The Wall (28 page)

“For heaven’s sake, be careful! The laths are just loosely inserted and can give way! All we have is paper dowels. That would be a fine mess! I have to ask you to always take care and, you know, this is a matter of trust that we are asking of you, even if I wouldn’t exactly call it treasure hunting.”

“What actually needs to be done with it all?”

“Inventory, Herr Dr. Landau.”

“Who do they belong to? In order to give them back to whoever survived, or possible descendants?”

“That could maybe happen, but you yourself know—”

“Rarely.”

“Very rarely. And then the problem of verification. We’re not at all qualified. In any case, matters of restitution are long and drawn out. Luckily, we have a right to veto them when it comes to objects of special artistic, historic, or museum-quality value. Frau Dr. Kulka already has her own special plans for the museum and its future development. Therefore she’s hard-nosed and ready to fight like a lioness when there are things that we want for ourselves. But we’re pleased that so far not much has been asked about. People don’t think about the museum; they want houses, businesses, and banknotes back, or jewelry. It’s only natural.”

“Of course.”

“But through research we can help, that’s clear, and I don’t agree with Frau Dr. Kulka’s view. She actually feels that no one can force us to share our results. I’m of the opposite opinion. But no matter how it is, until now we’ve hardly had to hand over anything. The number of ongoing claims is very small indeed.”

“That’s actually terrible.”

“I think so as well. But what good does that do? We have to save what we can. And then there’s the museum to consider. At first, I didn’t share that. No wonder, for you should know that I was actually trained as an electrician. But you change with the times. The past is past, and soon you approach things anew. Once you’ve been here a couple of weeks, the same thing will happen to you. I guarantee it.”

“If something is beautiful, really beautiful, I can imagine that if no one comes who claims to be the rightful owner, then I can see how one would want to save it, as you say. But when there are things that hold only private meaning but otherwise are of no interest—that is, no interest to a museum, and are therefore worthless—doesn’t that present a monstrous burden?”

“What are you thinking? The only justification would be a lack of space, though the government has promised to give us all we need. But, above all, it’s something Frau Dr. Kulka simply won’t hear of. Nothing is worthless to
a museum! Just think of the singular opportunity to bring together such a broad collection of portraits! Even with a limitless budget over decades, you couldn’t bring it all together under one roof in such a way!”

“So then will the museum become a kind of memorial to our dead?”

“No, you don’t understand! But I can’t explain it to you as well as Frau Dr. Kulka can. Such a memorial is not at all what it’s about. In fact, we have very special plans. You’ll see by and by. No, we are not at all thinking of presenting this collection in its entirety, either from an art historical point of view or for the clueless viewer to whom it all looks the same, although we do want to display an extensive special collection. Yet the tasks that we have before us are quite different. The reason they have been directly set before you is because you are a sociologist. A general overview tells us nothing, nor would two or four paintings, for that’s not enough. But now imagine hundreds, thousands, of such paintings! Everyone could then study them! Anthropologists, physiologists, family historians, local historians, general historians, even those interested in fashion; in short, what can I say, for you yourself can add up the number of perspectives on your own fingers. We possess a singular treasure trove of family portraits from citizens of the city from the past hundred and fifty years.”

“I see.…”

“There, now you understand. And that’s what you’ll be cataloging. How big the painting is with and without a frame, whether it’s painted on canvas or wood, in oil or pastels, a description of who is portrayed, be it an individual or a couple or a group, the head, from the chest up, the entire figure, straight on, in profile, the hair color, eyes, nose, mouth, chin, the approximate age; in short, the particulars you find in a passport, though you can record them more vividly and in greater detail, and then the clothing, as well as the jewelry, what’s depicted in the background, and special attributes, the condition, commentary on the type and quality of the frame, when possible the confirmation of the name of the one portrayed—in any case, the consignment number and other details that make the identification easier, or a description of the painter, whether there is a signature or it is anonymous, what year it was done or the estimated time period. By doing this, you’ll develop a catalog that will be of real use. We already have a model to follow. Frau Dr. Kulka did one up. It’s easy, in fact, but also interesting,
even a pleasure, I must say, and you’ll be pleased to be able to be a part of the museum’s staff.”

“Shall I do it all right here?”

“Oh, no. You’ll get a lovely small, well-lit room on the third floor, with an office. You can set it up however you please.”

“And the paintings?”

