“That was my impression, too.”
“That’s not to say that he might not have forgotten to take his pills. On the first day you stop, things are still fine. On the second day, too. But on the third day, significant blackouts can occur. Think of it in these terms: on day one and day two he wouldn’t have felt all that well, thinking it might be the weather or the extra glass of beer he’d had the night before, or just that he was having a bad day, the way one sometimes does. On the third day, he wouldn’t have been in a state to think a lot.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
“What?”
“That someone who takes a medication year after year might suddenly forget to take it.”
Philipp threw up his hands. “If there’s anything you learn as a doctor, it’s that patients come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps Schuler had had enough of his medications, or he’d been feeling so well taking them all that time that he felt he didn’t need them anymore, or he took the wrong pills by mistake.”
“Or none of the above.”
“Sorry, but that’s the way it is. Maybe Schuler took his pills day in and day out and simply drank too much beer in the evening. Don’t start going after false leads, Gerhard! And take care of your heart!”
10 Old poop
10 Old poop
Then Georg came back from Berlin. He had managed to keep out of the way of the skinheads, and of the others, too. And he had found the restitution file of Laban’s nephew.
“Putting in a claim for restitution was almost as painful as losing the things one was putting in for,” Georg said. “Two silver candelabras, twelve silver knives, forks, soup and dessert spoons, twelve soup plates and twelve dinner plates, a sideboard, a leather sofa and armchairs; estimated value, date of purchase, length of use, receipts or other documents of proof of ownership, witness statements, explanations as to why the estimates are being furnished in this manner, why the property was relinquished, are there witnesses that the apartment was ransacked during Kristallnacht, were the losses reported to the police, to the insurance company-perhaps there was no other way, but this was terrible. And yet Laban’s nephew seemed to have done rather well in London. He had a place in Hampstead and a gallery that still exists and has a good name.”
We were again sitting in my office, across from each other. Georg’s face was beaming with enthusiasm. He was proud of what he had discovered and wanted to stay the course, find out more, find out everything.
“What more can there be to know?” I said.
He looked at me as if I had asked a foolish question. “Things like where he got the money to live in London in style, what happened to his sister, what happened to his great-uncle’s estate? There was once a bust of Laban at the university in Strasbourg, which a professor I spoke with there is also trying to locate-imagine if I should come across it in a junk store in Strasbourg or somewhere in Alsace. One thing’s for sure: I know where I’m going for my next vacation.”
I, too, knew where I had to go. It was raining as I drove to Emmertsgrund, but by the time I got there the wind had swept the clouds from the sky and the sun was shining. The view to the west was very clear, and I spotted the nuclear power plant in Philippsburg, the towers of the Speyer Cathedral, the telecommunications tower in the Luisenpark, and the Collini-Center-everything looking as if it had been painted with a fine brush. While I was gazing at the landscape the clouds were piling up over the mountains of the Haardt, preparing the next rain.
Old Herr Weller sat in the same chair by the same window, as if he hadn’t moved an inch since my last visit. When I sat down he leaned forward until his nose was close to mine, his weak eyes scrutinizing my face. “You’re not a young man. You’re an old poop like me.”
“The term is old pop.”
“What did you really want when you came by last time?”
I laid the fifty marks that he had given me for the war grave on the table.
“Your son-in-law hired me to ascertain the identity of the silent partner who brought half a million to your bank around the turn of the century.”
“You didn’t ask me about that.”
“Would you have told me?”
He didn’t shake his head, nor did he nod. “Why didn’t you ask me?”
I could hardly tell him that by that time my investigations had been not for but against his son-in-law. “It was enough for me to find out if your generation of Weller and Welker could really have simply forgotten a silent partner.”
“And?”
“I never met Welker’s father.”
He laughed, bleating like a goat. “You can bet your life he never forgot anything!”
“Nor have you, Herr Weller. Why did you keep it a secret?”
“Secret, secret… Did you finish my son-in-law’s case?”
“It was Paul Laban, a professor in Strasbourg, the most famous and sought-after specialist of his day, childless, but solicitous for his niece and nephew and their children. It doesn’t look as if any of them enjoyed the legacy of his silent partnership.” I waited, but he waited, too. “Furthermore, it wasn’t the right time for Jews to enjoy their wealth in Germany.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Sometimes it was better to get a little something and make it abroad than to lose everything,” I added.
“Why are we old poops beating about the bush?” Herr Weller said. “The nephew’s son emigrated to England and wasn’t able to take anything out of Germany, so we saw to it that our London connections made sure he didn’t have to start up there empty-handed.”
“That must have cost the nephew a pretty penny.”
“The only thing that’s free is death.”
I nodded. “So in your archives there must be a document from 1937 or 1938 in which the nephew relinquishes all rights and claims to the silent partnership. I can understand your preferring to keep that under wraps.”
“I’m sure an old poop like you can understand. But today everyone likes dragging things like that out into the light and making a big song and dance about it. Because they don’t understand how things were back then.”
“Not that it’s easy to understand.”
He grew increasingly animated. “Not easy to understand? It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t pleasant! But what is so hard to understand about the old game, one side having what the other side wants? It’s the game of games. It’s what keeps finance, the economy, and politics going.”
“But-”
“But me no buts!” He banged his hand down on the arm rest. “See to your business and let others see to theirs. A bank has to keep its money together.”
“Did the nephew’s son get in touch after the war?”
“With us?”
I didn’t answer, but waited.
“He stayed in London after the war.”
I continued to wait.
“He refused to set foot on German soil ever again.”
I continued waiting, and he laughed.
“What a hardheaded old poop you are!” he said.
I’d had enough of him. “The expression isn’t old poop, it’s old pop!”
“Ha!” Again he banged his hand down on the armrest. “Wouldn’t you love it if things were still popping for you? But they’re not! You should at least be happy you can still poop.” He laughed his bleating goat’s laugh.
“And?”
“His lawyer made it clear to him that he wouldn’t get anything out of us. The inflation after World War I, Black Friday, the currency reform after World War II-even the biggest pile can be reduced to a few mouse droppings. And it’s not as if he hadn’t been well provided for. Not to mention the danger we exposed ourselves to; we could have ended up in a concentration camp.”