The Conversion Read online

  Once again he thought of Martin. After Martin’s first divorce, it had seemed to Karl that he was recovering, looking younger, even. But that was an illusion. When he met him for a drink in the Green Eagle, he was curled up like a sick animal. After his second marriage, a change was apparent in his face. His ironic expression had disappeared. His features thickened. Nothing of the youthful, athletic Martin remained. Even his vigorous step was gone. His gait had become clumsy, like that of a bull in a field. Karl used to avoid him, but he didn’t always succeed. Sometimes he would run into him at night, in the company of a disgusting whore. He looked like a janitor in a general store, rather than a respected lawyer.

  CHAPTER

  3

  The next day, upon awakening, he sensed that he had just heard a few clear sentences spoken, but he could not register what they were. The morning light crossed the dining room lengthwise. Since his parents’ death, the house had changed beyond recognition. Not in obvious ways. All the objects still stood in their regular places. But the silence showed that their souls were no more.

  While he was staring at the dish cupboard, Gloria rose up before his eyes, as if borne upon the waves of the Danube. “Gloria!” he called out. After his father’s death she had fled the house and had not returned. For more than thirty years she had worked in the house, a devoted and loyal servant in days of joy and of grief. And when that accursed illness had invaded his mother, Gloria never left her bedside. Later, she had cared for his father the same way until his last day. During the seven days of mourning, she had served black coffee to those offering condolences. Immediately afterward, without saying a word, she vanished. For Karl, her disappearance was bound up with his parents’ death. As if she had gone after them to that unknown land. He had considered looking for her in her native village, but he kept putting the trip off, immersing himself ever deeper in his work, and then in his frequent meetings with Father Merser and the conversion. His thoughts of Gloria slowly sank into oblivion. True, it was not a total disappearance. Her image would occasionally float up before him in the street, or sometimes even in the house. He became used to these apparitions, and they no longer disturbed him.

  He had not spoken with Gloria since his mother’s illness. Even before then, in his gymnasium days, he had not spoken with her much. Both Martin and Freddy knew her well, but whenever he thought to ask about her, his tongue would cleave to the roof of his mouth.

  There was another hidden pain: during her illness, his mother had expressed several wishes that echoed in his heart like the clauses of a will. Among other things she had said, “Watch over our Gloria.” Every word that left her mouth at that time seared him now. The clauses of her will seemed like accusations to him. In just one area Karl emerged unblemished: financial support. After his parents had used up their savings on doctors and medicines, Karl transferred his assets to them—everything he had. His mother had been moved by his generosity, and every time he entered the house or stood by her bed, she would say, “God will reward you for this mercy.” In that turmoil, Gloria was lost. She had vanished.

  On his way to the office, Karl was stopped by a tall man. It was as if the man was trying to prevent Karl from leaping over a fence. At first Karl was taken aback, but then he recognized the broad, bony hand that used to handle old maps and globes with such authority. This elegant man from the north had been Karl’s geography teacher.

  “How are you, Karl?” he said in his familiar, warm voice.

  “Excellent. How good it is to see you.”

  “I’ve heard you’re doing well.”

  “From whom, Herr Professor?”

  He had been one of the decent teachers, broad-minded and humble. He would breathe life into every lesson, and everything he brought into the classroom, even trivial objects, would gain a kind of spiritual essence. His ancestors had come from Sweden, and the blue in his eyes glistened as if taken from the North Sea. He was especially fond of Jews, wasn’t sure why. He had once spent an entire year in the Carpathians seeking out rural synagogues. With great precision he had documented and photographed each one he found. He had shown Karl and Martin the photograph album. He spoke passionately about those miniature temples that looked like rickety shacks from the outside. “If you’re going to pray, that’s how you should do it, not in the grandiose kitsch that stares out at you from every city church.” His words had astounded them. They had never heard a gentile praise the Jews, and especially not their religion. They were fourteen then, a time when the wonders of geometry interested them more than the mysteries of faith. Judaism appeared to them in their parents’ image: merchants standing beside the cash box, anxious about the daily receipts.

  Now Karl stood before him like a negligent student—who instead of doing his homework properly had copied whole pages out of the encyclopedia. He was embarrassed before this elegant old gentleman who had harbored such love for the Jewish faith and had even learned Hebrew, to read the Bible and Hasidic books in their original language.

  “I’m going back to the Carpathians soon. There are still more synagogues to survey. A man of my age must hurry. Time doesn’t stand still, my dear fellow.”

  “You’re still possessed, I see.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Baal-Shem-Tov?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You must read Buber’s writing about him. Magnificent things.”

  Karl was embarrassed, as if exposed in broad daylight. The thought that his old teacher, Mr. Zauber, was now traveling to the place where his own ancestors had lived, because he found that the Jewish faith was superior to that of the high and splendid churches—this thought scorched him, and he said, “I must read it, for these were my forefathers.”

  “Hasidism is a great religious phenomenon that the world has not properly recognized.”

  “Are the Jews themselves aware of this treasure?” Karl asked with amusement.

