The Silent Prophet (17 page)

'I know already,' Excellency replied, 'I received the letter from Herr Papa. What's new? What's Fini up to?'

'Your Excellency is very kind,' said Herr von Derschatta.

'As always, as always!' opined His Excellency. 'A splendid young woman!'

And as the lieutenant rose, the Count, as if by chance, as if he were thinking aloud about something that had nothing at all to do with his guest, let fall the words: 'All settled tomorrow.'

Thereby the Count meant nothing other than the Potato Board, whose task it was to check free enterprise in potatoes and to prevent profiteering. The Potato Board at that time was still run by an expert, one of the richest farmers, who, despite his fitness for service in the field, had already been thrice designated as indispensable and who, unluckily for him, had not looked up his protector in the Food Ministry for six months. Out of sight, out of mind! When the military had recently claimed the greengrocer, he was—to the surprise even of the military—no longer regarded as indispensable. It was Herr von Derschatta who had become indispensable instead. And with the manifest reason that in such serious times a Potato Board must be subordinate to the War Minister no less than to the Minister for Food, the lieutenant, as a member of the Army, was allocated to establish a lasting liaison between the War Minister and the fruit of the earth.

From now on Herr von Derschatta called himself Director General, although it was not expressly made known that this was his title. Could one possibly have called him Lieutenant in such serious times, when every other lawyer was a lieutenant? Someone, some day uttered the title Director General Derschatta, and from then on he was known as Director General Derschatta. Indeed, some weeks later there reappeared that farmer who had once reigned as indispensable. But in what a pitiable state! He had had to drill for four weeks, that is, until his family had found satisfactory protection. He was finally restored to his potatoes, no longer as sovereign but as Derschatta's technical adviser, and had to content himself with the title of Director.

Derschatta, who was by nature a prudent man, did not enjoy seeing the farmer in his vicinity. Two men fit for war service in proximity did not go down well. Besides, he badly needed a secretary and equally feared to deprive the trenches of three men. He therefore began by attempting to dislodge the farmer. But the latter sat fast. Thereupon he relinquished his claim to a male secretary and decided to remain on the lookout for a female substitute.

Hilde, who had long since tired of being a sick-nurse, and who considered that employment with the Red Cross was more a tribute to her benevolence than fitting for her intellect, had for some months been seeking a post in the public service, one—as it were—as the right hand of an important man. Frau G., her friend, who knew Herr Derschatta, brought Hilde to his notice. Herr von Derschatta treasured womanly charm. And as, in those serious times, it was no longer unusual for daughters from good homes to sit at typewriters, thus serving the Fatherland as well as emancipation, Hilde rapidly learned to type and became a lady secretary.

She was proud, according to the usage of her times, thereby to 'earn her bread'. Her father had grown tired, worn down by the admonitions of his housekeeper, whom he had still not yet married, and by the opposition of his daughter; he was already weary of his post at the railway station, the war was going on too long for his liking, he longed for his quiet office again, the peaceful clubroom, a crisp poppy-seed croissant, his stomach was so upset by the maize flour and, in a word, he allowed his daughter to become a secretary without opposition.

He would not have done so, despite his tiredness, if he had been more closely acquainted with Herr von Derschatta—and also, of course, with his daughter. For Hilde, who was as convinced of the absurdity of the old morality as she was of her own self-sufficiency, was enraptured by the discovery made by girls of the middle class during the war—that a woman could dispose of her body as she wished, and, if only to comply with theory, offered no resistance at all to the demands made by Herr Derschatta on his secretary. It was an era in which women, while they were abused, were motivated by the concept that they were obliged to do something by which they differed from their mothers. While the conservatives bemoaned the notorious laxity of morals, virginity was remarked on by the men as a rare phenomenon and regarded by the flappers as an encumbrance. Many women derived no pleasure at all because they practised sexual intercourse as an obligation, and because their pride in venturing to love like men satisfied them more than love itself. Herr von Derschatta did not need to feign love. Hilde's ambition to be able to assess men only by their physical prowess, in the same way as men formed their opinions of women, made any exertions on Derschatta's part unnecessary from the outset as far as she was concerned. Without a trace of passion or pleasure, simply on grounds of principle, Hilde had relations with the Director General, naturally in office hours, because she could then at the same time retain the awareness of being the 'right hand' of an important functionary. If anything really attracted her in this adventure, it was curiosity. But even in the curiosity there was mingled a kind of investigating scientific zeal. And the love hours passed like the office hours, from which they were in a sense subtracted, in a cool concupiscence that felt like the brown leather of the office sofa on which they were consummated. Meanwhile the yellow pencil and typist's notebook lay on the carpet awaiting further employment, for the Director General did not like to waste time and began to dictate even while he was engaged in satisfying the requirements of hygiene at the tap. It was, one might say, a love idyll on the Pitman system and corresponded completely to the seriousness of the times and the danger that beset the Fatherland.

