Self's punishment (22 page)

11

Suite in B minor

We arrived toward midday, took rooms in a hotel by the lake, and lunched in the glassed-in veranda, looking out at the colourful boats. The sun beat warmly through the panes. I was nervous thinking about tea at Tyberg’s house. From Locarno a blue cable car goes up to Monti. At the halfway point, where the ascending cabin meets the descending one, there’s a station, Madonna del Sasso, a famous pilgrimage church, not beautiful to look at, but in a beautiful location. We walked that far on the Way of the Cross, strewn with large round pebbles. And then we took the cable car to save ourselves the rest of the climb.

We followed the curving street to Tyberg’s house on the small square with the post office. We were standing in front of a wall at least three metres high that came down to the street, with cast-iron railings running along it. The pavilion on the corner, and the trees and bushes behind the railings, underscored the elevated situation of the house and garden. We rang the bell, opened the heavy door, went up the steps to the front garden, and there facing us was a simple, red-painted, two-level house. Next to the entrance we saw a garden table and chairs, like the ones in beer-gardens. The table was awash with books and manuscripts. Tyberg unwrapped himself from a camel-hair blanket and came towards us, tall, with a slightly bent forward gait, a full head of white hair, a neat, short-trimmed grey beard, and bushy eyebrows. He was wearing a pair of half-spectacles, over the top of which he was now looking at us with curious brown eyes.

‘Dear Frau Buchendorff, lovely that you thought of me. And this is your good uncle. You are also welcome to Villa Sempreverde. We’ve met before, your niece tells me. No, wait,’ he deflected me as I was about to start talking, ‘I’ll work it out on my own. I’m working on my memoirs at the moment,’ he indicated the table, ‘and like to practise jogging my memory.’

He led us through the house to the back garden. ‘Shall we walk a little? The butler will make tea.’

The garden path followed the mountain upwards. Tyberg enquired after Judith’s health, her plans, her work at the RCW. He had a quiet, pleasant manner of putting his questions, and showing his interest to Judith by small observations. Nonetheless I was amazed at how openly Judith, albeit not mentioning my name or role in it all, recounted her departure from the RCW. And just as amazed at Tyberg’s reaction. He was neither sceptical regarding Judith’s picture of events, nor enraged by any of the participants, from Mischkey to Korten, nor did he express condolence or regret. He simply registered Judith’s account attentively.

With tea the butler brought us pastries. We sat in a large chamber with a grand piano that Tyberg referred to as the music room. Discussion had turned to the economic situation. Judith juggled with capital and labour, input and output, the balance of trade, and the gross national product. Tyberg and I connected over the notion of the Balkanization of the Federal Republic of Germany. He agreed so swiftly that to begin with I feared he’d misunderstood me and thought I meant there were too many Turks. But his mind, too, was on the decrease in the number of trains and in their punctuality, and how the post office worked less and continuously less reliably, and the police were getting more shameless by the day.

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Also there are so many regulations that not even the bureaucrats themselves take them seriously any more, instead they apply them either rigidly or sloppily entirely by whim, and sometimes don’t apply them at all. I often wonder what sort of industrial society is going to grow out of all this. Post-democratic feudal bureaucracy?’

I love discussions like this. Unfortunately, although he may read a book now and again, Philipp’s sole interest is women, and Eberhard’s horizon doesn’t go beyond the sixty-four squares. Willy had thought in grand evolutionary perspectives and toyed with the idea that the world, or what humans leave of it, will be taken over by birds in the next millennium.

Tyberg scrutinized me for a long time. ‘Of course. Being Frau Buchendorff’s uncle doesn’t mean you have to be called Buchendorff. You are the retired public prosecutor Doctor Self.’

‘Not retired, dropped out in nineteen forty-five.’

‘Made to drop out, I bet,’ said Tyberg.

I didn’t want to explain myself. Judith noticed and jumped in. ‘Just leaving doesn’t mean much. Most of them went back. Uncle Gerd didn’t, not because he couldn’t, but because he no longer wanted to.’

Tyberg continued to look at me probingly. I felt ill at ease. What do you say to someone sitting opposite you whom you almost sent to the gallows due to an erroneous investigation? Tyberg wanted to know more. ‘So you didn’t want to remain a public prosecutor after nineteen forty-five. That’s interesting. What were your reasons?’

‘When I tried to explain it to Judith once she found my reasons to be more aesthetic than moral. I was disgusted by the attitude of my colleagues during and after their re-employment, the lack of any awareness of their own guilt. All right, I could have got involved again if I’d had a different attitude and kept the guilt in mind. But I’d have felt like an outsider, and so I preferred to stay properly outside.’

