building. She walked on, fearing this might be the father of a child killed in a camp, or a brother of a soldier who had disappeared. All of them hated her. But the man turned to her, looked her and said; “Kat?” She gazed, trying to decipher his face, and shook her head. “Who are you?”
Bastian. That was him. Fatter, with an older face, not very clean clothes, saddened look. She opened the door and they went in, she made a coffee and he said a few words. He had been to the Eastern front, got wounded and returned home. His town was bombed, too, and the factory was destroyed, his wife was killed and their daughter had disappeared. He could not find her. After the end of the war, he decided to move to another place and start from scratch. Arrived at the city and searched for her for three months. Met the warden in the building he had once lived in and he told him that he had seen Kat and where she probably lived.
“You know of my life after we parted?”, she said. He nodded.
Later, when the night was dark and the moon was full, they lay on the bed, naked, older, and felt nothing. No spark. No vibe. No tide. No longing. He lit a cigarette and examined her white body at rest, the same flesh he loved, he dreamed of during all these years. The red hair, gently lying on her shoulders, the brown eyes staring without focus, the slow graceful movement of her legs, thighs, hips. Still so beautiful. But he could not touch her. The years were lying between them, a tumultuous river, a stormy stream of events.
In the morning, he woke up early, made coffee and drank one cup. When she came, her face was red, she had been crying.
“I will be going home. There is a train in two hours.”
“Home? In that town?”
“Yes”
She sat down, poured herself a cup of coffee. Bastian was watching her. Then he stood up and headed to the door. Kat sprang to her feet, held his arm and kissed his cheek. “Stay. Here. We can be together. Life will be again. Love will be again.” Bastian turned to her for an instant.
And, under the open sky, after the maelstrom, the surrounding houses were quickly being rebuilt, from dust and ashes up to the heaven. The sound of reconstruction was reverberating, echoing, above their building, above the other buildings, above that city and above that land, on through the lifetime.
I don’t want to see”
U2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iYXEkRUpFk
She was a beautiful lady. In her long white dress, with a white hat and a red scarf round her neck, she was walking up the staircase in the three-storey house on Johannesplatz, the square with a small fountain, a grocery shop and a tramway. The warden, a man of fifty and more years, had noticed that this young girl with a red scarf comes almost every evening, with an elegant and swift step. Because of the brim of her hat, he could not manage to see her face very well, but he was sure she was a beautiful lady.
The apartment was a small one - a living room, a kitchen and a bedroom; Bastian had turned the living room in a study so that he was sitting next to the open window, overlooking Johannsplatz, and could feel the scent of the night coming in. There was a nice Flemish painting on the wall and the room was neat and tidy, with a vase left on the desk. The desk – Bastian’s jungle of papers, scattered, randomly placed, a conglomerate of confluent information. Often she would sit next to him and start putting the schemes and plans in order, while he was smoking next to the open window, the smoke flying away above the rattling trams, as he was watching her long white hands move graciously in the evening dusk.
When she left her hat on the sofa, he saw her red hairs spray down her shoulders and neck, a luminous, flaming river. He loved that contrast between the paleness of her flesh and the fiery colour of her hair. When she was naked, with him, he would rather lie in the bed, without sheets, in the dark, and observe her gestures, her motion, as if she was a mechanic device he studied cautiously. Her steps were so light, her fingers were so white, as if she was created from a different matter, a mixture of milk, honey and ambrosia, with a streak of divinity. Who was this genius, an unknown engineer, who had manufactured this body, Bastian was not aware of, but he should have been supreme.
