The group leader, whose long chin all but hid his collar, and whose eyes seemed startled and wise because his glasses magnified them, sat with one hand on each knee, legs wide apart, shoulders forward. It was not quite the position of a cultured person, more the way a train conductor might perch between rounds, but this might have been only because the bench was so narrow. He spoke to them softly, looking from face to face, and leaning left and right for those sharing his bench.
Within a few minutes he had wiped out of their memories every vexation and discomfort they had been feeling. He mentioned
Bach
Brahms
Mozart
Mahler
Wagner
Schubert
Goethe
Schiller
Luther and Luther’s Bible
Kant
Hegel
the Mann brothers, Thomas and Heinrich;
true connoisseurs prefer the latter
Brecht — yes, Brecht
several Strausses
Schopenhauer
Gropius
and went on until he had mentioned perhaps one hundred familiar names. Just as everyone was beginning to feel pleasantly lulled, and even to feel oddly well fed, though a moment ago they had all been saying that they could eat the wooden benches, their leader suddenly said, “The Adolftime …”
In the silence that followed he looked into every face, one after the other, sadly and accusingly, like a dog about to be left behind; the reproachful silence and sliding dog’s glance went on for so long that one could have heard a thought. Christine did hear some, in fact: They were creaking thoughts, as old chairs creak. The whole cultural group held its breath and the thoughts creaked, “Oh, God, where is this kind of talk taking us?” Finally the cultural leader had to end his sentence because they could not go on holding their breath that way, especially those who were stout and easily winded. He concluded, “… was a sad time for art in this country.”
Who could disagree? Certainly no cultivated person on his way to the opera. Yes, a sad time for art, though no one could remember much preoccupation with art at the time, rather more with coal and margarine. There had been no public exhibitions of women showing their private parts like baboons, if that was art. There had been none of that, said some of the creaking thoughts. Yet others creaked, “But stop! What does he mean when he says ‘art’? For isn’t music art too?” There had been concerts, hadn’t there? And the Ring Cycle, never before so rich and full of meaning, and The Magic Flute, with its mysterious trials, the Mass in B Minor, the various Passions, and the Ninth Symphony almost whenever you wanted it? There must have been architecture, sculpture, historical memoirs, bookbinding, splendid color films. Plays, ballet — all that went on. Cranach, Dürer, the museums. Surely the cultural leader must have meant that it was a sad time in general, especially toward the end.
He was still speaking: “As I stood before the new opera house, the same house you are about to see — if our train ever does arrive—” (smiles and anxiety) “a distinguished foreigner said to me, ‘If only you Germans had thought more about that …’ ” pointing as the distinguished foreigner had pointed, but really indicating a gap between two women sitting with their knees clenched. He continued, “ ‘… instead of material things, it would have been better for you and for everybody …’ ”
Following this closely, little Bert turned to where the man had pointed and saw nothing but the newsstand, which was not any kind of a house. Christine saw little Bert looking at a row of pornographic magazines, the sort that were sold everywhere now, and wanted to cover his eyes, but as Herbert had said, one could not protect him forever.
The cultural group exhaled, then breathed in deeply and gently. The women did something melancholy with the corners of their mouths. “As for the orchestras in those days,” said the leader cheerfully, “they played like cows and they knew it. I remember how one execrable fiddle said to another, equally vile, ‘Are you a Party member too?’ ”
This was a comic story — it must be. Their sad faces began to clear. All the same, no one was doing much more than breathing carefully in and out. Their creaking thoughts were scattered and lost as two new people, the Norwegian and the American Army wife, appeared. The Norwegian greeted Herbert rather formally; the girl marched up to the newsstand, and after giving the rack of pornography a short, cool glance, indicated, somewhere beyond it, Time, Life, and Newsweek.
“They take their culture with them,” said the Norwegian. “And what a culture it has become. Drugs, madness, sadism, poverty, lice, syphilis, and several other diseases believed to have died out in the Middle Ages.”
“The girl is German,” said Herbert, smiling.
“Oh, Herbert, no,” said Christine. “Everything about her … the hat … the shell necklace … everything … the hair. She could not be anything but what she is.”
“I agree,” said Herbert. “German. Now, little Bert,” he went on, “do you see the train which is just arriving? It will take us to Pegnitz. Once there we are almost home. Pegnitz is a junction. Trains go through every few minutes, in all directions. In most directions,” he corrected.
Now that their transport was here a number of those who had been grumbling at the delay suddenly decided that they did not want this train after all; they would wait for the regular service, or hire taxis, or send telegrams asking their relatives to come and pick them up in cars. Finally, after a certain amount of elbowing and jostling, only the hungry woman, the cultural group going to the opera, the Norwegian, some German soldiers with hair like pirate wigs, the pregnant American girl, and little Bert’s party climbed aboard. This train was neat, swept, cool; the first-class carriage was not crowded and had plastic-leather seats. The opera party immediately spread out and filled three compartments. The hungry woman, caught up in the platoon of soldiers, disappeared, swept on to second class. But she could not have been far away: The arrangement was we each got 50 percent of the estate under a separate property agreement. He never thought I would survive him. All his plans were for how he would dispose of my 50 percent once I had passed on. His 50 percent was to be for himself, and half of mine for him, and half for the little movie star Shirley Bimbo. He never never thought I’d be there after him. I had this diabetes, pneumonia three times, around the change of life I got nervous and lost all my hair, had to do the cooking wearing a turban. Later I got a women’s complaint, had the works out, better to get it over with. No wonder he never thought I could survive him. He left his 50 percent to the little lamb of God, Carol Ann. What the dumb bastard didn’t know was that I would get my half plus 67 percent of his half because we were married in Muggendorf under a completely different set of laws and we never took the citizenship. So think that over in your grave, Josef Schneider! He turned out to have more than anyone knew. There were the savings, the property, some home appliances, the TV and that — but what he had salted away besides was nobody’s business. It’s invested over here now. Safer.
This time they shared their compartment with the American girl, who buried her pretty nose in her magazines. There was nothing else for her to do; she could not understand what they were saying. The missing traveler drew nearer. He asked to be cremated and the ashes brought to Muggendorf and buried. He left eight hundred dollars just for somebody to tend the plot. I signed a promise to look after the grave; the money’s being held. If I keep the grave looking good for five years running I get the eight hundred dollars. Only one year to go. Always had said he wanted his ashes scattered on the trout stream at Muggendorf. Must have changed his mind. Just as well. Might be a fine for doing it. Pollution. She saw them, perhaps had been looking for them, and came in and sat down. As Herbert had said, it was as good as being home.