The Testament (12 page)

I was happy, I’m not ashamed to confess. I was as happy, that is, as the next person. Berlin 1928: even the unhappy were happy.

Happy? I am exaggerating, of course. Let’s say, I was in a good mood. We were having a good time and we were amusing. We were living in the very midst of a farce. The cabarets, the humorists and caricaturists set the tone: those who did not join the laughter were laughable.

Germany in defeat gave the impression that on its soil everything was permissible except taking oneself seriously. Idols were smashed, clergymen defrocked, the sacred was ridiculed and, to get a laugh, laughter was sanctified.

My friends considered themselves Communists, some more so, some less—or at least fellow travelers. They admitted me into their circle, thanks to Bernard Hauptmann, the internationally famous essayist and specialist in medieval poetry, to whom my mentor Ephraim had written of my impending arrival. Where had they met? Had they friends or memories in common? Unlikely, unthinkable. Ephraim in his kaftan and Hauptmann with his foulard were so different. Still, the scholar received me as a friend.

“Oh, so you’re the one dear Ephraim has sent us from Liyanov? Welcome! Berlin needs you.”

Was he making fun of me? He took my suitcase and carried it into what was to be my room. “Come,” he said, “A cup of bad coffee will do you good. A little sandwich too, I imagine.”

We had coffee in the living room. Hauptmann, elegantly dressed as if for the opera, inspected me from head to foot. “Your sidecurls,” he said a moment later, “I see them, or rather I see their traces. You were right to cut them off.”

I blushed. In Bucharest, before boarding the train, I had gone to a barber near the station: “What kind of cut would you like?” “Well, uh, modern, very modern.” A few snips of his scissors and I no longer looked like a Jew, that is, a religious Jew. I knew my father wasn’t going to see me, and still I felt guilty—I was betraying him. But I had no choice, Father; after all, I couldn’t get off the train in Berlin sporting beard and sidecurls, kaftan and black fur hat. I was not exiling myself to advocate Jewish orthodoxy or deepen my studies of Rabbi Shimeon Bar Yohai.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, embarrassed.

“Oh, no! Your sidecurls aren’t visible, it’s just that I see them anyhow. Forget it, my dear traveler from Liyanov. We’ll soon see which gets the upper hand with you—Berlin or Liyanov.”

Astute and eloquent, Bernard Hauptmann, from adolescence on, had singlemindedly indulged his passion—to
turn young religious Jews away from their faith—and he used his fortune, time and intelligence to further that end. With me, the task proved both easy and complex. In theory, I willingly accepted his Marxist atheist influence, but in practice I resisted; I had not forgotten the promise made to my father. The result was rather odd: at night Hauptmann would take me to hear Hayim Warshower thunder against God, but the next morning I would put on my phylacteries, pray to God to protect me from His enemies and bless me with a thirst for knowledge and divine truth, and, above all, to rebuild the holy and eternal city of Jerusalem
in
Jerusalem.

Why this split personality? Out of loyalty to Moses? Oh, no—I did not think of Moses; I had left him in the desert. But I did miss my parents. And a childlike voice in my head whispered that if I stopped putting on the phylacteries,
they
would be punished—a risk I refused to take. Hauptmann, of course, made fun of me, and logically he was not wrong. In his eyes I represented the kind of human weakness that stands as an obstacle between the individual and his salvation; my old attachments alienated me, I was unworthy of his friendship. I felt guilty toward him
and
toward my father. My conflict became deeper. Unable to cope with it any longer, I summoned up enough courage to flee. I moved to an attic in Asylum Street, where I could pray and chant as I liked without having to explain or defend myself.

However, Hauptmann, with the tenacity of a policeman, albeit a friendly policeman, did not let go. At Chez Blum or during gatherings with our cronies he often provoked me. I recall one incident at the café:

“So, Mr. Rabbi? Did you speak to your God today? What does He think of the situation? Don’t forget to keep us up to date.”

Intimidated, I shrugged my shoulders. I was familiar with his arguments about the nefarious power of religion,
the sterility of superannuated rituals, the paralyzing effect of our customs and ceremonies, as well as with his ideas on the dangerous influence of the prophets, the sages and the righteous.

“I prefer not to discuss it,” I said.

“Do you hear? He prefers not to discuss it. And he calls himself a Marxist! And what about dialectics—did you ever hear of them?”