Kat left the scarf on the sofa and sat next to Bastian, who was meticulously writing down some figures. She kissed his cheek and his forehead, but remained silent. He was entirely absorbed by his work. When he finished, the two of them moved to the bedroom. The window was open, he was staring at the full moon centred in the black sky, with the puff of cigarettes flowing out from the room. Kat was sleeping, a shock of her red hair lying on his shoulder. “Bliss”, he thought. He was born a Calvinist, but, as a man of sciences, he had never believed in God at his heart. Now, lying next to this warm breathing flesh, he was convinced that Eden did exist. “God exists.” In a strange nature and form, in the seconds of subliminal explosion of sensations, in the sudden sunrays that may reveal an unnoticed patch of her white skin. “God certainly exists”, he thought. The cigarette smoke was hovering, leaving the room, flying to the outside world.
Kat was living with two more girls, Brigitte and Hanna, who were Kat’s former school mates. Brigitte was working on the market, Hanna was in Herr Manlich’s shop, while Kat was in the city library. A big, monumental building, a cathedral of knowledge. She was spending her days in this marble symphony of books, among studies and manuscripts, fetching what the readers wanted, walking to and fro in the stale air of the halls.
Sebastian used to stay in the library from early morning to late evening. At that time he was not yet living in the cozy apartment at Johanessplatz but quite far, on the second floor of an old mill. He had just arrived and was about to start his doctorate thesis in engineering science. He had studied in a different town but, after he graduated, his father, who owned a small factory, suggested that Bastian should widen his knowledge in order to be even better manager of the family business. So he arrived here, in the bigger city, enrolled at the university and started researching. He was spending his days at the library, buried by the massive volumes, and would rarely notice the surrounding world. His desk was always covered by a multitude of papers, schemes, plans, and he was entirely consumed by the vision of his great doctoral work.
Bastian was reading a lot and the late evening sessions were not rare. Often he would walk out, breathe some fresh air, smoke a cigarette, and then return in the almost entirely vacant hall. During one of these short pauses he watched the librarian – a girl in a white dress, with long red hair, walking with some heavy books in hand. He sat there, smoking, studying her graceful gestures, her smile when she was talking with readers. Then he started following her, asking about this and that book, and she would suppress her occasional laughter, as she had already noticed the keen interest of the man. He was funny. Somewhat clumsy, with a sweaty forehead while trying to catch her attention, with the charming chaotic mess of papers that always marked his desk at the library hall.
But he did not ask her out until he had a proper place to live – the small Johannessplatz apartment she loved so much. In the evening, when he would usually leave the library, he got home and stood by the windowpane, smoking, waiting to see her – clad in white, with a hat, the ends of her red hairs resting on her shoulders, while she was crossing the square. The light steps. The graceful moves. Like an apparition. Once the warden asked of the girl’s name and Bastian said she was called Kat. Everybody knew her as Kat. She rarely disclosed her full name, Katriel.
With the beginning of the winter, when the snowfall covered the city streets and the apartment was much warmer than the library, he decided to stay at home and made her move to his place. The flat was small, but they did not care about that. It was so cozy; she bought new curtains, put one more vase, and another, much more cheerful picture of a couple wandering in a French wheat valley under the noon sun. In December, Bastian received a new letter from home – and more money. They started going out in the evenings, in the locals and the cabarets, for one or two drinks in the stuffy foyers full of the dusk and sound of the shows. Kat was watching these performances like a bemused kid – she had never been to the theatre or opera and Bastian wanted to take her to all these places. She was sitting at the edge of the stool, her eyes fixed on the stage, her brown almond-shaped eyes entirely focused and absorbed by the move of the bodies. In these situations Bastian would never talk to her, he would leave her live the enchantment of the show, feel the spell and breathe the magic, so that, when going home, she would energetically dwell on what she had seen. So charmingly. He held her hand; she was so beautiful.
In New Year’s Eve, they were out again, striding in the crowded streets; she was talking about a short play they saw, and he was absent-mindedly listening, watching her boots trample the snow. When they reached the square, they heard loud voices and cries: “Happy new 1933!”. He turned to her, kissed her thin lips, and wished that their life would be forever as perfect as it had been up to that moment.
