The Boxer (20 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Sooner or later he’ll have to go to school.”

Aron was struck by this. The problem itself did not worry him; what did was the fact that an
outsider
had to come and remind him of his most obvious duty. Of course, he had already thought of enrolling Mark, yet only briefly. It had been, as he says, a feeling rather than a thought. Now he could no longer maintain this fence-sitting; Irma’s question implied that she would take the opportunity to ask him time and time again.

*  *  *

W
here did you see a problem?” I ask. “To enroll a child in school is the easiest thing in the world. You go to the school, enroll him, and buy books; there’s nothing to it.”

“There’s a little more,” Aron says. He lays a hand on my arm and explains the situation without any irritability; his voice almost sounds understanding. It’s as if it has finally become clear to him that an outsider like me can conjure up only an incomplete picture of the situation and therefore has to rely on questions. “If a dog is kept for a long time in a cage and is beaten and tormented,” he says, “then the day they let him loose, humanity as a whole, for him, will consist of people who are cruel to animals. Even outside the cage.” And he says, “Please excuse me if I talk to you as if you were a child, but if you ask me such questions, you leave me no choice.”

“If I understand your example correctly,” I say, “you hesitated in enrolling Mark because you didn’t want him to go to a school where the teachers were not, in your eyes, free from the suspicion of being fascists, or even murderers?”

“That’s right,” Aron answers.

“And because you didn’t want him to sit at the same desk with the children of these people?”

“That’s right.”

“Even taking your reservations into consideration,” I say, “it could not have been your intention to raise an illiterate?”

“That first and foremost,” Aron says. “And second, there are laws, school was compulsory. A few days later I enrolled him.”

*  *  *

I
t would be exaggerated, Aron says, to call his job as an interpreter a source of happiness. He names disadvantages that can be attributed to any job — the pay was too low, it was enormously time-consuming, his lack of enthusiasm increased with every passing month. The greatest shortcoming, he says, is a circumstance characteristic of virtually every translation — the impossibility of bringing one’s own opinions into play. One’s opinions were not asked for. On the contrary, they stood in the way of exact translations, were spanners in the works. One had to concentrate solely on the task of repeating someone else’s opinions, no matter how nonsensical they might be. During the breaks he could formulate his own opinions, but during the breaks an interpreter is an interpreter just as much as he is a doorman — the breaks didn’t count. To be allowed to proffer one’s own convictions only after working hours must, in the long run, be considered degrading.

If only, Aron says, the work had dealt with things that interested him. Usually a Soviet officer sat across from some frightened German mayor, or the representative of some authority, and they discussed problems that bored Aron to death. Since it was always the same officer,
even
entire idioms, whole sentences were repeated. Soon Aron had to start paying attention so that his lack of enthusiasm would not interrupt the flow of the conversation.

On several occasions, he says, he was sorely tempted to lighten his work by leading the interlocutors astray, by translating their words not exactly, not truthfully, but
slightly off to one side
. In contemplating this, he had nothing special in mind — that is, nothing political — only his desire to provide a little variation by creating confusion. He never yielded to this temptation, never, of course; he didn’t want to pay for such inanities with reasonable reprisals. Besides, conscientiousness is one of the tools of the trade of a bookkeeper. The only freedom he allowed himself now and then was, while truthfully repeating the contents, of placing his own accents. For example when the
German person
in question was dislikable, and this happened more than once, Aron adapted his voice so that the German’s words sounded denigrating and the words of the officer sharp and cool, like orders. This modus operandi didn’t change the outcome of the conversation, he says; his unauthorized behavior only underlined the positions more clearly and perhaps contributed to abbreviating the procedure.

Regardless, the breaks provided a certain rest. Aron was at the disposal of the officer in charge, a forty-five-year-old-man from Leningrad. His name was Leonid Petrowitsch Wasin, and to Aron’s frustration he was an antialcoholic — just sweet tea morning, noon, and night. After a couple of days they had exchanged their life stories, in installments. Once Wasin said his brother had
also
married a Jew. He was a shy, reserved man; Aron felt that every time he had to give an order, he had to overcome all sorts of inner conflicts. Their relationship was good, civilized up to the last day, Aron says. Neither of them was an especially outgoing type.

Perhaps this too concerning us
— after they had been working together for several weeks, a company director approached Wasin and complained that he was constantly having problems procuring various materials; he thought the problem could be solved by the Red Army He also requested a staff car, without which he had great trouble carrying out his duties. The German authority responsible had refused his request several times.

After he left, without getting what he wanted but with Wasin’s promise to put in a good word for him, Aron regretted that Wasin hadn’t reprimanded the presumptuous man. It’s one thing to make promises, for what they are worth, he says, but not to react to such arrogance, or worse, even to respond sympathetically, that was an entirely different matter.

Since there was some time before the next appointment, Wasin made tea. “What are you upset about?” he asked.

“Does it show?”

“Well, what’s the matter?”

“It’s the way you treated that man.”

“Was I impolite? That makes me uncomfortable. You should bring my attention to that in the future.”

Wasin certainly knew what Aron had meant; he smiled because he found his observation
elegantly ironic
. And Aron felt the moment was opportune, or at least he thought he could make it so. “Why didn’t you kick him out?” he asked. “Or, better still, why didn’t you promise him a butler?”

Wasin was silent; he put tea leaves in two glasses and looked at the water for so long that it started to boil. Aron was convinced that Wasin refused to discuss such issues with his interpreter. Then he sipped his tea —
he could drink incredibly hot tea
— and he said, “You know, that’s an issue about which neither of us is impartial. Perhaps it would be wisest if, after a war, decisions were made only by people who had nothing to do with the war. But that can’t be done. When I started working here, I also asked myself what rights the Germans I was dealing with had and what rights they didn’t have. Apparently you tend to think they have no rights; I’ve noticed this for a while now. I don’t judge you, but I’m of a different opinion.”