“I prefer not to discuss it,” I repeated stubbornly.

“You’re just running away. You refuse to see, you refuse to hear, you can’t bear being contradicted. And you consider yourself an intellectual? And pretend to sympathize with the Communist Party? Really, Paltiel, you are still in Liyanov with your blind, fanatical, ignorant Jews! Admit it, Paltiel. Admit that you’ve never left Liyanov, admit that you go to the synagogue morning and evening, that you admire the backward fools who put their faith in miracle workers! Admit it and stop putting on an act!”

He stopped to catch his breath.

“You lack understanding, Hauptmann,” I said in a choked voice. “And refinement. You’re free to offend God and insult the masters. But you’re wrong to poke fun at their poor followers who need a little warmth, a little hope. What do you reproach them with, Hauptmann? They’re unhappy and in exile, they haven’t read the books you feed on, they’ve never gone to the schools you teach in—they don’t even know of their existence. Is that their fault? Why poke fun at them, Hauptmann?”

“Hey, how about that, he really loves them!” Hauptmann cried. “He loves them with a passion. Didn’t I tell you? The train has left Liyanov, but our friend is still standing on the platform.”

A roar of laughter greeted this attack. As a speaker, as a polemicist, Hauptmann had no equal. I had to face him alone, I stood alone against all of them.

No, not entirely alone.

“Idiots! What are you all sneering at? You’re a bunch of decadent drunks. What’s happened to your sense of comradeship? Shame on you!”

Stunned, I took a moment to regain my composure. Someone was coming to my defense? I lifted my eyes—it was Inge, Hauptmann’s girlfriend. There was a silence.

“It’s one of two things. Either the God of these poor Jews exists, in which case they do well to address themselves to Him. Or He doesn’t exist, and it’s our first duty to pity them, then to enlighten them—they themselves exist, after all. By what right do you despise them? Since when do Marxists despise human beings?”

Everyone round the table looked at her incredulously but submissively. Challenging Inge entailed risks: no one but Bernard Hauptmann had enough stature to counterattack.

“You’d make a first-class Talmudist,” muttered Hauptmann, trying to hide his annoyance. “If only you spoke Yiddish you could go on a mission to Liyanov.”

This time the barb fell flat. Was this their first quarrel? It certainly was their last. It marked the split between them, and the beginning of a new couple. Inge, my first infatuation, my discovery of love, my first love. I think of her now and I smile. She must have been thirty, perhaps a little less. Beautiful enough—no, the most beautiful of women. Well, I had fallen in love—what else?

Why had she chosen me? Was it her maternal instinct that prompted her to protect a youth assailed by spiteful adults? No matter: I was grateful to her. I would never have dared take the initiative and court her. A rejection, however gentle, would have destroyed me. Inge must have guessed as much. Inge, my first guide, my first refuge, the angel and the demon of my adolescence. Cultured, headstrong yet feminine, she terrorized people; they were afraid of her explosions, her stinging repartee. As for me,
I loved her long dark hair, her black eyes, her sensual lips; looking at her was to follow her into the primitive jungle where anything goes.

I liked the casual, almost untidy way she combed her hair and dressed. It would not have occurred to anyone to ever criticize or compliment her. She allowed no one to judge her. She considered herself free, and was. So was I. I did things with her that would have repelled me with anyone else. All she had to do was look at me, touch my hands or forehead, and every taboo was lifted. If anyone succeeded in making me forget Liyanov, it was she.

Hauptmann was to confide in me later that his former mistress had merely been carrying out the Party’s instructions. She supposedly had been given the mission of completing my political education, which, frankly, left much to be desired. Maybe so. Would I have been less enamored with her had I been aware of that? The fact is I loved her even when she was trying to instruct me in the theories of Engels and company. And I think, in her own way, she loved me. She loved my innocence, my ignorance, my total lack of experience. She loved making me do things for the first time.