“You will also have assistants to help you, as many as you wish. Perhaps Herr Woticky, he’s very nice. Work with the material at your own pace. As soon as I can get you a secretary, you can dictate everything onto the typewriter. Frau Dr. Kulka will explain it all to you in even greater detail. You can always ask her for advice. And, of course, I’m always here to help.”

“Many thanks! Where do the paintings go?”

“You mean after they’re cataloged? We’ve already found a solution to that. Some rooms will be emptied out—in fact, this is one of them. Here we have heaps of prayer books, ten thousand of them, and they—”

“Prayer books?”

“Yes. From all the emptied-out houses throughout the country—single-volume, three- and nine-volume editions, unfortunately many of them missing pages, though many remain just the way they were found. What can still be used in some way needs to be bundled into groups of ten or twelve and for now will be stored in the cellar. Sometimes you’ll have to supervise. We have some internees doing the work who are paid a pittance, collaborators, but seemingly harmless people who don’t like to work. That’s why you have to buck them up a little. A cigarette often works wonders.”

“So they’re also in the cellar.”

“Unfortunately. That doesn’t seem right to me, either, as the cellar is not completely dry. But the prayer books are just in the way. There’s nothing else that can be done with them. They are of use to no one.”

“No one.”

“No, no one, it’s a catastrophe. Yet we hope to mail a large shipment of them to America sometime soon, though, of course, for a trifle. That would be the best solution. We’ve already begun negotiations with members of the Committee on Reconstruction.”

“And the paintings?”

“They will be placed in the empty rooms in proper storage. We have already completed the drawings for a three-story set of wooden bays in which
the paintings can comfortably be accessed and arranged by catalog number. I recommend that while cataloging them you always do so in groups, such as similar sizes, which is easy to do. The ones that give us the most trouble are the large-format paintings. But for these beasts we will perhaps build special bays.”

That reminded me. I asked if I could perhaps see one of the paintings.

“With pleasure. Just be careful, for the paintings are incredibly dusty. But you’ll soon get used to that.”

I lifted up the next average-sized painting, carefully but a bit clumsily, a coat of dust covering it that I blew away.

“There, right away you see the consignment number. That’s a help. Unfortunately, during the war they were so sloppy and didn’t always pay attention. Then we end up groping in the dark.”

I looked more closely; perhaps it was a painting from the house of someone I knew. It trembled in my fingers, the frame slipping from my hand and falling with a soft crash back onto the pile from which it had come.

“I’m sorry, I’m a bit clumsy.”

“That I see. Look, this is how you grab hold of a frame and don’t get yourself dirty.”

Herr Schnabelberger carefully lifted the painting high with hands spread out flat, yet the picture frame had loosened and the canvas fell out. I bent down to pick it up.

“That, unfortunately, happens fairly often. The paintings have not been handled right. It’s a disgrace.”

“A disgrace. Really. Sad.”

“People were overwhelmed. Also, they had no interest, always in a hurry, and you can’t expect any understanding of art from the Department of House Clearings.”

“It’s a kind of graveyard.”

“Yes, but we awaken the dead to a new life.”

“When it works.”

“That’s our task.”

Herr Schnabelberger tried with some deftness to put the painting and the frame back together. Like someone experienced in selling paintings, he told me about the quality of the painting itself.

“A lovely old grandpa. The beard tells me it’s from 1880 or so. Of
course, it’s a conventional piece, a bit of bourgeois finery. The frame, this typical black-and-gold, is not worth anything. Look, it’s plaster that’s crumbling. Carved frames were too expensive, but it had to look splendid.”

The old man with his white beard bobbed before us and looked on serenely. His stiff demeanor did not ease, no matter how vigorously Herr Schnabelberger handled the painting. What happened to the old man remained distant and unknown, the eyes gazing dully and a little sleepily—so helpless, as if they wanted to be cleaned off. I took out my handkerchief in order to try to get a better look at him.

“If he were cleaned up, maybe one could recognize him.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Herr Dr. Landau. It doesn’t help the painting at all and could ruin your handkerchief. Are you really that interested in the man?”

“No, not really. But one never knows. I’ve always got my eyes open.”

“Sometimes the consignment holds the key.”

I bent down and read the number on the back.

“There’s also a name. But I can’t read it very well.”

“Here, I have a flashlight.”

