THE DEVIL IN MUNICH - In memoriam: Paul Zvi Zollman (A Loyal Friend and Noble Man)
THE DEVIL IN MUNICH
In memoriam: Paul Zvi Zollman
A Loyal Friend and Noble Man
I. REMINCENCES AT THE STATION IN MUNICH
1. The Platform Phenomenon
An event that took place in an underground-train station in Munich’s inner city had far reaching effects on the life of three persons: Peppi Stölzl – who rose thereafter in the world, became Sir Joseph-Dieter, Freiherr von Stölzenfeld – my late father, Robert Berger, known to friends as ‘Tommy’, and myself, Peter Berger, a mendicant professor who eventually settled in Singapore but travelled from time to time to London where eventually I met Peppi,
The station, which had been upgraded after Germany’s capitulation at the end of World War II was lauded on both sides of the Atlantic (except by the envious French). There was, however, one snag. The station served as an interchange for commuters travelling to the west and to the airport. In consequence, the platform was overcrowded during rush hours: disembarking passengers often collided with commuters attempting to board. The records of the First Aid Room, listing black eyes, broken collar bones, crushed noses and ‘abdominal injuries’, bore witness to the strong German tendency to fight for right.
Something had to be done. Eventually, a Committee came up with a plan. An elevated podium was erected in the centre of the platform. As rush hour began, the Station Master – wearing a Bavarian helmet and the sparkling uniform of Frederick the Great’s Guards – climbed up to the podium. When the doors of an incoming train opened, he shouted “Raus” (meaning “get out”), whereupon the alighting passengers leapt onto the platform. He then yelled “Rein” (“get in”), signifying that embarking passengers ought to board.
The system suffered an initial hitch. Due to background noise, the passengers could not hear the Station Master’s commands. Occasionally some of them climbed in when the Station Master had actually yelled “Raus”. The ensuing skirmishes were on the fierce side because each party felt he was in the right.
The Committee, thereupon, refined the procedure by adding ‘visual stimuli’ (meaning, in plain English, ‘hand signals’) to the oral commands. This upgraded system proved a great success. The passengers seeking to disembark obeyed the beckoning hand whilst those congregating on the platform waited patiently for the verbal command. After some three months the City Council granted the Station Master a substantial pay rise and awarded him a medal. By then the venture had become something of a phenomenon: travellers from all over Germany, as well as tourists from places as remote as Kathmandu and the Tierra del Fuego, flocked to Munich to witness the proceedings.
2. Reunion of Old Friends
My late father, Tommy, was an ardent student of modern enterprise. When business took him to Munich, he arrived one bright morning at the platform just in time to watch the Station Master mounting his podium with a dignified air. Then, as the Station Master turned around, Dad gave a slight start. The grand man on the stage was none other than Peppi – his old classmate and bosom pal of his youth in Vienna. For a moment Dad stood still; then their eyes met, and, despite the approaching train, Peppi managed to signal that they should meet as soon as the session was over.
“So you’re back, Tommy,” Peppi grinned, as he joined Dad after autographing a number of notebooks and cards proffered by members of the public.
“I am. And you, Peppi, really look splendid in your uniform.”
“Here, just let me get out of this outfit,” said Peppi when they arrived in his office. “Thirteen years have passed since we last saw one another. It’s good to see you again and to know that you, too, came through.”
They embraced – the way Viennese men often did in the old days – and for a few minutes simply sat together in silence in the compact room. For some reason, neither of them could find the right words to express his feelings, although each knew what his friend wanted to say.
“Tommy,” Peppi broke the silence, “shall we go to the Kneipe [pub] around the corner? We have a lot to talk about. I kept hoping you found a safe place – where there was no madness.”
“I sensed you’d be alright, Peppi,” said Dad as they stepped out of the station. “You fought a whole year in the trenches in 1917 but came out unscathed. Few did. I had a few close shaves in my one month as a trainee officer on the Western Front in 1918. But you were bullet-proof. You’ve been lucky all your life! The only time I feared for you was when the Russians overran Vienna in 1944.”
“I was in Munich by then. I got out of Vienna as soon as Hitler declared War on the Soviet Union.”
3. From the Trenches back to the Prater
The Kneipe was empty though not desolate. The pinewood furniture, the colourful posters on the walls and the array of bottles along the bar gave the premises an intimate atmosphere. A sleepy waitress came over to take their orders. Her welcoming smile showed that Peppi was a regular. Dad asked for a coffee.
Dad watched with mild disapproval as Peppi stirred a nip of clear liquid into his draught beer. He used to worry about Peppi’s drinking habit in the old days and, despite the years of separation, once again felt the urge to protect him.
“Kirsch or Vodka?” he asked.
“Slivovitz,” replied Peppi, unperturbed. “Just as I had it in the Prater. Slivovitz is good for you; in moderation, of course. So is your drink, Tommy: coffee with rum kept us going in the trenches, through all that snow! In WWI, I was the orderly of my troop. I used to sneak out to get my mates Slivovitz, Kirsch or any Schnapps I could lay my hands on. We needed it even more than food: just to help us get through the stench, the freezing cold and the death all around us.”
“And to think that after that senseless butchery they had to start it all over again.”
“People never learn; especially not the politicians. But enough of that, Tommy. Come on – have another coffee, but this time with rum.”