The first time …

We had just left a political meeting where Bernfeld, the one with the silly little goatee, had been vehemently defending the revolutionary theories of Trotsky, whom, in fact, he emulated. Hauptmann had contradicted him. In that smoke-filled parlor floor at Chez Blum tension had mounted as in a circus when the acrobat is about to slip and break his neck. Violence was in the air. Interruptions, catcalls, insults: both sides had become inflamed. And, Citizen Magistrate, take note: I was applauding Hauptmann. But when we had to shout to drown out Bernfeld’s answers, I was not up to it. I confess: my accursed timidity once again stopped me from doing my duty. Instead of
bellowing along with the comrades, I murmured my indignation with a weak “No, no, enough.” Luckily the comrades were too busy to see or hear me. Suddenly I felt someone jabbing my ribs. It was Inge, her face alight with passion, obviously enjoying the brawl she seemed to be directing. She was shattering our opponents, making them give in, annihilating them.…

“Paltiel!” she commanded. “Louder! Go to it—louder!”

“I—I can’t.”

“Are you dumb? Shout—that’s an order. Shout, yell! Make some noise!”

“I can’t, Inge, I’m sorry, but …”

“You must! To keep quiet is an act of sabotage.”

Angrily she took my arm and squeezed it hard, very hard, as if to hurt me. But what I felt was pain mixed with pleasure. So confused was I that I could no longer utter even the slightest sound. Bernfeld was singing the praises of Leon Davidovich, Hauptmann those of Vladimir Ilyich, Inge those of Hauptmann. As for myself, I regretted having left my home, my parents, my small provincial town where men and women did not hate and fight one another over a word or a name. Inge kept squeezing my arm and I felt dizzy. Instead of encouraging me, Inge was weakening me. And then her hand slid over mine; our fingers intertwined, and what I felt then, Citizen Magistrate, is not your concern. I was, we were, at the core of the universe. Desire, violent yet soothing, pierced me, scorched me, roused me. And Inge went on shouting, and I went on being silent. My comrades and their adversaries were quarreling over history and human destiny; they were predicting torrents of blood, victory or death for the Revolution, and all I could feel was my own body and Inge’s. I did not dare look at her for fear of losing her. And because I was so afraid of losing her, I repressed my fear and my shame, I smothered my desire and began to shout louder
and louder, like a wild man. Bernfeld could not finish his speech; he lost the battle and so did Trotsky. As for me, I discovered that evening the bond that can exist between the Revolution and a woman’s body.

With Hauptmann and the whole group, we went off to celebrate our victory at the Hunchback’s Tavern, where our credit was still good. I gulped down some wine and promptly passed out.

“It’s the excitement,” said a voice. “His first fight.”

“The boy hasn’t seen anything yet.”

“Are you sick?”

“Too much emotion,” suggested Hauptmann.

“I don’t feel well,” I said weakly. “I’d better go home.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Inge firmly.

Hauptmann tried to dissuade her. “Are you playing nurse? That’s really not your style, my sweet.”

Inge shot him a look filled with such contempt that he was silenced. With considerable effort, I got up. Inge guided me toward the exit. A fresh breeze whipped my face. I breathed voluptuously.

“Shall we go?” said Inge.

She was strong, my guardian angel, stronger than I. I could not have hoped for a stronger support.

“Let’s go.”

What would my landlady say? I decided bravely to worry about that some other time. For the moment I had better things to do. Leaning on Inge, my heart in my mouth, I was aware of my body as never before. My eyes searched the small, empty streets, my ears listened to the sound of our footsteps, my nostrils caught the multitude of stale odors from closed restaurants. Beneath the heavy gray sky, as we skipped over the garbage cans, I discovered in myself a blossoming and beckoning new fear, the fear of learning to know this body that was pulling and pushing, hurting and healing my own. What will my landlady say? The hell
with my landlady. But Inge—what will Inge say if I ask her to stay with me? And I—what shall I say if she accepts?

My landlady said nothing. She was asleep, the whole house was asleep, so was the street, the whole neighborhood. We stopped in front of the door. I took out my key, I hesitated: Open the door very casually and show her in? Or say goodnight, au revoir, see you soon? Inge made the decision for me. She took the key from me, put it in the lock and turned it.

“What floor?” she whispered.

“Fourth.”

She was about to press the switch for the staircase light. I stopped her. The landlady, what would the landlady say if we woke her? Never mind. Inge always carried matches. Let’s go up. Softly, softly, I first, let’s go up the stairs. I stopped in front of my door. There again, Inge took the key from my hands. She found the switch and turned on the light. The disorder did not seem to shock her. She removed my jacket, my belt, unbuttoned my shirt, and without the slightest embarrassment, said, “Into bed!”