For her birthday, Bastian bought a necklace; golden, cheap, nice. She was pleased, smiled, kissed him. Then, when she was naked, he gazed at the small necklace she was always wearing beneath her clothes, the silver thing he had never asked her about, and she simply said it was the only thing that was left from her parents. They had both died before she was five; her childhood was a bleak period of constant wandering, without permanent home, without real family, and she had always been fascinated by the idea of a house, a place she can be safe. Bastian’s apartment had become such a haven for her.
The silver necklace had a small silver star, and he recognised, long ago, it was the Star of David he had once seen in a book. But he never talked with her about that. She left the silver necklace in the drawer, put on the new golden one, and kissed Bastian.
As he completed his thesis, he had no official reason to stay in the city and had to return home. Kat’s eyes were filled with tears; she did not know what to do. He said it was just a matter of time to call her to his home town and there they would be married. But he, firstly, had to talk with his family, and Kat agreed. She returned to the place she lived with Brigitte and Hanna. Now Brigitte was singing in a cabaret and Kat was fascinated; “that’s where I would spend my evenings while I wait for Bastian”, she thought. Kat saw him off, went with him to the railway station and held his hand while he was smoking his last cigarette in this city. He kissed her forehead, she smiled, and he disappeared in the train compartment, and then faraway.
The cabaret where Brigitte was working was a vast place; the light was dim, the men were sitting amidst the gush of smoke, drinking, surrounded by beautifully dressed women. But Kat did not notice this; her eyes were focused on the stage. She was laughing, smiling, shouting with fever, waving her hands, almost dancing. The fleeting images of the cabaret nights stayed with her in the daylight, while she was in the library. She could close her eyes and recollect the scenes, the sounds, the smells. Brigitte was ardently talking about the men who used to give her flowers, write poems for her or ask her out. She was a tall blond woman, with a passion for gifts and luxury, wearing expensive lingerie as (she said) “I am food only for the best”. Soon she moved out. Kat was going to the cabaret almost every evening and Brigitte said that there were “certain gentlemen” who were asking of the lady with red hair and pale skin. But Kat had not seen anybody of these men.
In the spring, in the time of rain and showers, Kat received a letter. She smiled - Bastian’s handwriting, a bit chaotic and stray, as usual. Her smile petered out, fading into tears. His father was very sick; the business was in bad condition. His parents insisted that he should marry a local girl, the daughter of the factory’s creditor. She was a pretty girl, but not like Kat. Kat was perfect. Bastian refused. They tried to talk him into, then his father went mad, wrote a new will excluding Bastian from the business. Now he had nothing, nothing at all. Bastian travelled for a few days, thought it over, and finally repented and bowed down. Now the will was torn and there were wedding preparations. I love you, darling, I will always love you, but this is the only thing I can do. Love.
Kat drifted. She walked down the boulevard, with the letter in her pocket, feeling cold. It started to rain, it was getting stronger and heavier, but she was simply walking under the rain, her red hairs wet and sticking to her head. She was striding alone in the deserted streets. The tram passed her by, she stared at the window of Bastian’s former apartment, where a couple was watching the sudden downpour. Kat stopped in front of a red brick wall, there was a swastika painted on it, and she looked to the symbol, understanding that she had never noticed it before. Walking back home, she saw many such symbols, and there was a stirring sensation within, as if she was waking up. Her body was wet, shivering, she threw her clothes and looked at her naked pale skin in the mirror. She could see the web of bluish veins beneath. Kat felt the beat of blood in her chest, in her arms, legs, forehead. The whole world, within and without, had suddenly sprang onto the stage of her life.
The windows of the shop, where she was buying fruits, the place where Hanna worked, were broken one night, and there was an inscription on the wall, rude words against the Jews. Kat began to see many such cases, each day, day after day. She asked what was going on, and Hanna said: “You haven’t noticed what is going on? For years?” Kat shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing special”, she retorted. But, one night, after Brigitte’s show in the cabaret, Kat went to her backstage room and Brigitte told her:
“Listen. You seemed you have never thought about it but… I think it is too late. You might have run away a year or more ago…”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to tell you why. It’s too late to discuss this. I know certain men, dear. I will give you advice, and you should listen to me. Where’s your necklace? The medallion?”
