Before I left, I told Einstein: I admire you for your knowledge of the universe. Then he said something I’ll never forget: And I admire you even more for your use of imagination. For imagination, Einstein said, is more important than knowledge. With it you can travel even farther than the most distant star. I can calculate the speed of the light from the stars, said Albert, but you, K, you calculate the stars themselves. I can observe the laws of gravity, but your imagination bends gravity and creates a rainbow out of light.
OCTOBER 1993. ANOTHER K
Did you ever hear of Danny K? my young American friend asked.
Of course. I got to know his films after the war. I loved every one of them. Did you know he had a serious side?
No.
Danny K also starred in a film, Me and the Colonel, based on my friend Franz Werfel’s Jacobowsky and the Colonel. When I saw that Danny K could be both funny and serious, I immediately thought he would be perfect if they ever made a film of “Metamorphosis.” Not the dreary sadness of The Trial, although that has its comic moments too, but a true comedy — why are you sitting there with an open mouth all of a sudden, my boy?
My young friend jumped up. You won’t believe this, he said. This is incredible! Danny and you, the two K’s, were my two heroes. I just met him at a dinner in New York a couple of months ago. I asked him if he read K and Danny said yes. When I asked him his favorite K work, he said, “The Metamorphosis.” Moreover, Danny said he once proposed a film of the story to his studio, starring him, in a comedy.
How brilliant, I replied. With Danny K. A comedy. Just as it should be.
But the studio turned him down, my American friend continued. And then, just as I was making preparations for my Prague trip, poor Danny K died.
I am so sorry to hear this. What a wonderful actor and wonderful man.
I would have wanted to see him in that film. But it didn’t happen.
Lots of things we want in this world do not happen, I said.
I was supposed to make a documentary of him, but that didn’t happen either.
We sat in silence for a while.
Then the young American asked me, Have you written anything over the years?
Aha! Oho! So that’s it! I said with a rather sarcastic edge to my voice. So it’s manuscripts you want. The discovery of the century. The literary find of the millennium. A new work by K.
But my young friend shook his head and said softly, No, it’s just curiosity. I have no intention of seeking gain from your manuscripts or from what you’ve written that hasn’t been published.
He said this so gently and so sincerely I immediately regretted my sarcasm. He does not look like the sort that would seek illicit gain from knowing who I was.
To brighten the mood in the room I told my American friend, Did you know that Thomas Mann called me a “religious humorist”?
Yes, he replied. In his “Homage,” his introduction to the English translation of The Castle.
I said I don’t agree with Mann’s adjective, although the search for God is indeed in my works. But with his noun, “humorist,” I heartily concur.
The young American nodded. He said, I remember that hilarious scene at the beginning of The Castle with Frieda at the bar. And later, when K throws out his two assistants, they pop in through the window. Just like something out of the Marx Brothers. I can just see Harpo and Chico doing that. Of course, they came later.
I know, I said. But you have to remember: I am the Marx Brothers. All three…rather, to be accurate, all five of them.
We both smiled. Then I added: Thomas Mann, by the way, is one of the few who noted that I am basically a humorist, which most people are blind to. Yes, I know, except you. He also quotes Brod that when I read from The Trial, Brod and Werfel and all the others laughed till they cried, as I did too.
NOTE: With the foregoing entry we come to the end of this volume of K’s Journals. The following pages are not from K’s writings. They are by K’s young American friend, the documentary filmmaker, and were forgotten in K’s room. K very likely slipped them into his journal book inadvertently and they surfaced just recently. They shed light on K and are used here with the permission of both K and the author. (K.L.)
~ ~ ~
(Please remember, the first person “I” here is not K, but the American documentary filmmaker speaking.)
I couldn’t wait to get back to see Eva. The other day she had wanted to tell me something but was called to the Jewish Old Age Home and she said she’d tell me next time. Now we began chatting in our usually amiable manner. Mr. Klein was out walking, she said. Again she said she wanted to tell me something.
Eva put her hand on mine. The five fingers of her right hand crisscrossed my five fingers. I couldn’t help comparing the touch of hands. Just the other day K had held my face. Now another member of his household, his landlady, Eva, was holding my fingers. The touch felt the same; soft, warm, loving. But maybe that’s the link, expressed in touch, palpable, non-metaphysical, of the instant contact Jews have with one another.
“What I wanted to tell you…”
My ears, my hearing, all my auditory faculties went out to the quiet street, to the entrance to the house, to the little garden in front, waiting for footfalls, a bell to ring, key in lock, a door slamming that would interrupt and perhaps postpone again what Eva Langbrot wanted to tell me. But no, there was silence. Total stillness.
The door was open, I mean metaphorically, for her to continue.
“You see, it’s like this…”
And she smiled.
So did I. Still, I silently urged her to speed up her revelation.
Eva’s look seemed to say, You’re clever enough to know what’s coming.
But no, I didn’t. I may have been clever enough, but I did not know what was coming. I was curious, in suspense, yes, ever since last time, when she started telling me but was called away. I could have phoned her and I suppose she would have told me. Then again, maybe not. But I wanted to hear it from her in person.
“Only people within our little family know this. No one else.”
And Eva smiled again.
I smiled too.
Eva held my hand, as if by touch her thoughts would osmose into mine and I would know what she was going to say before she said it.
That Mr. Klein, I imagined her telling me, although he likes to claim he’s nearly 111 years old, is really 82 and her slightly older brother, and not a boarder at all in the house but a member of the family who has an idée fixe, quite a harmless one, that he is K, a fact that he rarely reveals and only to members of the family or very dear friends, which I am, given my close relationship to him, and thank God Mr. Klein doesn’t do this publicly like other madmen in Prague, of whom there is no shortage, like those who think they are K’s son, or the Good Soldier Schweik, or Tomàš Masaryk, or Antonin Dvofàk, making fools of themselves and embarrassing their families to their eternal shame, but oh no, not Mr. Klein, he keeps his idée fixe to himself, thank God.
And then she said, “Ah, here he is. Here comes Mr. Klein.” He entered, nodded to each of us.
“Good morning, Papa,” Eva said. And she smiled at me. “Did you have a pleasant walk, Papa?” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Wonderful. As usual…. And how are you, my boy?”