“ ‘Eugene Lebenhart, Ufergasse 17.’ ”

“Someone you know?”

“No. A stranger. But is that the man in the painting?”

“No. You can see that the name and the address are in the same handwriting as the consignment number. Therefore that’s the name of the last owner of the place, who was shipped off.”

“I see, so that’s what happened!”

“Sometimes, as I told you already, not always. Usually the names and addresses weren’t noted. It’s unfortunate for us, for any clues are welcome.”

“So you assume that the painting is of a member of the Lebenhart family?”

“That’s not clear. Names are always only a hint. One can, of course, assume that it’s an ancestor of the one deported—perhaps a grandfather, maybe even a Lebenhart, but only maybe. There are too many possibilities. But, if you want to pick up the next frame, that’s no doubt the companion piece.”

It was the companion, an old woman with a brooch at her throat, the
face tired, yet cheerful and carefree. I looked at the consignment. There again was the same number and “Eugene Lebenhart, Ufergasse 17.”

“That’s it! We now have the name of the last owner.”

“And who is now the owner?”

“What do you mean?”

“The owner of the painting.”

Herr Schnabelberger put back the painting, crept through the stacks, and turned off the light, pushing me ahead of him and locking the door behind.

“Yes, you probably mean the legal owner? Not everything has been made clear. First and foremost, there is the museum. They are working on the statutes. Right now, we are effectively the custodian on behalf of the state. But there is no doubt that it all belongs to us. The people are dead or have disappeared, and therefore it would be very difficult for them to make a claim.”

Herr Schnabelberger took me up to the third floor and opened the room that was to be mine.

“You can have the key. I recommend that you lock up whenever you leave the room. But when you leave the building, leave the key with Herr Geschlieder, the porter.”

The air was extremely dry and much too warm. I asked if I could open a window.

“Yes, of course. Don’t forget to close it if you leave the room for any length of time. It hasn’t been used in months—not since the end of the war, and maybe even longer.”

“Since the war?”

“Yes. Most of the ones who worked here back then were hauled off. You know, of course, that the workers were not here of their own choice but were forced labor. Only a few escaped being sent off or came back to the museum like us, who couldn’t just let it be. Most of us were sent off in the last months of the war. Some came right back.… Yes, you know what I mean, I don’t have to tell you. There were many commendable people who in the middle of the war set up the museum. An indescribable loss—we miss them day in and day out. You see, Herr Dr. Landau, that’s why we need new blood, and we are especially pleased to have you with us.”

Herr Schnabelberger said this in a wonderfully friendly manner, and I thanked him. Then he excused himself, saying he had to go to his office, but if I wanted to come to him in an hour that would be good, for then he could introduce me to all of my fellow workers, above all Frau Dr. Kulka, my immediate superior. In between, I should set up my office according to my wishes, for I could do whatever I wished with it. Herr Schnabelberger smiled encouragingly and took his leave.

His steps echoed down the hall, and I walked over to the window. I looked down into the schoolyard. It was still, no children to be seen, the last traces of their youthful spirits having disappeared. Only some empty boxes stood open and desolate, as well as some dented suitcases soaked by the rain. Was there no longer any school here, no teachers or children? It didn’t look as if any teaching was going on, all the desks having been taken away. My room was long and narrow, a closet for school supplies, certainly not a classroom at all. Maps must have been stowed away here, fat round globes with the countries of the world and their mountains and rivers, as well as the blue of the long-dry seas. The circles and dots of cities, the pointer having followed the red lines where the trains traveled fast from place to place with many, many people carried past all borders. The teacher spoke softly amid the boyish wonder, but on the last benches dangling legs swayed and a forbidden pocketknife sharply carved into the green surface of the desktop. “What are you doing back there?” came the stern question, passing over all the rows. Quietly the knife snapped shut and disappeared into the depths. There the men lived through mining, tunnels were bored, and with luck the miners went down into the caverns to the prayer books and hauled the coal out of the seams. What could be wrong? They were protected from the bad weather and had their Davy lamps to see by, a blesséd invention. Then the bell rang, the students shifted in their seats more loudly, the teacher took a breath, the maps were rolled up, two leather straps encircling them and holding tight their narrow bulks. Then the class leader, Adam, lifted them up and wandered upstairs to the closet, the teacher hard on his heels. The teacher pointed to the proper place, the boy nodding and then excused, quickly disappearing into the bustle of recess.