“The one with the Star?”
Brigitte was one of the few who had seen it.
“Throw it away. Destroy it. Nobody should know of it.”
Coming home from the library, one evening Kat saw a group of SA beating Herr Manlich in his shop. He had already repaired the windows, now they were broken again. He was lying in a pool of blood. Kat rushed to the place, entered, and saw the men surrounding the shopkeeper. They turned to her, she stepped back and ran home, faster and faster. There, she took out the necklace, put it in a small box and threw it, early next morning, in a river flowing outside the city. She stood watching the box bouncing on the water, disappearing in the distance. Then she walked back, in the morning echo of a Herr Hitler’s speech broadcasted on the radio.
Brigitte’s show had become magnificent – several dancers, loud furious sound, and she, in a short silver-coloured dress, with her long blond hair, seductive under the cabaret limelight. There was a man who came every night to see her. Usually he was bringing some more with him, too. That evening Kat was in the bar and Brigitte called her to the front table where the men were seated. Kat shyly walked amidst the tables and found herself in the company of two men. Brigitte’s friend, a bit drunk, in a uniform, was singing something in a low voice with a bottle of champagne in hand. “This is a night of celebration “, he said, and Brigitte nodded, looked to Kat’s surprised questioning face, and said loudly “The new laws, he means the new laws!”
The other man, a hefty blond person in a stylish suit, who was smoking a cigar, shook his head, turned to Kat and said: “Dear lady, the new laws come into force. The Nuremberg laws, against Jews. We are celebrating.” He smiled, kissed Kat’s hand and wanted to know her name.
“Kat? – Katherine?”
“Just Kat, Herr.”
“Just Herman”, he replied, and ordered another bottle of champagne.
Herman was a strange man. He did not like talking. Upright, with a well-built physique and clear, almost transparent blue eyes, he was polite, reserved and observant. Kat liked this. His quietude resembled a solid stable ground for her. As she had never had a family and never been part of a community to identify with, she had a strong desire to belong, to be a part of a couple, to have that impressive man she could rely upon. They were meeting at the cabaret, he was always bringing flowers and little gifts. “You have such a beautiful golden necklace”, he said. But she put it off, left it home and never took it out again. Never. Now she had many new things. Rings, earrings. A new golden necklace. Brigitte used to say that Kat should be fortunate, this was a man of great potential. Often they went to weekend picnics. Brigitte, in an aggressive red blouse and skirt, Kat in her white dress and hat, Herman in a brown elegant suit and the other man, Karl, who was always wearing his uniform. The car took them to the outskirts of the city, they placed their camp near the river and the two couples separated, each heading in a different direction.
Kat and Herman reached the river banks and sat there. Herman spoke first.
“It’s time to leave the library. Move to my house. It’s a brilliant place for a couple.”
He placed his hand round her shoulders, she felt the heavy touch, the overwhelming strength. She nodded. Kat knew that was the direction of events. Herman was both mild and strong. Yes, he was secretive, mysterious, but this is what she liked. Deep water in which you can swim without hitting the bottom. “You have never told me of your job”, she said.
Herman smiled. “Should I tell you? You can see it yourself.”
But she had not seen anything. “Tell me.”
“I and Karl serve the State. The Reich and the fuehrer.”
Gestapo. Herman was an aristocrat, his father was a pilot in the World War, died when he was a boy. In 1929 Herman joined the Nazi party. Last year he became a captain. “Karl is a captain too. He will marry Brigitte.”
They looked to the river and the thick web of branches of a willow tree next to them. Herman stretched his hand and lifted a small tattered cardboard box, where he found a silver necklace with a Star of David. He stared at it, disdainfully, for a second, then threw it in the water. Kat watched as it slowly delved the waves, submerging deep beneath.