Both felt more at ease after the second round. Over the third they began to reminisce. Soon they were sniggering about the pranks they had played in their school days in Otakring, the then working-class district of Vienna. After a while they even reverted to the old Otakring slang – Viennese Cockney.
They laughed when Dad recalled the lesson they had taught the theology teacher. The fellow used his ruler in lieu of a rod whenever any pupil asked an unorthodox, let alone a provocative, question. He was all the more hated because he assigned them boring homework and, in addition, forced them to learn long and boring religious texts by heart.
Having suffered the man’s tantrums patiently for months, Dad and Peppi decided to curb his enthusiasm. One day, the teacher explained that God wanted all men to worship Him. Dad thereupon wanted to know why He did not reveal himself regularly. Would this not be simpler and more productive – Dad asked with an ingratiating smile – than to expect weak humanity to discover the way on its own? Dad confessed that the answer eluded him but trusted that the ‘Herr Professor’ would shed light on the problem.
Charmed by Dad’s sweet manner and savouring the respectful form of his address, the theology teacher tried hard to grapple with the question that had baffled philosophers through the ages. Beads of sweat soon formed on his brow. While this debacle was in progress, Peppi crept between the benches and tied the teacher’s shoelaces together. He then retreated to his seat and signalled ‘mission accomplished’; whereupon Dad asked in a suddenly aggressive voice:
“But if God is perfect, why can’t he instil in us the wish to follow his commands out of love? Or isn’t He all that perfect after all?”
“That’s blasphemy!” yelled the teacher, leaping to his feet, rod-ruler in hand – only to land on his nose.
4. Escapes during the Nazi era. Peppi’s survival and union with Helga.
“They were wonderful days,” Peppi sighed. “But tell me, Tommy, how is Dora? She, too, came through, didn’t she? And how is your Peter’le? He must be about 17.”
Peppi listened attentively to the story of my family’s escape from Europe just before the beginning of WWII. “It’s too bad that your Peter’le has asthma; but then, Tommy, you always had a weak chest. Still, the main thing is the three of you are together!”
“Yes,” nodded Dad. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he added, “and we have to thank you, Josef. You risked your life in 1938, when you smuggled that briefcase with the ‘black’ money across to me just before the boarding call. And you took another risk when you sneaked Dora’s jewellery through the airport customs.”
“You would have done the same for me, Tommy.”
“I certainly hope so. But you can’t tell until you face the music. I might have been too scared.”
“I was frightened,” said Peppi thoughtfully. “But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you down. I wasn’t so determined when it came to others.”
For a few moments both kept their counsel. Dad recalled the day Peppi’s father, a seasoned tram driver, was run over by a tram which was being driven out of the depot by one of his own comrades. An autopsy revealed that Heinrich Stölzl had been inebriated at the time of the accident. Vienna City Council’s reaction was stern. Peppi’s mother was denied a pension. Tram drivers had been cautioned about the dire consequences of drinking at work and the city’s elders hoped their severity would serve as a warning to other offenders.
Peppi Stölzl had to leave his professional training school, the Fachschule, and look for work. Turning down the City Council’s offer of a job on the trams, his first job was as an usher in the hell train at the Prater (Vienna’s Loonapark). A ‘friendly giant’ like him was just right for the job! He then worked as a waiter in a Heuriger [wine garden] in Grinzing. Later on he got a job in a business firm.
Proving himself to be a diligent worker, Peppi was soon made the supervisor and, after a few years, was left in charge of the thriving business. By the time of the Anschluß [Austria’s annexation by Nazi Germany] he had been made junior partner, with the ageing boss hinting that, in due course, the firm’s name would be changed to ‘Rosenberg & Stölzl’. Effectively, Peppi had risen from the ranks of the working-class to the Mittelstand [the bourgeoisie].
“What happened to Roenberg?” asked Dad.
“He was taken in custody. Nobody saw him again. The new ‘Aryan’ owner of the shop asked me to stay on as second-in-command to his brother-in-law. I refused, of course.”
“What did you do?”
To start with, Peppi sought and, once again, obtained employment at the Prater. He was in fact too old for this type of job, but most young men had been conscripted. Quite apart from this, his army bearing and tall figure stood him in good stead.
A few months later, he accepted the post of chief waiter in a popular restaurant. Before long, he became the go-between for the owners of local restaurants and provincial farmers anxious to sell their meagre supplies at the best black market prices obtainable. In this way, Peppi had become wealthy.
Then, unexpectedly, Hitler declared war on the
“The German pundits hoped for victory,” he told Dad. “I knew they deluded themselves. Napoleon had his own version of Blitzkrieg; and look how he lost his army in Moscow. No, Tommy, I never forgot what happened to my own troop in the winter of 1917. The very idea that one single nation could fight and win on two major fronts without enough petrol or adequate supply lines was madness!”
“But what was the point in your running off to
“I knew the Nazis would have to conscript middle aged men like me and that they would start in Vienna. So, I escaped before it was too late.”
Upon arriving in
Peppi had intended to spend the rest of the War in
Peppi Stölzl did not wait. Once again he packed his things and rushed to the railway station, stopping only at the bank to empty his safe. Anxiously he boarded the first train, heaving a sigh of relief when he disembarked unnoticed in
The pace in the large town differed from the congenial tempo of provincial
“I couldn’t do much for them. We had no proper medicines, insufficient beds, and very few doctors. Often, all I could do for a dying soldier was to hold his hand and try to comfort him. Many died of shock after clumsy amputations. It was butchery, Tommy, plain butchery!”