  “Sometimes you don’t know what’s in your own house. Have you ever been in the Carpathians?”

  “No.”

  “One must go there to see the true servants of God.”

  “What distinguishes them?”

  “Their gestures.”

  “Strange,” said Karl. “It’s hard for me to imagine Jews devoted to faith.”

  “Really?” Zauber was astonished.

  “Jews are so skeptical by nature.”

  “Then you must travel to the Carpathians and change your views.”

  “When are you leaving?” asked Karl.

  “Soon, very soon.”

  “Can we see each other again?” Karl asked.

  “I suppose so,” Zauber answered vaguely, as if he had been asked an intimate question.

  In the office everything was in its place. The clerks greeted him and said good morning, and in his out box was a stack of letters awaiting his signature. On the desk lay a few messages and also the day’s schedule, prepared by his secretary. Within a few moments he was totally absorbed in his work. He had known this place since his youth. He was at home in every file, in every labyrinth. No one dared to challenge the power of his memory.

  While the day flowed at its usual pace, one of the clerks, a woman, approached and congratulated him on his conversion. She was middle-aged and of middle rank and did her job with a kind of obsessive pedantry. Still, she always managed to make mistakes and botch things, and this time too she made Karl furious. It’s a private matter, he was about to reprimand her, but of course he didn’t. He politely thanked her.

  “What a happy occasion!” she erupted, annoying him further.

  “What?” He couldn’t ignore her comment.

  “You see, my parents were devout Christians.”

  “So what?” he said, unable to restrain himself.

  “Excuse me, I suppose I got carried away,” she said and returned to her desk.

  It was clear that not only she but the entire office—the apprentices and the archivists, the cleaners and the porters—had all heard the ringing of the
church bells on Wednesday. One woman said, “Soon there won’t be any Jews left. Father Merser is baptizing them one after the other. But I don’t trust them. A Jew, even after he’s been baptized, is still a Jew. He’ll always cheat you or betray you.”

  The thought that such a woman would mock him made his blood boil. Since he was only used to expressing his thoughts in memoranda, he reached out, took pen and paper, and wrote: From now on, no one will interfere in anyone else’s personal business. Privacy must be respected. But his well-trained hand immediately knew that one doesn’t draft memoranda on subjects like this, and he stopped.

  Aside from this small unpleasantness, the day went smoothly. His meetings were all on time, and he saw everyone he needed to. All that remained was an appointment with an unfortunate woman clerk whose work was not up to snuff. Her fate was in his hands.

  The woman arrived on time and started out by saying, “I know that I have been seriously negligent on two occasions. But I promise that this will be the last time. If anything else happens, I won’t ask for mercy again.”

  Karl bowed his head, and she continued. “I’m a single woman. I have no one in the city, and my salary isn’t just for me but for my sick father and mother. Forgive me for allowing myself to speak openly. Whatever you decide, I must at least speak the truth.”

  “Yes, of course.” Karl tried to be brief.

  “Forgive me, sir. There’s more. I have a daughter from my wretched marriage. She’s sick and hospitalized in a sanatorium. I don’t pay for this. Merciful people do. But every month I buy her a little present and put it in the mail. Nothing expensive, just a trinket. But I know how she looks forward to these treats. That’s all, sir. No more, but also no less.”

  “I see,” said Karl, rising to his feet. “I’m writing the following: Mrs. Hoffmayer admits her errors and promises not to be negligent again. I have accepted her word. She will not be discharged at this time.”

  “Thank you, sir, with all my heart.”

  “From now on you must be careful,” he warned her.

  “May God watch over you like the apple of his eye,” she said, bowing her head the way she might before a statue in church.

  Suddenly, Karl remembered his family’s housemaid from the days of his childhood, the year or two before Gloria’s arrival, a sturdy, ugly woman named Brunhilde. She stole shamelessly. But when she was caught, she would weep and beg forgiveness, swearing on her parents’ lives that she would never steal again. She was caught several times, and in the end she was fired. The next day she packed her belongings and cursed the world and everything in it. Nor did she hold her tongue as she was leaving. “You can’t trust the Jews,” she said. “They’ll always betray you.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Then summer came and the sky was bright and cloudless. After work he would stroll on Salzburg Boulevard, a long street that he loved. He always hoped he would find Gloria there. In his childhood they used to set out from here for the open fields beside the river. Gloria loved the place because of the tall trees and all the birds. Here she showed him her magic: squirrels and birds would nibble seeds from her hands.

  Though he longed to see her, he had postponed the trip to her native village. For some reason he wanted to consult Martin first, even though he knew that Martin always drank cognac in the afternoon and his mind wouldn’t be clear. Still, it was important for him to hear his advice. Karl had once asked his secretary to find out the distance from Neufeld to Schenetz. The secretary brought an atlas, studied the map and the index, but found no mention of the village. Strangely, Karl was relieved. It was as if he had been granted a postponement.