It would certainly have remained without consequence if it had not become involved with the fate of a clerk named Wawrka. Wawrka had been indispensable until Derschatta's arrival and had grown accustomed to regarding war as an event that did not endanger his life. But the Director General, who, in that very context, was disposed to have as few healthy men around him as possible, annulled Wawrka's indispensability. The latter, in a long audience, implored the Director General for clemency. The poor man fell on his knees before the great Derschatta. He invoked his numerous family, his six children—he had invented two more for the emergency—his sick wife, who of course was really perfectly well. But the Director General's concern for his own life rendered him even more unyielding than he was by nature; it was settled: Wawrka had to join up.

The poor man resolved on revenge. He knew who Hilde's father was and, with his simple brain, which did not appreciate the philosophy of an emancipated young woman, assumed that the goings-on on the sofa which he had overheard must be the result of a seduction in the good old style. With persons of consequence, he thought in his innocence, there is an honour which one forfeits, protects, avenges in a duel or with pistol-shots. He already saw the Director General lying dead in the office with a bullet in the temple, old Herr von Maerker beside him, broken but proud and silent, and—most important of all—he himself again indispensable and preserved. And he went to Herr von Maerker and related to him what he had detected and overheard. Basically, Herr von Maerker's views did not differ from those of Wawrka. The precepts of social honour required a ministerial adviser and cavalry officer to call his daughter's seducer to account. And with the matter-of-course attitude of a man who has no misgivings about his daughter but the traditions of an old chivalry in his blood, Herr von Maerker betook himself, horsewhip in hand, to the Director General.

Herr von Derschatta was determined not to die at any price, either at the front or behind the lines. To save his life he played the confessed sinner, but also the anguished lover, and begged Herr von Maerker for his daughter's hand. Hilde would have preferred to pursue her sexual freedom but realized that she must avert a catastrophe. She made a sacrifice to prejudice, got married, and consoled herself with the prospect of a free modern marriage in which both parties could do as they wished.

But she was wrong. For her husband, who had formerly shared her views of sexual freedom for women, suddenly regarded marriage as a sacred institution and was determined, as he said, to preserve 'the honour of his home'. Yes, he even became jealous. He kept his wife under surveillance. He engaged a new secretary and pursued his normal practices with her. Wawrka went to the front and had probably fallen in the meantime. Hilde, however, got a child. It was simply a precautionary measure on her husband's part. She took it as a sign of her humiliation. Thus, with Nature's help, he had demonstrated to her that it was a wife's lot to be unfree and a vessel for posterity. She hated the child, a boy, who resembled his father with malice aforethought. Now she was surrounded by two Derschattas. When the one went to the office, the other screamed in the cradle. Often they both slept in her bed. She had nobody in the world. She could not talk to her father, he did not understand what she said. Her only friend, Frau G., gave her cheap advice. She should betray her husband. That was the sole revenge. But Herr von Derschatta was mistrustful and prudent and a domestic tyrant of the old style. And far and wide there was no man with whom it would have been worthwhile breaking the marriage. For Hilde had become more critical. Misfortune makes one choosy.