“Was it worse than the trenches in 1917?”
“It was indeed. You see, when you got your wounded comrade onto the orderly’s stretcher, or into the first aid tent at the front, you thought he’d get help. If he was conscious, he, too, was still hoping. Here in
“Help from above?” asked Dad.
“No, Tommy. They were asking for their Mutter; and some called out the name of a woman – a wife, a fiancée or a girlfriend. Very few, Tommy, very few called God or prayed. Are you surprised?”
Shrugging his shoulders Dad said soberly, “Can’t say I am.”
“I remember one boy,” Peppi went on, “a lad young enough to be my son. He had been shot through his stomach and was dying right in front of my eyes. He begged me to give him water. When I told him it would kill him instantly, he said: ‘better so; just give it to me. Hell can’t be worse than this!’ And I knew he meant it.”
“What did you do?” asked Dad.
“I continued to wipe his brow with a wet cloth and, from time to time, moistened his lips. After a while he dozed off but continued to breathe for an hour or so. He went without opening his eyes again.”
“Poor boy.”
“We had many like him. Young men dying without having lived. And for what, Tommy, for what? For Lebensraum; for the blasted Vaterland; or to satisfy the ravings of a uniformed madman?”
“A shameful mess brought about by greed, stupidity and blindness. And it’s not as if anybody stood to gain from it,” agreed Dad.
“Nobody except the carpetbaggers. But, you know, for me
Helga Gießen was a primary school teacher by training. In 1943 she enrolled in a crash course on nursing, completed it with ‘extraordinary distinction’ and promptly enlisted in
A girl less determined than Helga would have given up. Her pride would have dictated a dignified retreat. Helga was above such pettiness. Concluding that Peppi was shy, she continued to besiege him. After a while, Peppi responded. Quite naturally, he was flattered by the persistent attentions showered on him by this young and upright girl. In addition, an inner voice murmured that he was into his forties, had never experienced a lasting relationship with a seriously minded woman and was in danger of having to walk the rest of the of his life on his own.
When, at long last, Peppi invited young Helga to the local opera, she was up to the occasion. Far from displaying maidenly reserve, she accepted gladly and suggested that they have supper at her place after the show. Peppi opened his eyes wide, gulped and smiled graciously. After three months they were engaged. Early in 1945, in defiance of the persistent bombing raids and the general gloom that pervaded
“Helga is a believer, Tommy. And, as you well know, I am a non-practising Roman Catholic. So, I went her way. It was the right thing do, wasn’t it?”
“As long as you went her way willingly. But the main point, Peppi: you are happy with Helga, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed. You see, Helga is not a beauty. She doesn’t have a perfect figure and isn’t the best dresser in the world. And she isn’t chic or playful. But she has character and personality and is a strong and dependable woman. I trust her fully; and I know where I stand with her.”
“So, she is a good wife. Once again, Peppi, you fell on your feet!”
“I did, Tommy, so I did.”
Peppi hesitated for a moment and then produced a photograph from his wallet. Dad saw a small woman in her early thirties, wearing a plain skirt and blouse. Her high brow, aquiline nose and sharp features matched her conservative hairstyle and firm mouth. A little girl sat on her lap and smiled into the camera.
“This is Lucy,” Peppi’s face relaxed into a smile. “We thought it best not to have children until the end of the War. Next year Lucy will start school.”
“Is she your only one?”
“Our second will arrive in some six or seven weeks. Helga is having a tough time and so it’s bound to be our last one: never mind if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“I hope everything will be fine,” said Dad.
“Of course it will! Helga’s a tough girl. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself. But I can see how much it’s taken out of her.”
“Is she going back to work later on?”
“She is indeed. But not to the hospital. Helga says that we have to make sure the next generation won’t repeat our mistakes. She wants to go back to her old school. She’ll help to ‘forge the unformed conscience of our race’.”
“What a pungent line,” said Dad reflectively.
“Some Irish novelist wrote words to this effect. Helga was very impressed with his book, all about a young author in
Obviously, Peppi had not read James Joyce during his youth in
For a while, both Dad and Peppi were lost in their respective thoughts. Peppi’s reflections centred on the old days. Dad meandered through Peppi’s odyssey. He was relieved that, as often before, his friend had brought his ship home. It was as if some invisible hand kept sheltering him, just as it did when others were felled by the enemy’s bullets during the dreadful months in the trenches toward the end of WWI.
“And when did you become station master?” Dad broke the silence.
Snapping back into the real world, Peppi signalled to the waitress. After, she had placed another cup of coffee in front of Dad and a beer chaser within Peppi’s reach, he resumed his story.
When WWII was over, Peppi gave up his job in the hospital and opened a traditional Bavarian beer garden. The takings, though, were meagre. Frequently, patrons had just one tankard, sipping at it slowly and appreciatively.
To improve his financial position, Peppi opened the “garden” only in the evening and looked for an extra job to occupy him during daytime. Once again he drifted from one post to another. It was by chance that he was engaged by the contractor in charge of the construction work at the underground station. Peppi was too old for this type of work; but his powerful frame and his army bearings impressed the clerk in charge of recruitment. Peppi excelled. After two months, he was made the foreman of his gang. When the renovation was complete, he was appointed station master.