‘The longer you sit there facing me, the clearer I see you as the young prosecutor. Of course you’ve changed. But there’s still that sparkle in your eyes, more mischievous now, and that cleft in your chin was already a dimple back then. What were you thinking of, to wipe the floor with Dohmke and me like that? I’ve just been working on the trial in my memoirs.’

‘The trial came up again for me recently, as well. That’s why I’m glad to be able to talk to you. In San Francisco I met the partner of the late prosecution witness Professor Weinstein and discovered his testimony was false. Someone from the Works and an SS officer put pressure on him. Do you have any idea, or do you even know who could have had an interest in your and Dohmke’s disappearance? I hate to have been used as the tool of unknown interests.’

Tyberg rang a bell, the butler appeared, tidied up, and served sherry. Tyberg sat there, frowning, staring into space. ‘I started pondering this in prison while I was awaiting trial, and to this day I have found no answer. Time and again I’ve thought of Weismüller. That was also the reason I didn’t want to return to RCW immediately after the war. But I’ve no confirmation for this notion. I’ve also been preoccupied for a long time by how Weinstein could have given that testimony. That he made it to my desk, found the manuscript in the drawer, misinterpreted it, and reported me, I found devastating enough. But his testimony about a conversation between Dohmke and myself that never took place was even more devastating. I wondered if it was all for a few advantages at the camp. Now I hear he was forced. It must have been terrible for him. Did his partner know and tell you that he tried to contact me after the war, and I refused? I was too hurt and he must have been too proud to tell me in his letter about the pressure he’d been under.’

‘What happened to your research at the RCW, Herr Tyberg?’

‘Korten kept going with it. It was the result anyway of close cooperation between Korten, Dohmke, and myself. The three of us had also made the decision together that we would only pursue the one path to begin with, and put the other on the backburner. The whole thing was our baby, you see, that we jealously hatched and tended and didn’t let anyone near. We didn’t even let Weinstein into our confidence although he was an important part of our team, scientifically almost on equal footing. But you wanted to know what happened to our research. Since the oil crisis I wonder sometimes if it won’t become highly topical again all of a sudden. Fuel synthesis. We’d gone at it a different way from Bergius, Tropsch, and Fischer because from the outset we attributed great significance to the cost factor. Korten continued the development of our process with great dedication, and readied it for production. That work was, quite rightly, the basis of his swift ascent in the RCW even though after the end of the war the process itself was no longer of importance. Korten, I believe, had it patented, though, as the Dohmke-Korten-Tyberg process.’

‘I don’t know if you realize how dreadful I feel that Dohmke was hanged; and equally how happy I am that you managed to escape. It’s mere curiosity, of course, but would you mind telling me how you did it?’

‘That’s sort of a long story. I want to tell you, but . . . you will stay for dinner, won’t you? How about afterwards? I’ll just let them know so the butler can prepare the food and make a fire. And until then . . . Do you play an instrument, Herr Self?’

‘The flute, but I haven’t had any time to play all summer and autumn.’

He stood up, fetched a flute case from the Biedermeier cupboard and had me open it. ‘Do you think you can play this?’ It was a Buffet. I put it together and played a few scales. It had a wonderfully soft, yet clear tone, jubilant in the high reaches, in spite of my bad intonation after the long break. ‘Do you like Bach? How about the Suite in B minor?’

We played until dinner, after the Suite in B minor, Mozart’s Concerto in D major. He played the piano confidently and with great expression. I had to bluff my way through some of the fast passages. At the end of the pieces Judith laid her knitting aside and clapped.

We ate duck with chestnut stuffing, dumplings, and red cabbage. The wine was new to me, a fruity Merlot from Tessin. By the fire, Tyberg asked us to keep his story to ourselves. It would be made public soon, but until then discretion would be appreciated. ‘I was in Bruchsal Penitentiary, in the death cell waiting for my execution.’ He described the cell, the everyday routine on death row, knocking on the wall to communicate with Dohmke in the neighbouring cell, the morning Dohmke was taken away. ‘A few days later I was also taken, in the middle of the night. Two members of the SS were demanding my transfer to a concentration camp. And then I realized one of the SS officers was Korten.’ That same night he had been taken over the border beyond Lörrach by Korten and the other SS man. On the other side two gentlemen from Hoffmann La Roche were waiting for him. ‘The next morning I was drinking chocolate and eating croissants, as though it were the middle of peacetime.’

He could tell a good story. Judith and I listened, captivated. Korten. Again and again he filled me with amazement, or even admiration. ‘But why couldn’t this be made public?’