Then came the Revolution. Herr von Derschatta lost his connections, his rank and his nobility. He had never had a vocation. It was necessary to cut down. The children's nurse was dismissed and a cheap cook engaged. One gave no social evenings and went to no parties. Herr von Derschatta lost his secretaries and concentrated his entire manliness on his wife. He became even more jealous. A second child arrived, a son, just as much like his father as the first and just as much hated by Hilde. Herr von Derschatta plunged into commerce. He developed connections with members of the odious but clever race of Jewish financiers. At the instance of one of these he removed to Berlin, in order to act for his principal on the money markets of German cities. No one had any confidence in his expertise. But, in the opinion of rich but ill-favoured men, he had a distinguished appearance and 'cut a good figure' in Germany. No drop of Jewish blood could be detected in him. And he was a nobleman.

He made his living by tenuous deals, which he barely grasped. He consorted with stout individuals whom he despised and whom he simultaneously respected and feared. He attempted to learn their 'dodges'. For he believed they were dodges. He did not realize that generations of ancestors subjected to pogroms and martyrdom, confined in the ghetto and compelled to banking transactions, were requisite to making deals. He became one of those furtive antisemites who begin to hate out of respect and who say to themselves a thousand times a day, whenever a deal goes against them and whenever they believe themselves outwitted: 'If I were to have my life over again, I would be a Jew.' A great part of his bad humour arose from the fact that it was so difficult to be born again. And because he could not discuss his private worries with business friends and acquaintances, he poured out his heart to Hilde. She let him talk, she did not comfort him, she actually rejoiced in his bad luck. She was haughty and spiteful. The Director General who, with the adroitness of a weakling, approved the principles of the new world and despised those of the old one, which was what he called a 'reorientation', indicated that his marriage had been an over-hasty affair and the result of a reactionary outlook. He thought of his marriage as he did of his patriotism and his war decoration and his monarchistic opinions. From the whole of that world, which had so rapidly collapsed, he had salvaged nothing but this stupid marriage, whose basis had been a stupid principle of honour. Today? Today no reasonable man would enter into a discussion with an old blockhead of a ministerial adviser over the honour of his daughter. Pistols, horsewhips, duels, formalities! What a performance! 'If I had not married Hilde,' he thought bitterly, 'I might now have got hold of the daughter of a rich Jew. Blond Aryans are highly sought after.' Often he worked himself into a rage. He no longer had a uniform or a title or any position of standing. No precepts anywhere could force him to practise restraint. He let himself go. A door slammed, a chair fell over, his fist pounded on the table, the hanging-lamp began to shake gently. Hilde opened her eyes wide. Already grief choked her, the tears began to smart at the corners of her eyes. 'Anything rather than cry,' she thought, 'anything rather than cry in front of him! I shall try instead to be surprised, just surprised. What an animal. A butcher.' First the nape of his neck reddened, then the blood mounted from behind into his face. Small hairs sprouted on the backs of his broad hands. She must think of someone quickly, thought was a comfort in itself. And she thought of her father, who restrained himself a hundred times a day, who was doubly polite when he fell into a silent rage, who left the house when he had something unpleasant to say. Father! But he was old and foolish and had never understood her. Even if he were here now, he would at most shoot it out with her husband.

She remembered Friedrich. She no longer saw him distinctly. She remembered him, but not as a living human being, rather as a kind of 'interesting phenomenon'. A young idealist, a revolutionary. And not even consistent. In the end he was like the others. 'He must have enlisted and has probably been killed,' she thought.

She had not ceased thinking of Friedrich when the Director General succeeded, the inflation overcome, in obtaining an impressive and prominent position as manager of the office of a steel combine in Berlin, and in acquiring the improved mood that befitted the circumstances.

One day the maid brought her a letter. The envelope was studded with many postmarks. The comments of many postal officials criss-crossed at the edges. The round postmarks lay like medals on someone's chest. The letter was like a warrior who had emerged from a heated engagement. It bore her old address, her maiden name, for which she yearned, and she regarded the letter with that tenderness with which she so often recalled her girlhood days. It was, in any case, a delightful letter. It had sought her out after long endeavour and fruitless journeys, it was a loyal devoted letter. 'It comes from one who is long dead,' she thought, and redoubled her tenderness at this notion. She carefully cut it open. It was Friedrich's last letter.