“So now you know my entire story, Tommy,” said Peppi with a smile.
“Do you still run the beer garden?”
“Of course, and it’s picking up!”
“I see. But don’t you think you should begin to take things easy? You are two years older than me – that makes you 53!”
“Thanks for reminding me,” grinned Peppi. “But, Tommy, I got married late in life; and I want my kids to have good prospects. I owe it to them. So, I’d better work hard while I still have the strength to do so. I hope that Lucy will go to university. Wouldn’t it be nice to send her to Heidelberg or Göttingen?”
“But you mustn’t kill yourself in the process, Peppi!”
“I won’t – as long as I have enough Slivovitz ... Yes, yes, Tommy, in moderation, of course … As you can see, I’m still as fit as I was in the old days.”
The clock of the Kneipe chimed
II. MAYHEM AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN
1.The Locum and his Provocation
After his reunion with Peppi, Dad had to travel to Italy. On his return to the old Bavarian capital, Dad took the train to Peppi’s station. Upon disembarking, he saw a strange figure mounting the podium.
“Where is Peppi Stölzl?” he asked the new incumbent.
“I’m standing in for him this morning,” came the laconic reply.
“I was hoping to see him here today.” Dad let his disappointment show.
“He’ll be in a bit later; why not wait for him?”
By the end of this short exchange, Dad was glancing at the locum with mounting unease. Though not as broad shouldered as Peppi, the locum was even taller than the friendly giant; and he had no paunch. His face, though, did not match his young physique. His eyebrows sat at an irregular angle, his neatly trimmed goatee lent his countenance severity, and his sharp facial features, hollow cheeks and firm chin made him look fierce. Any remaining thoughts about trifling with the man were quelled by his probing and unflinching eyes. The impervious stare passed through Dad like a gust of icy wind.
As Dad moved down the platform, a metallic rattle announced the approach of a train. Dad watched as it pulled up along the platform and gradually came to a halt.
“Let’s see how you like my performance, Tommy Berger,” Dad heard the locum say. Looking up in amazement, Dad saw the locum’s beckoning hand summoning the passengers to hurry out of the train. At the very same moment he shouted not the appropriate “Raus” but “Rein, Rein, Rein!”.
Instantly the eager commuters, who had been shuffling about impatiently, leapt through the open doors of the wagons, colliding with the disembarking passengers. Unsurprisingly, angry scenes took place, especially as everyone thought he was in the right.
Being a peace-loving individual, Dad turned to ask Peppi’s locum to call a halt to the undignified proceedings. What he saw, though, made him gasp. The locum had grown in size. Indeed, he appeared taller than any mortal Dad had ever encountered. Their eyes met but, before Dad found his voice, a gust of wind and the clatter of wheels announced the approach of the next train. Startled by the sight of disorderly crowds on the platform, its driver failed to apply the brakes in time. With a sharp bang his locomotive smashed, albeit slowly, into the last wagon of the stationary train.
Panic stricken, a group of longhaired men from Provence wearing light blazers, polo-necks and black trousers jumped out of the train. They had just arrived from France and were making their way to the stadium to support their team in a match with the Bavarian titleholders. Forming a phalanx behind their leader and brandishing sturdy and neatly folded umbrellas, carried on the pretext that it just might rain, the Frenchmen looked around them suspiciously. Their leader’s expression hardened as a group from Garmisch-Partenkirchen, adorned in braces, Lederhosen, boots and grey hats with green feathers emerged from another carriage. Yelling “Les Bosch, Les Bosch!” the French leader raised his umbrella and charged, with his group following closely behind him. The headman of the Bavarian group was no chicken! Ignoring his Pflicht [duty] to pacify foreign guests, he raised his mountaineering stick, shouted “Sieg Heil”, and gave battle.
Within a few moments, pandemonium raged on the crowded platform. As was to be expected, many locals joined their Bavarian brethren. So did some Austrians – who recalled affectionately the era of the Anschluß. All Frenchmen, Belgians, Dutchmen, a few dark gentlemen from Morocco and a number of Scotchmen threw themselves behind the Provençals.
Desperate to find a way of stopping the violence, Dad turned again to the locum Station Master. What he saw made his blood freeze. The locum had now grown to twice the size of any man Dad had ever seen. Worse still, his right hand swayed as if he were conducting a philharmonic orchestra; and his sardonically smiling face was turned upwards, focusing on a spot well beyond Dad’s horizon.
Overcoming his fright, Dad was about to address the eerie performer when a loud scream for help made him turn back to the platform, where two young louts had set on a middle-aged man. One punched him repeatedly whilst the other was trying to tear a briefcase out of his hand. Nobody on the platform heeded the besieged man’s clamours and, in no time, he was down on the ground with the two youths trampling mercilessly all over him.
2.Shelter and Speculation
Fearing for his own life, Dad rushed over to the locked door marked ‘Herren’. When his plea to be admitted met with no response, he looked at the nearby ‘Damen’. At first, his sense of decency dictated that he stay away; but another shriek of terror from a fresh victim spurred him into action. Preferring to risk prosecution for importuning to a spell in the city hospital with a broken neck, he hammered desperately on this second door, begging the good people inside not to forsake him. Initially, Sesame refused to budge. Then, suddenly, it swung open and Dad catapulted into the arms of a thick-set man with a friendly face and a fine moustache.