Herman’s house was in the centre of the city, immense but lonely. His parents were dead, he had no other relatives. Kat embarked upon making this place a lively home. She left her job in the library and started buying furniture, ordering new wallpapers and curtains, paintings and cupboards. He was very satisfied, watched his beautiful girl take up her time in house tasks and could feel the warm tide of her love and regard when coming home. Herman would often stare at her while sleeping, studying the whiteness of her skin, so pale as if transparent, divinely pure. He could touch her breast or stomach and sense the steady beat of blood, of life, under this enticing flesh. “She is my jewel”, he was thinking, “my jewel.”
The house, this big three-storey building with a wide terrace, a vast foyer and a hall of paintings and mirrors, slowly but overwhelmingly became Kat’s fortress. Her entire world. Her niche of existence. She had two servants so she was only rarely going out. She put a small library in the study, filled it with romantic books, and spent the afternoons there, waiting for the coming of Herman. In the evening, they would sit in the living room; he was reading the newspaper and listening to the radio, while she was huddled next to him, estranged from sounds and images. These were instants of complete perfection. Raised without parents, now she felt what atmosphere she could have had. And was devotedly swearing to cling to it.
Sometimes, they went to the cabaret, where Brigitte was still singing, and Kat was bemused again, sitting at the edge of the stool, enchanted by the stage and its sparkle and glitter. Herman was watching her love and enthusiasm with a smile, ordering alcohol, smoking, clapping to the changes in the show. When they went home, she would lie next to him, rest her red-haired head on his shoulder and whisper words of love. “My darling”, Herman said, and kissed the white forehead.
It was the first spring of the War when Herman, arriving one evening, called Kat to his study, closed the door and said: “We are going to Paris. Next week we should be there.” At first, she was simply astonished, surprised. Then, she started to feel at loss, as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted. She did not want to leave the house, to go anywhere else. This house was the castle of her love and life. But Herman was enthusiastic, he was a major now and expected a high profile job in Paris. “And”, he added, “that’s Paris, dear!” Paris! But Kat was sad. She sorrowfully collected the paintings, the curtains, the vases and put them in boxes and cases. “This is our place, our shrine”, she was repeating, but Herman was intent on going.
Kat, who had never travelled anywhere, was surprisedly observing the world on their trip to France. She knew, vaguely, that there was a war going on, but she could not imagine the scale and magnitude. She thought it was a brief action, a tumultuous hour in the long harmonious day. Alas. She was listening to the number of deaths and was feeling so scared. Then she would huddle into Herman’s massive stature, and there she would be safe and sound. The apartment in Paris, where they arrived, was an impressive one – just behind Place Concorde, a former home of aristocrats, with huge windows and long corridors. It was cold, a bit lonely, but nevertheless she liked it. Kat decided to turn that place into her new fortress; hence, she changed everything – rugs and carpets, curtains, paintings, wallpapers, chairs and sofas, so that everything resembled her German home. And now she began to feel happy.
She was going out only with Herman, who took her with his car to the Paris monuments, along Seine, and to the cabarets and locals, where shows were staged for German soldiers and officers. But she missed Brigitte. Her husband, Karl, was sent to the Eastern front and she was crying all the time; that was what she wrote in her letters. Kat found a map and was astonished how far Russia was. She could not even imagine it. In the evenings, the servants, who were French and had a distasteful, sly, gruesome look, used to make fire and Herman and Kat sat by the fireplace, she was lying at his feet, like a mild and calm cat. She loved the feeling of belonging; the whole world was a couple, a bond between two beings, and it ended there. The war, the dead, the angst of the French eyes she could occasionally see – did not exist all. It was a stream of fleeting objects and images.
