I stepped into the anteroom, prepared to see one of those Jews I knew, whose profession seemed to have affected, even to have become, their physical aspect. I knew money-changers, pedlars, garment-dealers and brothel pianists. Stepping into the anteroom, I beheld a man who not only failed to correspond to my notions of a Jew, but who might have been enough all on his own to demolish them. He was incredibly dark and incredibly big. It would be incorrect to say that his beard, his sleek, deep black beard framed his tough, tanned, bony face. No, it was the face that emerged from the beard, as though the beard had been there first, before the face, and had spent years waiting for something to frame and surround. The man was big and strong. In his hand he held a peaked corduroy cap, and on his head he wore a round velvet kippah, of the sort our clerics sometimes wear. He stood in the doorway, mighty, sinister, a force of nature, his red hands clenched into fists, hanging like two hammers from the black sleeves of his kaftan. Out of the leather lining of his cap he took a multiply folded letter in Slovene from my cousin Joseph Branco. I asked him to sit down, but he motioned that he wouldn’t, and the gesture struck me as even more bashful than it was already because it had been performed by those hands, either one of which would have been enough to crush me, the window, the little marble table, the clothes stand and everything else that was in the anteroom. I read the letter. It informed me that the man standing before me was Manes Reisiger from Zlotogrod, coachman by trade, friend of my cousin Joseph Branco, who, on his annual transits through the Crown Lands of the Monarchy to sell chestnuts, enjoyed free board and lodging with the bearer of the letter, Manes Reisiger, and that the ties of friendship and family obliged me to do all I could to help the said Manes Reisiger.
And what help did he want, Manes Reisiger from Zlotogrod?
Nothing more and nothing less than a free place at the conservatory for his gifted son, Ephraim. He was not to become a coachman like his father, and not to go to seed in the Eastern marches of the monarchy. According to his father, Ephraim was a prodigy.
I promised. I set off to visit my friend, Count Chojnicki, first because he was the only Galician among my friends, and second because he was the only one who was capable of breaking the ancient, traditional, invariable and insidiously effective resistance of Austrian officialdom: by threats, by force, by subtlety and deception, the weapons of an old culture: the weapons of our world.
That evening, I saw Count Chojnicki in our café, which was the Café Wimmerl.
I knew that one could hardly please him more than by turning to him for a favour for one of his countrymen. Chojnicki had neither job nor occupation. He, who could have made a so-called brilliant career in the army, in the government, in the diplomatic service, and who had disdained such a thing for contempt of the fools, the imbeciles, the eejits who ran the state, took a keen delight in making Court Councillors aware of his power, which was a real power, conferred upon him by standing outside all hierarchies. And he, who was so kindly and so gracious to waiters, coachmen, constables and postmen, who never forgot to doff his hat when asking a policeman or porter for directions, was barely recognizable when he undertook one of his protection errands to the Ballhausplatz, the Statthalterei or the Ministry of Culture and Education: an icy loftiness lay over his features like a transparent visor. If he had shown himself to be agreeable, even affable, to the liveried doorman at the gate, then his aversion to officialdom seemed to grow with every step he climbed, until by the time he had reached the top floor, he looked every inch a man who had come to hold some fearsome inquest. In the ministries he was a well-known figure. And when, in his dangerously quiet voice, he told the aide in the corridor: Announce me to the Court Councillor! it rarely happened that he was asked for his name, and if he was, then he merely said again, if anything more quietly stilclass="underline" Kindly announce me right away! Perhaps the word “kindly” was spoken a little louder.
Moreover, he adored music, and for that reason too it seemed appropriate to try and enlist his support for young Reisiger. With typical impulsiveness, he promised to go the very next day. His alacrity was such that I felt a little conscience-stricken, and asked him if he didn’t require some proof of young Reisiger’s talent before going to do battle on his behalf. That merely irritated him. “You may know your Slovenes,” he said, “but I know my Galician Jews. The father’s name is Manes, you tell me, and he’s a coachman. The son’s name is Ephraim, and that’s all I need to know. I am utterly convinced of the gifts of the young man. I trust my instincts. My Galician Jews can do anything. Only ten years ago I didn’t much care for them. Now I love them dearly because all those eejits are anti-Semites now. I need only inquire who is serving in the relevant department, and who among them is the most outspoken anti-Semite. Then I will flaunt my little Ephraim at him, and I will go in the company of his father as well. I hope he looks thoroughly Jewish.”
“He wears a kaftan,” I began. “Perfect,” exclaimed Count Chojnicki, “then he’s my man. You know, I’m no patriot, but I love my countrymen. A country, a fatherland, there’s something abstract about that. But a countryman is something concrete. I can’t possibly love every wheat and maize field, every pine forest, every swamp, every Polish lady and gentleman, but show me one field, one copse, one swamp, one individual, well, à la bonheur! That’s something I can see and understand, that speaks to me in a language I am familiar with, that — because of its singularity — can be dear to me. And beyond that, there are persons I term my countrymen, even if they happen to have been born in China or Persia or Africa. Some are dear to me from the moment I first clap eyes on them. A true ‘countryman’ is immediately identifiable. And if he happens to be someone from my own patch as well, then, as I say, à la bonheur! But there’s an element of chance there, the other is simple providence.” He raised his glass, and called out: “Here’s to my countrymen, wherever they happen to hail from!”
Two days later, I brought along the coachman Manes Reisiger to see him in the Hotel Kremser. Manes perched on the edge of his chair, not moving, a dark colossus. He appeared not to have sat down himself, but to have been placed there rather approximately by some agency, and as though he wouldn’t allow himself to occupy the whole of a chair. Aside from a couple of sentences he repeated at intervals for no very good reason — namely, “Please, gentlemen!” and “Thank you, kind sirs!” — he said nothing, nor did he seem to follow the proceedings very closely. It was Chojnicki who was giving the coachman Manes from Zlotogrod a lecture on all things Zlotogrod; for Chojnicki was very well acquainted with all parts of Galicia.
“Well then, tomorrow at eleven, we’ll go and sort out your affair,” he said.
“Thank you, kind sirs!” said Manes. In one hand he waved his peaked corduroy cap, and with the other he doffed his kippah. He bowed once more at the door that the porter held open for him, and to whom he shot a grateful and happy smile.
A couple of weeks later, young Ephraim Reisiger had his place in the conservatory. The boy came to Chojnicki to thank him. I happened to be present in Chojnicki’s hotel. Young Ephraim Reisiger almost scowled, and all the while he was expressing his gratitude, he looked more like a youth who is bringing a complaint. He spoke Polish, of which, thanks to my Slovene, I understood roughly every third word. But the mien of Count Chojnicki gave me to understand that the surly and basically ungrateful attitude of the boy pleased him.