“Quick, you help block door,” said his saviour in a heavy Russian accent. Obligingly, Dad (who was a practical thinker) removed the pole from a broomstick and, with the Russian’s help, forced it under the door handle. They then detached a panel from one of the cubicles. Having positioned one end of the panel against the door, they pressed the other end into a depression in the floor.
“And now,” said the Russian, “we make windows fast; and we have Red Army bunker.” Remembering his manners, he added: “I Pavel Ivanovitch Popov, but friends call me Pasha.”
“And I am Robert Berger; but everybody calls me Tommy,” said Dad, shaking Pasha’s outstretched hand.
Dad helped Pasha to shut the windows in the cubicles. Once the barricading operation was complete, Dad looked around him. He soon spotted a number of men of all colours and creeds who, like himself, had sought refuge in a singularly inappropriate place. Amongst them were an Orthodox priest and a Haseed.
“But, Rebbi Mendel,” said the priest to the Haseed, “why is a man of your scholarship and devotion so concerned about a little eruption like this? Didn’t the Good Lord provide this … shelter … for our protection?”
“It’s not us that I worry about,” sighed Rabbi Mendel. “I fear for the fate of the world, Father Constantin. I believe the War of Gog and Magog has begun; and it will be followed by the Last Day of Judgment.”
“But, Rebbi Mendel,” said Father Constantin, “why do you fear the Last Day of Judgment? Don’t you want Jesus to come back to Earth?”
“Well, Father Constantin,” said Rabbi Mendel shyly, “we ... as perhaps you know ... do not really believe in Jesus.”
“True,” conceded the priest, but persisted unabashed: “But you, too, believe the Messiah will come.”
“So, we do; and we pray for it,” agreed Mendel.
“So why worry? Remember what will happen when He favours us.”
“Oh, yes,” said Rabbi Mendel. “All nations will accept the Lord; and there will be peace all over the world; and we shall have the Brotherhood of Man; and
“So why the fear?”
“But before this, Father Constantin, there will be the War of Gog and Magog: all nations will wage war. So, all people of the world will experience sufferings, humiliations and deprivations; and thousands will die.”
“But, Rabbi Mendel,” pointed out Father Constantin soothingly, “not everybody will perish; and surely your devotion will stand you and your family in good stead. So don’t you worry. Instead, let us pray together that the Brotherhood of Man will come soon.”
At this point, Dad, who was a secular man, lost interest in the conversation. For a while he observed how Pasha and the other fugitives took turns to peep through the keyhole. Then, at Pasha’s invitation, Dad too had a go. Shocked by what he saw, he rushed to one of the cubicles and threw up.
“You alright, Tommy?” asked Pasha, who had followed him and was repeatedly slapping him between the shoulders.
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Dad when he recovered his breath. “But you saw what’s going on out there, Pasha. They’ve turned into savages!”
“Yes, Tommy,” said Pasha sadly. “This is why in Kolkhoz [commune] we teach our children all men equal. And we must toil for Brotherhood of Man!”
Their conversation was interrupted by a fresh attempt by someone on the outside to gain access to the fortified latrine. Pasha, Dad and the other occupants threw their weight against the door. They were still holding this position when, at long last, they heard the unmistakable shriek of a police whistle and an imperious voice shouting commands through a megaphone. Taking another peep, Pasha pressed his handkerchief firmly into the keyhole and yelled anxiously:
“Quick, quick: tear gas!”
Using their jackets and waistcoats to seal all the gaps around the window-frames and under the door, the escapees took their cue from Pasha, who breathed slowly and deliberately through his nostrils with his hand over his mouth. The uncontrolled coughing and anxious screams coming from the platform bore witness to what was going on outside.
Eventually the tumult ceased and the commands from the megaphone died down. After a while, Pasha retrieved his handkerchief and, gingerly, sniffed the air around him.
“Is clean,” he concluded. “We better get ready.”
They did their best to conceal the damage done to the place. The panel, though, refused to slip back into its original position in the frame. “I think best is ... tactical retreat,” said Pasha resignedly. “If we wait around, perhaps Kulaks [capitalist authorities] ask us pay repair.”
Back on the platform, Dad and Pasha looked around them. “It’s all over now; no more riot. But think, what a stupid waste!” observed Dad.
“Was stupid; but not waste, Tommy! You see, this is important lesson to us!”
“What about?”
“Human nature. You give them excuse to quarrel and they fight – can be for no real reason.”
“You may be right, Pasha,” nodded Dad.
“Of course am right. My faith, Tommy, is Dictatorship of Proletariat; and my big dream is Revolution spread to whole world, Tommy!”
“But, honestly, Pasha – can you really see this happening?”
“Perhaps not our life; but one day must come. Marx, he said so; and Marx always right!”
“Perhaps,” said Dad dubiously.
“Is not ‘perhaps’; I tell you – one day old order go and new take over; and when come, we have Brotherhood of Man.”
“But isn’t this what all religions assert?” Dad exclaimed.