While Herman was reading reports, she would make coffee and sit next to him, simply watching his fixed stare, the clear eyes, the aristocratic posture of his body. At some instant he would look at her, smile at her white face, kiss her cheek and go on. The reports were important, she knew that. Once, after three or four glasses of perfect French wine, Herman boasted that the time of the “final solution” had come. Kat did not bother to ask him about that. She leaned to his shoulder, and stared at the flickering lights of the chandelier hung from the ceiling. So beautiful. But Herman was excited, he was reading the plans and sometimes he shared with her that he was involved in a large scale operation on French land. A mission of the ages. A feat of Teutons. “If you ever see or find a Jew, dear”, he said, “tell me immediately; immediately. I should get grip of all of them”.
Later, Herman’s face started getting tired, worried. She could sadly see his eyes fill with tears while reading reports. At night, in the wide bed, while she was slowly falling asleep, he could say in an odd voice: “I see it crumble, dear, crumble, and what shall we do then?” Once Kat looked up to him and retorted: “We shall be together, like now.” And he smiled, but with a sense of concealed despair.
That morning she spent in the study, choosing a new sofa from the catalogue. Charles, the servant, was nervously roving in the apartment, and she called him, told him to stay quiet and stop walking about, but he was anxious. “Go home”, she said at last. She could not stand the feeling of pressure and awkwardness. Go home, Charles.
Then Kat was alone in the apartment. The hours were long, she was waiting for Herman to come home, and it was getting late. The phone rang, it was for Herman, a loud, almost shrieking voice from the headquarters, but he was not at home. Kat took a book from the library and read a paragraph on Napoleon and his Russian campaign. Why people do all that, she thought in bewilderment, why don’t they stay at home with their beloved, what else to do? If her husband was not an officer, she thought, if he was a merchant, or a baker, or a scientist, or a university professor, she would have been the same - loving, expectant, sitting and waiting for the door to open as to see him, kiss him, hug him, and everything was always and would always be so beautiful.
It was seven, it was getting darker, so she called the headquarters to ask for Herman, but nobody answered. Strange. She was roaming, randomly passing from one to another vast room, even switched on the radio, something she would rarely do. There was a stream of horrific news coming from it; she was puzzled by all that, she did not even suspect all these things were happening, as if the whole world was in frenzied motion. She switched off the radio. It was nine.
Herman was dead. His body was lying in the street, ripped, bleeding, torn. His face was entirely smashed, and the body was severely crippled, too. As the Paris riot began, the orders to the rebels were to blow up as many officers as they could find. Herman’s car was bomb-attack and destroyed. In the craze of the street battles, his aid-de-camp saw that Herman was killed and called his wife. She was sitting by the window. He said what happened and hung up. She heard the low, mechanic sound of the dead line. The dead line.
Life for the mistresses of Nazi officers was not good. Some tried to run away, other committed suicide. Kat had no chance to move back to Germany, so she was trapped in Paris, in this vast cold apartment. There were no servants anymore. She had to go out to the shop and had to face the other people. She was walking, in her expensive dress, with a hat, her long red hair spraying down; there was a majestic and aristocratic sense in this figure, in this profile. But, surprisingly, people could recognise her; everybody seemed to know who she was. And they were looking at her, with fixed stares, with angry eyes, with malicious intent hidden within. There were shouts, threats, even violence. A woman slapped her and said her husband had been killed by the German. Kat cried; she was standing in the shop, surrounded by a crowd, and her cheek was red. So many eyes around her.
She did not want to go out, to see other people. The radio was her only link with the outside world. She put a photo of Herman - tall, hefty, blond man at the height of his abilities - above the radio. Kat was sitting on the chair, listening to French and English channels, and occasionally looked to the photo, as if this was Herman, alive, well and listening, too. Sometimes she even spoke to the photo. She could not believe what was happening. She imagined a great construction - a massive theatre, a stage cabaret show of the war: Hitler, with a sweating forehead and a shrieking voice, was franticly trying to put off the charges of a violent pack of wolves – the red ones from the East, and two more in the West. Germany was bombed. So many dead, she thought, crying for Herman. What had he done? He was soldier. Soldiers go home after the wars. They could have returned to their German house, to the place of happiness. Let Hitler pay the war he waged.