‘Korten is more modest than he appears. He emphatically asked me to hush up his role in my escape. I’ve always respected that, not only as a modest, but also as a wise gesture. The deed wouldn’t have sat well with the image of a top industrialist that he was fashioning then. It was only this summer that I revealed the secret. Korten’s standing is universally recognized these days, and I think he’ll be happy if the story appears in the portrait that
Die Zeit
wants to do next spring when he turns seventy. That’s why I told the reporter who was here doing research for the portrait some months ago.’

He put another log on the fire. It was eleven o’clock.

‘One other question, Frau Buchendorff, before the evening’s over. Would you care to work for me? Since I’ve been writing my memoirs I’ve been looking for someone to conduct research for me in the RCW archive, in other archives and in libraries, someone who’ll read things over with a critical eye, who’ll get used to my handwriting and type the final manuscript. I’d be happy if you could start on the first of January. You would be based mostly in Mannheim, and be here for an occasional week or two. The pay wouldn’t be worse than before. Think it over until tomorrow afternoon, give me a call, and if you say yes, we can discuss details tomorrow.’

He escorted us to the garden gate. The butler was waiting with the Jaguar to take us back to the hotel. Judith and Tyberg said goodbye with a kiss to the left and right cheek. When I shook his hand he smiled at me and winked. ‘Will we meet again, Uncle Gerd?’

12

Champagne and sardines on my own

At breakfast Judith asked what I thought of Tyberg’s proposal.

‘I liked him,’ I began.

‘I’m sure you did. You were quite a number, you two. When the prosecutor and his victim adjourned for chamber music, I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s all very well that you like him, so do I, but what do you think of his proposal?’

‘Accept it, Judith. I don’t believe a better thing could come along for you.’

‘And that I interest him as a woman doesn’t make the job difficult?’

‘But that can happen in any workplace, you’ll be able to deal with it. And Tyberg is a gentleman, he won’t grope you under your skirt during dictation.’

‘What will I do when he’s finished with his memoirs?’

‘I’ll come back to that in a minute.’ I stood, went over to the breakfast buffet, and, as a finale, helped myself to a crisp-bread with honey. Well, well, I thought. What kind of security is she after? Back at the table I said, ‘He’ll find you something. That should be the last of your worries.’

‘I’ll think it over again on a walk along the lake. Shall we meet for lunch?’

I knew how things would unfold. She’d accept the job, call Tyberg at four, and discuss details with him into the evening. I decided to look for my holiday home, left Judith a message wishing her luck in her negotiations with Tyberg, and drove off along the lake to Brissago, where I was transported by boat to Isola Bella and ate lunch. Afterwards I turned towards the mountains and drove in a wide sweep that took me down by Ascona to the lake once more. There was an abundance of holiday homes, that I could see. But then to reduce my life expectancy so drastically to be able to buy one from my life insurance, no, that didn’t appeal to me. Perhaps Tyberg would invite me to stay for the next vacation anyway.

When darkness fell I was back in Locarno, strolling through the festively decorated town. I was looking for sardine cans for my Christmas tree. In a delicatessen beneath the arcades I came across some Portuguese vintage sardines. I took two recent tins, one from last year in glowing greens and reds, the other from two years ago in simple white with gold lettering.

Back at the hotel reception a message was waiting from Tyberg. He’d like to have me picked up for dinner. Instead of calling him and having myself picked up I went to the hotel sauna, spent three pleasant hours there, and lay down in bed. Before falling asleep I wrote Tyberg a short letter, thanking him.

At eleven-thirty Judith knocked at my door. I opened up. She complimented me on my nightshirt, and we agreed on a departure time of eight o’clock.

‘Are you content with your decision?’ I asked.

‘Yes. The work on the memoirs will last two years, and Tyberg has already been giving some thought to afterwards.’

‘Wonderful. Then sleep well.’

I’d forgotten to open the window and was awakened by my dream. I was sleeping with Judith who, however, was the daughter I’d never had and was wearing a ridiculous red hula skirt. When I opened a can of sardines for the two of us, Tyberg came out, growing bigger and bigger, until he filled the whole room. I felt stifled and woke up.

I couldn’t go back to sleep and was glad when it was time for breakfast, even gladder when we were on the road at last. Beyond the Gotthard tunnel, winter began again, and it took us seven hours to reach Mannheim. I’d actually intended to visit Sergej that day, in hospital after a repeat operation, but I wasn’t up to it now. I invited Judith in for some champagne to celebrate her new job, but she had a headache.

So I had champagne and sardines on my own.