“Very magnanimous,” Aron said.

Wasin scowled and asked Aron to save his mockery for some more appropriate occasion. He asked Aron angrily if he thought it would be a solution to kill all the Germans. If the result of the war for the defeated had to be exactly as it would have been for the victors if they had lost the war. Did the only difference in the chance of war consist of which side was struck by disaster, or wasn’t it also a question of type of disaster?

“That’s not what this is about,” Aron said. “To kiss someone’s ass or to kill him, those aren’t the only two options.”

“Did I kiss his ass?” Wasin asked.

“More or less,” Aron said. “What do you think he would do to you if he could do as he pleased? I don’t mean this man in particular, I don’t even know him.”

“Who do you mean then?” Wasin asked.

“The average German.”

“You’re starting from the beginning again,” Wasin said. “Perhaps there are only two options, because there are only two sides. Our work cannot be determined by feelings. When a German stands in front of me, I can’t keep reminding myself that my wife and my parents were killed. Of course, we’re in a position of power here, the question is only what we should do with it. I’ll tell you again, there are two sides. On one side we have you and me and most of our visitors, on the other side are those people against whom we fought.”

Aron said he alone knew at least ten different sides; then the next visitor knocked on the door. He had the impression that Wasin treated the man particularly indulgently, as if to irritate him, Aron. Later they did not resume the conversation. Aron felt there really was no point; apparently Wasin came armed with convictions that precluded any discussion. And why Wasin never brought the subject up again, Aron says, he never knew, and never gave it a second thought.

I
n the first report card that Mark brought home, the teacher had noted under the section “General Assessment” that Mark possessed a remarkable intelligence for his age and was possibly in the position, with a greater eagerness to learn, to skip a grade. In particular she mentioned his gift for music and math. Aron rewarded him with a toy of his choice. On a walk he asked if Mark would like to learn how to play the piano.

“I don’t know,” Mark said.

“Other children would jump for joy and you don’t know.”

Aron explained to Mark the, in his opinion, unique enjoyment that came from being able to play the piano; he spoke of the pleasure one could provide others, visitors, for example, not to mention his own father. It soon turned out that Mark had already heard a piano but had never actually seen one.

When they got back to the apartment, Aron asked Irma to look around for a piano teacher for Mark, preferably someone in the neighborhood. Astonished, Irma said, “But, Arno, I could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Do you have anything against my teaching him?”

“None,” Aron said.
In the excitement
he had completely forgotten that Irma was a piano teacher. Why should he have something against it? So they didn’t need a piano teacher but an instrument. Unfortunately Kenik, the expert on major purchases, was gone. Aron asked her to check around, here in the apartment house, in the streets, while shopping, to see if someone might have a spare piano, or knew of one that was not being used. “Only find out where it is,” he told Irma; he wanted to discuss the price with the owner himself. “A brown one if possible.”

Finally the piano appeared, thanks to Irma’s diligent research and Aron’s negotiating skills. Irma was happier than Mark, at least at first, until he mastered the finger exercises and was able to play short pieces. In the evenings she often gave concerts; Aron and Mark sat there and could request tunes. When she would bow deeply at the end, like pianists do, they would applaud loudly.

Once she interrupted her performance and listened; Aron thought something was wrong with the piano. But Irma said, “Somebody knocked.”

Out of the three of us, she had the best ears
. Mark ran out of the room; visitors were rare. He came back and whispered, “A man.”

Aron immediately thought of Ostwald; a man at this time of night could be only Ostwald, he thought. Yet even before he was in the corridor he knew that Ostwald was out of the question because Mark knew Ostwald and, if it were he, Mark would have said, “Ostwald,” not “A man.”

Tennenbaum was waiting at the door. He wished Aron a good evening and asked if he was disturbing him, if so he could come back some other time. Aron led him into the kitchen. A little while later, when Irma, curious, stuck her head around the door, Aron told her, “I won’t be long.”

Tennenbaum wouldn’t let himself be put off; he may even have feared they might not let him in. He had a request. First, he expressed his regret that they had completely lost sight of each other; after the long and, all in all, pleasant collaboration he found it a little surprising. As for himself, he could claim that the last few months had been successful; the trading company, whose existence Aron surely remembered, was thriving. He hoped things were also going well for Aron.

“I can’t complain,” Aron said.

Aron glanced at his watch. Tennenbaum finally came to the point. “I hear you are working for the Russian authorities?” he said.

“That’s correct.”

“May I know what you do there?”

“First please tell me your problem,” Aron said.

Tennenbaum was expecting a shipment. From West Germany to West Berlin, he feared difficulties driving through the Russian Zone. He needed someone who could put in a good word for him; to be precise, he needed an authorization. Not for free, of course; that was obvious, he said. He could think of several ways to show Aron his gratitude — pettiness had never been his style.

Aron thought that only a small dealer, not one of the important ones, would require such an embarrassing favor. He was silent for a long time, not because he was thinking of how he could help Tennenbaum but only so that Tennenbaum would think that that was what he was doing.
I simply sat there and looked at the wall, and he sat very still, not wanting to disturb me
. Aron said, “You know how happy I’d be to do something for you. But you came at an unfortunate time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Between us, Mr. Tennenbaum, I have already helped some people. Not exactly with shipments but with other authorizations. As recently as last week. You will understand that I can’t bother the Russians every day. Who am I anyway? They would throw me out.”

“When is the earliest you can try again?”

Aron was happy that his little game was working so well; he says it was
so
much more fun than simply kicking Tennenbaum out. He said, “Not for another two months, and that’s pretty tight. Besides, the question remains open if I can help you at all. I’ve never tried getting transport authorizations.”