“Is so. Perhaps their first teacher also Communist? But real Brotherhood of Man not dream of religion. It come with Dictatorship of Proletariat, Tommy, because Proletariat believe all men equal before State!”
He was about to continue but was cut short as the large clock on the platform chimed the hour. “Is late, Tommy,” he said anxiously, “today we meet Mayor of Munich; must hurry. But I tell you, Tommy, you come see me in Kolkhoz. We have party and dance. You, Tommy, good man. You learn accept Revolution! So, see you again soon, Tavarish [Comrade] Tommy!”
3.Metaphisical Discourse with Theophil.
For a while Dad reflected on the events of the last hour. They appeared incongruous: the mayhem on the platform, the strange assembly in the lavatory and – last but not least – postulations of the Brotherhood of Man by both temporal and religious zealots. He asked himself: “what did they mean”? Did Pasha, the rabid socialist, refer to the very ideal postulated by the Priest and the Rabbi? Dad was intrigued. For the moment, though, his immediate task was to find out what had happened to Peppi.
He was about to turn in the direction of the Station Master’s office when his glance fell on the podium. His feet turned to stone; he stood paralysed, staring at the strange locum who had grown to a colossal size. His uniform was stretched to its limit and, even as Dad watched, it metamorphosed into a loose black toga. At the very same moment the locum’s face became sharper and his eyes acquired a red tinge. His demeanour, though, became more relaxed and friendly and his smile was enhanced by an amused twinkle.
“Is it really you, Respected Sir? They told us a lot about you in primary school and in the gymnasium,” said Dad with trepidation.
“Yes, Tommy Berger, I am who you think I am! But fear not – I mean you no harm,” his voice was mild, even gentle.
“What shall I call you: Mephisto, Lucifer or, perhaps, Archangel?”
“I prefer to be called Theophil. It is the name by which I am known to my friends. My enemies can call me what they like: they do not count.”
“But why are you here? Surely, the fate of humans is of no consequence to you!”
“I like to watch people who interest or intrigue me; mainly out of curiosity.”
“So, you are an observer – a searcher for truth,” said Dad warmly.
Theophil nodded. “You have a keen intellect.”
“Will you then permit me to ask you a question?”
“Of course, Tommy! Why do you think I have revealed myself to you?”
“Am I the only one who sees you?” Dad was perplexed and forgot his main query.
“Quite so, Tommy. Well, look around you” said Theophil. To Dad’s surprise all on the platform were going about their business without casting even a glance at either of them. Occasionally, someone came so close as to brush against them but, invariably, did not make contact.
“They could see the locum when I made them see me,” explained Theophil. “Presently, though, it is best for us to remain undisturbed and out of your dimension. Well, let’s hear your main question, Tommy.”
“It concerns the Brotherhood of Man. I’ve just heard it postulated by two religious men, and, in addition, it is an objective of a politically inspired fellow. Obviously, the notion is supported by so many divergent groups. But can it ever materialise?”
“To tackle the problem, let us define the issue. What is the Brotherhood of Man?”
“To me it sounds like a dream,” said Dad, awed by the intensity that crept into the other’s voice.
“I suspect you mean: ‘a state of perfection Man seeks to attain’ or an ideal,” suggested Theophil. Responding to Dad’s nod, he proceeded in the same profound tone: “The question then is whether Man has the attributes needed to achieve his object.”
“For generations Man dreamt of flying. Those who tried were often ridiculed. All the same, some persisted. Eventually Mankind got there,” responded Dad. “It was a victory of the mind. This is what our Philosophy Teacher said.”
“I agree with him. And the human mind is a powerful tool. But can the Brotherhood of Man be gained by an application of rational thought?”
“I should say ‘no’. We must have the emotive drive to get there,” averred Dad.
“Do you think mankind has this drive?”
“Please tell me,” responded Dad humbly.
“Let’s try together, then,” said Theophil, who had by then shrunk back to the size and shape of a tall man. “Tell me, my friend, what are the main characteristics of the fine citizens of
“They respect uniforms, obey orders, do their Pflicht [task] and defend their rights,” responded Dad readily.
“And are these evil attributes?”
“Not really,” reflected Dad. “People who respect uniforms and obey orders are law abiding citizens. And society thrives when its members do their duty.”
“How about insistence on, and protection of, rights?” asked Theophil.
“When applied within reason, it is a positive trait. People who don’t stand up for what is right are doormats.”
“So why the riot?”
“Is it because the people of
“But shouldn’t a fine attribute be taken as far as possible?”
“That is what I find hard to understand. Even love, when taken to extremes, becomes oppressive!”
“What then, Tommy, is our conclusion about the qualities you mentioned?”
“They remain fine attributes only when exercised in moderation!”
“And how about negative traits, such as lust and envy?” asked Theophil.
“Passion, which is part and parcel of lust, is also a component of love. And the wish to do as well as your neighbours entails progress.”
Initially Dad could not fit the pieces of the jigsaw together: they seemed random and shapeless. Then, with a flash of comprehension, he went on feverishly: “Are you telling me, Theophil, that good and evil are separated by a narrow – often invisible – line?”
“Well, what do you think, Tommy Berger?”
“It would explain,” Dad answered, “why faith, with its noble core, often leads to cruelty and tyranny. Innocent people have been tortured and massacred in the name of creed and ideology!”
