The experience that made me callous enough to bear with pretended stoicism her suicide threat and the subsequent make-believe scenario of an alleged departure from that hotel in Velden, in Carinthia — a situation more likely to occur between lovers in the dramatics of D’Annunzio — that experience had occurred much earlier. She had experimented with this shock treatment on me in the first years after the war. In those days her anxiety for her children was at its peak, and she incarcerated us in the garden with corresponding severity. One time — and only this one, fervently enjoyed time — I found myself there without supervision. My sister was inside for lessons and even Cassandra was not close. I had been playing with an especially beautiful ball, decorated with circus scenes, given to me for my birthday. As a result of a clumsy throw, it rolled through the bars of the garden gate…. Outside stood a boy, older than I and — so it seemed to me — with the seductive mien of the street-wise urchin, holding the ball in his hands. It was useless to ask him to return it to me through the bars. “Come and get it,” he said, “then we’ll play together.’’
What he expected of me was monstrous. Was I to leave the garden and go out into the street to play there with this stranger, unkempt and so obviously irreverent? No doubt his games would be wilder — and more temptingly adventurous — than my own tame hopping around with a colored ball. But to give in to this temptation would be not merely to transgress a rigorous prohibition, but openly to rebel, wantonly to disavow the authorities safeguarding the laws of the universe. I felt my pulse hammering in my temples.
Derision glittered in his eyes. He doubted I could muster that much courage. I flung misgiving to the winds and slipped out. Immediately he dropped the ball and kicked it some hundred yards down the road. We ran after it. Of course, he reached the ball long before I did, and kicked it even farther away; when I finally caught up with him, only because he had waited for me, he dribbled the ball over my feet and sent it flying away in a flat curve. Thus we played — if one can call this a game — until we reached the edge of the city proper and its more populated streets. He continued to “play,” and soon I had lost all sight of him. I went on running desperately. I loved my balclass="underline" its vivid pictures of clowns and trained poodles, acrobats and jugglers inspired my fantasy, and it had been my mother’s birthday gift to me. I dreaded to lose it. Almost worse was the disillusionment that I could have been betrayed so blatantly — for the first time in my life and obviously as punishment for my disobedience. In vain I searched for my treacherous playmate among the crowds and in the flow of vehicles. Soon I found myself in the center of Czernowitz on the Ringplatz, my heart filled with all the bitterness of the world: grief over the loss of my ball, dread of the evildoer weighing on me, and now, in addition, the fear of having lost my way without hope of return.
I must have been a pitiful sight. My long locks and velvet suit with lace collar — my much hated daily attire at the time — together with my tears, could not remain long unnoticed among the Jews in caftans, the coachmen slouching against their fiacres, the spur-jingling Romanian soldiers, the colorfully dressed peasant women with baskets of eggs on their heads, the rabbis and solid ethnic-German burghers in their stiff shirt-collars worn, according to local tradition, with wide knickerbockers and Tyrolean hats. Czernowitz was a city in which everyone knew almost everybody else. A gentleman who saw how obviously lost I was rescued me by putting me in a hackney coach and sending me home.
I found the garden empty and the house closed. All was silent; there was no sign of life. I knocked, I rattled the main door and hammered on it; all in vain. I ran around the house several times: all the doors were closed, the shutters were shut, and the Venetian blinds on the porch were lowered. I stood before each of the windows and called and called. For an instant I thought I saw the pale mask of my sister through the blinds of the French doors on the veranda, but it disappeared in a trice and must have been only an illusion. Desperately I called for my mother, Cassandra, the housekeeper Mrs. Hofmann, the maids and my dog Rauf. Silence. I was in a panicky sweat. Any neighbors were quite far off, and of those I knew only a Polish surgeon by the name of Dr. Buraczinsky. For some time I had been allowed to play with his son, but our friendship had fallen apart over a toy: a tin armored cruiser that ran on wheels. That something that belonged in the water should move on dry land by means of small concealed wheels as if it were on the high seas seemed to me as running against nature and worse than a fraud. Miroszju — the name of Buraczinsky junior — declared I was merely jealous. This was what had caused our breakup and since then we hadn’t seen each other.
It was true I was jealous, though not of his fraudulent ship but rather of the freedom he enjoyed. He was allowed to play with other boys in the gardens of our district without having to fear that this would mean the end of the world. Yet he was well brought up and always kept within calling distance from his house: when, in the evenings, Mrs. Buraczinsky would pop out her head from the dormer window of their small villa and let a long-drawn-out “Mirooohszju!” reverberate in the smoky turquoise of the darkening summer skies, an obedient “Proszju!” (“Yes, please!’’) could be heard from far away in reply, an exchange that, in my loneliness, always left me forlorn. The dutiful answer to the call for homecoming seemed to attest to a day’s work done; I heard it as one condemned to idleness, excluded from the world of connecting activities and affectionate relationships that find expression in the interplay between a name and its echo. It was this that now came to mind in my moment of dire need. I ran to the Buraczinsky house, pushed Madame B. aside, scaled the stairs to the top floor, stuck my head out the window and yelled all the names of my missing family into the countryside. In my innermost core, I may have known, of course, that their disappearance was make-believe, but greater still was the fear that it was otherwise and that they had actually left house, city and country, forgetting me. I was only six years old. Madame Buraczinsky took me by the hand and led me back to our house, where she energetically rang the bell at the entrance; when it was finally opened, she delivered me to my mother with the strong recommendation not to play such jokes again at the expense of a child.
But my mother did not mean it as a joke; it was a punishment that was supposed to teach me a never-to-be-forgotten lesson. She achieved that goal — though probably with corollary effects that invaded my whole nervous system with fine-webbed ramifications. My father never heard of it. If he had, he surely would have dampened, in this one case, the jocularity with which he generally commented on my mother’s pedagogic measures.