  Images of the past overwhelmed him. Silent and bright, they filled his sleep: his father and mother in the kitchen, the eternal kitchen, conjuring memories. After an hour of this, the Carpathian Mountains, where they had been born, invaded the narrow kitchen, filling it till there was no room to breathe. Then their faces took on a different character. A glimmer of their fathers’ faith illuminated their brows. Not only did their faces change, but also their language, as if German were excised from their mouths, and another language, somehow related to it, rose up and made their lips speak. It was clear to Karl that this was their true language, and only in its words could they express the fullness of their hearts.

  “I don’t understand a word,” laughed the little boy Karl, spreading out his tiny palms.

  “It’s Yiddish,” said the mother, picking him up.

  “Whose language is that?”

  “The Jews’.”

  His parents had stopped speaking their language, and only at night, when Karl was sound asleep, did they return to it. Since childhood he had harbored fondness for its sounds. Often he would ask, “Mother, why don’t you talk the secret language?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t you talk the Jews’ language?”

  “We must speak German. In Austria everyone speaks German.”

  He loved his parents’ secret language, as he did the pretty girls who entered the store. The Czech girls were the prettiest of all. They were buxom, and the braids on their backs were thick and black. And their happiness contrasted with his parents’ misery. Earning a living had darkened their faces. Karl’s mother would torment his father with many stabbing words. His father would bow his head and silently accept his shame. But sometimes he couldn’t contain himself. His expression would suddenly change, his voice would thunder, and his face would take on an evil cast. In time, that expression too changed. Instead of burning anger an ironic smile grew up, reflecting a strange mixture of contempt and resignation. It was difficult to be in his parents’ company.

  Occasionally, as if from oblivion, an uncle of his would emerge from the Carpathians. A tall man, thin, with a bent back. In a moment the house would change. The man would sit and, in a hushed and monotonous voice, tell stories about life’s shame and struggles. Then the secret language would become the language of pain.

  And Gloria again. After years of submissive housework, her face had lost its ruddiness, and a kind of tormented tenderness settled over it. She worked from morning until late at night, but on sabbaths and holidays, when she sat at the table or by the window, they clearly saw that the gloom of the house had seeped into her. Her rustic dialect was not lost, though here and there new words infiltrated the speech she had brought with her. The house belonged to her more than to his parents. She shaped its center and its corners. Everything was kneaded by her hands. Karl too belonged to her. She washed him and fed him. When his parents came home from the store at night, he was already fast asleep.

  He met Martin once a week, on Mondays. At first their renewed friendship had a fresh taste, but soon it lost its power. The closeness had been exhausted years ago, and only embers that refused to burst into flame were left.

  They sat in silence, and only after a few drinks would Martin’s heart open. He talked about his marriages and divorces and about how much money he had wasted on nothing. The subject came up every Monday. Karl was so familiar with the monologue, all the intimate details, that it disgusted him. He regretted that Martin was revealing things that should have been passed over in silence. Martin blamed his parents. If he had studied what he wanted to, his fate would have been different. But his parents had insisted—law and only law. They did not speak about their conversions, as if they had agreed not to.

  Martin was the only person with whom he met outside the office. Everyone was polite to him, but no one except Freddy invited him home. And even Freddy stopped inviting him. Karl had put him off too many times with weak excuses. Freddy’s submissive face depressed him, and he couldn’t stand his wife. He had hoped that after his conversion people’s hearts would open, and that he would be invited to many homes, to parties and banquets. This hope was not fulfilled. People were cordial to him in the office, but he remained at a social distance. Once he mentioned this to Martin, whose reply was short: “So it seems to you.” Since then he hadn’t ment
ioned it again. After two or three drinks, Martin was no longer able to listen, only to talk about the same old pain.

  Without realizing it they returned to Victoria’s tavern. Every time Karl tried to discuss Gloria’s disappearance, his voice choked. To mention her name in this dissolute place would be an act of desecration. Finally, he overcame his inhibition and asked, “Do you remember Gloria?”

  “Who?”

  “Gloria.”

  “That name means nothing to me.”

  That was the end of that matter.

  But Victoria was pleased with them. Every time they appeared, she would come out to them, her face aglow. She would sit with them and tell them about her childhood. Her father and mother had been rough people, but her eldest sister had been even worse. She had forced Victoria to work like a slave, and on Sundays, she dragged her to church.

  One evening, in her drunkenness, she turned to Karl and said, “Karl, why did you convert?”

  “Because I wanted to be a Christian. Didn’t I do the right thing?”

  “Jews should stay Jewish. That’s the right thing for them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a Jew is a Jew. He mustn’t change. He becomes ugly if he changes.”

  “And if he wants to change?”

  “He mustn’t.”

  “Will it harm him?”

  “It will harm us all.”

  “Should I take back the conversion?”

  “In my opinion, yes.”

  “And what would be the good of that?”

  “You’ll be Karl again,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

  Martin responded strangely to Victoria’s words. First he burst out laughing. Then he said, “I don’t understand you, Victoria. You’re a smart woman. Why are you making him brood? Karl did the right thing, and he should be congratulated.” Victoria stuck her tongue out at him too.