“Is the Brotherhood of Man then attainable, Tommy?”
“Even if it were attainable, it would not last. Man is driven by emotions as much as by his mind; and emotions which are noble today can turn nasty tomorrow.”
“Well put,” Theophil said approvingly. “Man has taught himself to fly. One day he may reach remote galaxies. He has unveiled many secrets of the universe. And he has split the atom. But he will never manage to introduce harmony and order into his environment and society: his emotive makeup is the obstacle. So the Brotherhood of Man will remain an ideal, a notion of perfection, unattainable by imperfect – yes, by flawed – beings.”
“So this is what you set out to demonstrate this morning, Theophil. You have established that when passions are roused, reason is defeated. But then how many of us got your message? Even a bright spark like Pasha failed to catch on. And, to tell the truth, I should not have seen the light without your guidance.”
“I know, Tommy; but when nudged, you saw it. And so did someone else!”
“Who …?” started Dad, and came to an abrupt halt. “So that is why you looked upwards. You scored; and it pleased you.”
“It did,” conceded Theophil. “In an intellectual discourse carried out from the Beginning, I have – once again – proved my point!”
“As you did aeons ago when you encouraged Eve to taste the forbidden fruit of knowledge!”
“I like your choice of words, Tommy. Eve was tempted by curiosity and desire. So I asked her: ‘why not go ahead – what is there to stop you?’ And she listened.”
“And she went ahead. But then, couldn’t you direct us also to the Brotherhood of Man?”
“I cannot guide you through a cul-de-sac: it is impassable.”
“Could He remove the imperfections which block us?”
“Remember what Peppi and you used to say on this subject in your school days?”
“We thought,” Dad stammered, “that the flaws in our world showed He too was imperfect. So, perhaps, He too cannot guide us to the Brotherhood of Man, which denotes a state of perfection.”
“But need you be perfect to create or generate perfection?” asked Theophil.
“Can an artist create what isn’t in him? So, all in all, the Brotherhood of Man will remain unattainable,” Dad concluded sadly.
“So it will,” agreed Theophil gently. Then, in an even more benign tone, he added: “You have pleased me, Tommy Berger; you have not shied away from the truth. You are entitled to a wish ... no, no, you needn’t ask me to protect Peppi against the consequences of my little prank. Theophil requires no scapegoat, and so Peppi shall come to no harm. Let’s have a concrete wish, Tommy.”
Unsurprisingly, Dad took his time. Should he ask for a large fortune or for a passionate episode in his Indian Summer? But he discounted these: at his age, such benefits or adventures were best avoided. His one wish was to spend his remaining years comfortably and uneventfully in his old hometown.
“I long to be back in Vienna, Theophil. I want to go back to my old Kaffee, order an Apfelstrudel and read the papers whilst I sip my coffee through heaps of whipped cream. I want to walk again in the Vienna Forest, go to the Volksoper [the popular opera], to the theatre and occasionally to a concert,” said Dad shamefacedly.
“But will you be able to forget what had happened during the War?”
“It was a period of madness,” said Dad with conviction. “Now that it is over, life can start afresh. Also, Theophil, my Viennese friends stood by us! They’ll welcome me back. But I cannot make a new start in a divided
“You shall be back in your old
“Thanks, Theophil, I am grateful to you,” said Dad.
“You’d be surprised how many of your compatriots have voiced the same wish in their prayers to Him. They too will go back because
For a few moments they gazed at one another – the metaphysical being and the man to whom he had chosen to reveal himself. Theophil could well understand Dad’s craving for peace and anonymity. The days when Dad hoped to climb Everest were long gone.
“You’ll have a comfortable existence in your new Vienna,” promised Theophil.
“I trust you.”
“I am gratified. But now I must be on my way. And you, Tommy Berger, have an errand to run. Peppi is at a crossroads. His future depends on the outcome of the next few minutes. He may rise high or remain an obscure drifter. You have to assist him because I must not intervene.”
“Will I see you again, Theophil?” asked Dad.
“I am afraid not, Tommy Berger. I reveal myself to a human more than once only if we strike a special bargain. In your case, a pact is better avoided.”
“Farewell then, noble Theophil. You have taught me more than I thought I could ever learn.”
“It has been my pleasure,” said Theophil, and vanished.
4. Peppi’s Resolve
“I’m back on earth,” Dad murmured to himself as someone bumped into him. Acknowledging the latter’s excuses with a polite smile, Dad proceeded in haste to the Station Master’s office. To Dad’s surprise, Peppi rose from his chair as if he had been asleep.
“You are really back, Tommy,” he yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I had a funny dream about some riot on my platform and that you hid in the women’s toilet together with some very strange characters. When the riot was over, you had a crazy chat with an odd being who looked like ... the devil!” He paused for a moment. “What a dream!”
“It wasn’t a dream, Peppi,” said Dad.
“Tommy, don’t tell me all this really happened! Nonsense: I must still be fast asleep!”
“No, Peppi: you were not dreaming. In an inexplicable manner your eyes saw what I had perceived. It is as if we had a joint vision. And what is that strange bottle – there beside you on the table? It doesn’t look like Slivovitz.”
“That odd locum gave it to me. You see, he came into my office and handed it to me with a smile. I fell fast asleep after I took a sip.”
“A Mickey Finn?”
“It tasted like tea with rum.”
