Suitcase and clock spend the weekend in the depot along with all the other items. On Monday morning the assessor comes and sorts the new arrivals according to value: the basket with the clock, carafe, and dishes is sent to Krummbaumgasse, ground floor, for private sale; since the suitcase looks so shabby, he doesn’t even open it before saying: That too. On the ground floor of Krummbaumgasse, shabby suitcases like this one — packed and then abandoned — sell for 2 reichsmark a piece (a pig in a poke, you take your chances, part and parcel, lock, stock, and barrel, blind man’s bluff, who doesn’t like a surprise), each is sold along with its contents, but opening the lid beforehand is not allowed. The newspaper prints a notice announcing the arrival of a new assortment of furniture and accessories for sale; a young wartime bride applies for an invitation to view the goods, enclosing her pay slip, she’s certainly poor enough and has a husband on the Eastern front, making ends meet isn’t easy for her. If she receives an invitation, she’ll be allowed to bring two friends or relatives when she comes, and she does receive one, so she brings her mother and a girlfriend — oh just look at that, isn’t that adorable, and really it’s not expensive. A vase, a carafe made of crystal, a set of sheets, or a plate. Just look at the clock, you can see its pendulum through the hole, maybe it doesn’t work, oh I’m sure it does, what’s that rattling around inside? look, the key, I’ll fish it out, careful, let’s wind it up, my goodness, look at the size of this platter, why are you surprised? they’re the ones who carve up babies, what nonsense, it’s really beautiful, and I’m going to take this suitcase, it’s such a good deal, go ahead, who knows what’s inside, Jesus it’s heavy, maybe stones, maybe treasure, could I possibly have just a tiny peek inside first? Madame, a peek would cost more, all right, if you insist, how bad can it be, I’ll take it as is, maybe it’ll be the surprise of my life, but let’s not open it till we get home, why not? I want to see what’s inside, why do you always have to be so impatient. The clock strikes three, even though it’s only just after nine-thirty. What a pretty chime, I wouldn’t like it myself, it sounds annoying, not to me, I’ll fix it to show the right time, I think it’s pretty, so do I, what do you want with a clock? everyone needs a clock. And I’ll take the platter. The Jewish platter? Why not? I’ll baptize it this Saturday: I’m making ham hocks.
Two years later when the war finally comes to an end, the wartime bride has a daughter, but her husband fell in Russia. The miniature grandfather clock strikes with tinny strokes all the hours that a life contains in peacetime, it strikes from one to twelve, one to twelve, and the next day the same thing, twice from one to twelve, it strikes at the crack of dawn when the janitor’s broom bumps against the front door from the outside, it strikes in the empty apartment all morning long while the girl is at school and the woman is at her office, strikes in the afternoon during the hour for coffee and cake, and in the evening during the lullaby The moon is arisen, it even strikes late at night when the war widow lets down her hair without a man to hang his belt over the back of the chair. It strikes from one to twelve for all the length of a peaceful Aryan life.
When the war widow approaches her fiftieth birthday, her elderly mother dies, and she dissolves her mother’s household with her daughter, who is meanwhile grown; in the basement, she finds the old Goethe edition: the surprise of her life back then, the pig in the poke; the volumes smell of the cellar but are not mildewed. The man in the antique shop next door, who’s always sitting around reading, pays her a respectable sum for the bit of rubbish. The shabby valise that in its day cost her mother a mere 2 reichsmark, even full, also contains an assortment of patches in different colors, and these she might still have use for herself.
For over twenty years more, this clock goes on striking its tinny hours in this chance Vienna household, each day from one to twelve and then again, until day after day comes to an end; her daughter has her own life now, and when her grandchildren come to visit, they peer through the oval hole to see the clock’s pendulum swing back and forth without ever getting tired, but they aren’t allowed to touch, the clock needs dusting, the woman already needs reading glasses, and walking is starting to be difficult for her; her daughter visits far too seldom, alas, but what can you do? The woman sometimes falls asleep in front of the television, not waking up until the clock strikes twelve in the middle of the night; her grandchildren are fairly spoiled; the woman eats a crescent-shaped Kipferl for breakfast each morning; she goes on living and living and winding the clock, always placing the key beside it. And finally, when her final hour has tolled, the woman dies a peaceful Aryan death.
Her daughter doesn’t like all the old clutter one bit; an apartment should be empty and bright, and she already has more than enough in her own household; good Lord, all the things her mother kept squirreled away: the shabby valise with the patches is the first to go, and as for the rest — just look, that same old antique shop dealer is still sitting right there in his shop reading! Might he have use for a clock, really a very special piece from Grandmother’s era? Yes, the key is still there, and when the clock strikes the hour, it has such a bright, friendly chime it really warms the heart to hear it.
5
The salesman glances up from his book only briefly, 280 shillings, he says, and goes on reading. And so the man buys his mother the miniature In Steadfast Loyalty as a souvenir from Vienna, and since the time he’s spent in the shop, though considerable, is less than an hour, he doesn’t hear the next striking of the miniature grandfather clock that displayed the wrong time when he entered. On his trip back to Berlin, he thinks briefly of the Goethe edition — there’s an empty couchette on the night train where he might have stowed it — but the spine of Volume 9 was damaged, and besides, who knows whether he’d still have time to read an edition of collected works, he isn’t getting any younger.
6
Saturday is Frau Hoffmann’s ninetieth birthday. Her place at the table between Frau Millner and Frau Schröder is set with a bouquet of flowers from the Home’s administration and a little bottle of sparkling wine. When she sits down, all those who are still in a position to sing begin singing when Sister Renate gives the signaclass="underline" How glad we are that you were born, your bir-ir-irthday is today. Frau Hoffmann takes note of the fact that it’s her birthday and thanks everyone. Frau Millner nods to her, or maybe she’s just nodding because her toast with honey tastes so good, while Frau Schröder is concentrating exclusively on not spilling her coffee. On the way back to her room, Sister Renate says: Today your son’s coming to take you on an outing, isn’t that right, Frau Hoffmann? Oh, I didn’t realize that, Frau Hoffmann says. But then before her son arrives she wants to comb her hair and wipe the jam stain off her jacket. But even just raising her arm to the level of her head is difficult for her, my own body is already too large for me, she says to Sister Renate; don’t worry, the nurse says, I’ll pretty you up, she takes the comb from Frau Hoffmann’s hand, draws it a couple of times through her sparse gray hair saying, at eleven I’ll come back and bring you downstairs, all right? Sure, Frau Hoffman says, I’m sure that will be fine.