One day, as she was walking along Seine, breathing the fresh summer air, a passing man hissed, “Murderers” and went away. Murderers. The word reverberated in her head. Later she listened about the horrific find of the Allied forces – in the heart of Germany there were prison camps were Jews were killed or worked to death. She sat and thought, but she could not even imagine that. High walls. Sheds. Ragged bodies, thirst, hunger. Smell of ominous death. She could not imagine it. But she was called to the police and interrogated. Kat knew nothing of Herman’s job. The officer was studying her, seated in her summer dress, hat off, her red hair in a shock, and the golden necklace above her breasts.
“Listen, *****”, he said, “your husband was sending French Jews to the camps.” She sat there, silent, feeling nothing but great confusion. The entire world had been displaced, she resembled a person waking up to find that the day had turned into a night and the place where sleeping was not bed at home but a cold cell for tortures. The officer smoke and watched her, walked around her like a circling shark, and finally slapped her, so strongly that a streak of blood went down from her lower lip to her chin, making a contrasting red line on her white face.
After the war ended, she briefly sold the apartment and left Paris, longing for her home German city. There she found only ruins. The city was bombed many times and her house had disappeared, only the walls of the first floor were lonely standing, sheltering poor and homeless people. She waded through the broken pieces of her life with Herman, finding a burnt photo, a particle of a vase, a torn cloth. She stopped going to the house, it was useless and brought her only tears. Kat hoped that the eyes of anger would not follow her anymore, but they were still there, surrounding her - the people who remembered her and watched her with bits of remorse in their stares. The beautiful lady with the cars. With the Nazi gentleman. We need not know her name, we only need her face, this stamp of shame on her.
She was living in a small apartment and was thinking about going back to the library. The library of calmness and quietude, where people were always polite, knowledgeable, absorbed by their searches, plans and thoughts. She longed to be there again, but half of the library was destroyed, too, and needed reconstruction. One evening, walking home after an attempt to find a job, she saw a man nervously striding to and fro in front of the entrance of her building. She walked on, fearing this might be the father of a child killed in a camp, or a brother of a soldier who had disappeared. All of them hated her. But the man turned to her, looked her and said; “Kat?” She gazed, trying to decipher his face, and shook her head. “Who are you?”
Bastian. That was him. Fatter, with an older face, not very clean clothes, saddened look. She opened the door and they went in, she made a coffee and he said a few words. He had been to the Eastern front, got wounded and returned home. His town was bombed, too, and the factory was destroyed, his wife was killed and their daughter had disappeared. He could not find her. After the end of the war, he decided to move to another place and start from scratch. Arrived at the city and searched for her for three months. Met the warden in the building he had once lived in and he told him that he had seen Kat and where she probably lived.
“You know of my life after we parted?”, she said. He nodded.
Later, when the night was dark and the moon was full, they lay on the bed, naked, older, and felt nothing. No spark. No vibe. No tide. No longing. He lit a cigarette and examined her white body at rest, the same flesh he loved, he dreamed of during all these years. The red hair, gently lying on her shoulders, the brown eyes staring without focus, the slow graceful movement of her legs, thighs, hips. Still so beautiful. But he could not touch her. The years were lying between them, a tumultuous river, a stormy stream of events.
In the morning, he woke up early, made coffee and drank one cup. When she came, her face was red, she had been crying.
“I will be going home. There is a train in two hours.”
“Home? In that town?”
“Yes”
She sat down, poured herself a cup of coffee. Bastian was watching her. Then he stood up and headed to the door. Kat sprang to her feet, held his arm and kissed his cheek. “Stay. Here. We can be together. Life will be again. Love will be again.” Bastian turned to her for an instant.
And, under the open sky, after the maelstrom, the surrounding houses were quickly being rebuilt, from dust and ashes up to the heaven. The sound of reconstruction was reverberating, echoing, above their building, above the other buildings, above that city and above that land, on through the lifetime.