“May I have a look?” asked Dad.
The bottle was made of a black opaque material, too light to be ceramic and too heavily grooved to be glass. It looked alien. To Dad’s surprise, the cork refused to budge when he tried to remove it.
“You’d better think twice before you take a sip,” said Peppi anxiously.
“I only want to smell it,” explained Dad. “Mind if I try?”
“Not at all,” said Peppi. Instantly, the cork gave way, and a fine aroma filled the room.
“Peppi, it smells delicious. Are you sure it made you fall asleep?”
“I didn’t sleep too well last night, Tommy. So perhaps it wasn’t the drink after all. Want to try a drop?”
Gingerly, Dad raised the bottle to his lips. He was startled when the liquid gushed into his mouth like water from a fountain.
“The bottle likes you, Tommy,” said Peppi, amused.
“It’s a potent drink,” said Dad when he regained his breath. “But it’s not liqueur! It’s some sort of a tonic. Mind if I have another drop?”
Dad’s face brightened after the second sip. A wave of confidence engulfed him, culminating in a sense of inner calm. The hurdles of everyday life and the fear of tomorrow faded into the distance.
“You look just like you did in the old days, Tommy,” said Peppi, perplexed.
“I feel it. And let me tell you, Peppi: I know that once again I can conquer the world.”
“Is it this drink?”
“Why don’t you take a sip? It’s your bottle,” Dad said, proffering the bottle.
The cork slipped out readily. Peppi sniffed the aroma appreciatively and took a hearty swig, then another.
“Tommy, I feel like a new man – I have a new heart!” Peppi looked excited, elated. “It’s the same euphoria I felt after my first ... eh ... experience! Well, Tommy, both of us could do with a snack. But, before we get out of here, why don’t you have another sip from this bottle?”
Obligingly, Dad partook. He was about to have yet another when an inner voice urged caution. “I think this is as far as I go,” he said.
Peppi reinserted the cork. By then, his demeanour had undergone a remarkable change. Peppi had always been an exceptionally tall and good-looking man, but his appearance was marred by his ingratiating smile and the self-effacing demeanour he assumed in his everyday life. Now an aura of distinction, of well-being, descended on him. The drifter from
“Tommy, you must help me write my letter of resignation. I’m not going back to the station,” said Peppi over their first drink in the Kneipe.
“But why, Peppi?”
“Because I’m sick and tired of being the chief clown in that stupid circus. I have been coasting all my life and it’s high time I do something I like.”
“The beer garden?”
“We’ll have to keep it for a while. We need the money. But do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”
“You wanted to own a good business of your own, Peppi.”
“Not just any type of business. My dream was to have an antiques shop of my own! Didn’t you know?”
“I knew you loved antiques of all sorts. I remember how we used to stop and stare through the windows of
“I tried,” said Peppi. “But they wouldn’t have me. My accent was too common. They had no room for a working-class boy.”
“You never told me,” protested Dad.
“What would have been the use? But now, Tommy, I know I can do it. I shall simply apprentice myself to one of the leading shops in town.”
“Isn’t it too late in the day?” asked Dad anxiously. “You are two years older than me ...”
“I’m 53!” smiled Peppi. “So what? I’ve stashed away some of the money I made during the War. And Helga will be supportive. She doesn’t like the beer garden. But she’d be proud to be the wife of a leading art or antiques dealer! And I know I shall make it, Tommy: where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Go then, by this – thy strength!” Dad exclaimed. Then, highly embarrassed, he added: “I don’t know what made me use these words, Peppi. It was as if an invisible person prompted me.”
“I think I know who it was,” said Peppi warmly. “And I am glad to have the blessing of both of you.” Pausing for a moment, he went on: “So come on, let’s draw up my letter of resignation.”
They drafted the letter over the next two drinks. When they were done, Peppi shrugged his shoulders and said: “I’ll be glad to see the last of that lousy uniform.”
Time stood still as they sat in silence at their table in the Kneipe. Each was recalling their youth in
Peppi broke the spell. “Tommy, will you really go back to
“Yes, Peppi. And you?”
“I’m pretty sure Helga would refuse to leave
“But why?”
“Look, Tommy: in reality,
“Peppi!” protested Dad.
“Yes, Tommy, so it was. Oh, I know: you are a Jew and I’m a Viennese of the old stock. But, in truth, your position was better than mine.”
“In what way?”
“The Jews of Vienna were outside our class structure,” said Peppi. “No matter how persistently you kept knocking, some doors would remain firmly shut. The nobility, the gentry and the army frowned on you and some professions used their numerus clausus to exclude you. In the old days, you couldn’t have become a notary or an ambassador. But the arts, many professions – including medicine – and the business world welcomed a gifted Jewish kid. I, by contrast, was a working-class boy. My chances of rising in the world were slim. The foreman’s job at old
“All the same, Peppi – you were an insider whilst I was kept outside.”
“Quite so! But like most Jews of your generation, you were content to remain a successful entrepreneur with a niche in your own community. It didn’t matter to you that you were on the fringes. I, Tommy, was not satisfied with my lot of an insider in the lower echelons of the pyramid.”
The waitress hovered in the background, indicating that they ought to order another drink. To Dad’s relief, Peppi decided against a further Slivovitz and settled for a cup of black coffee. For a while they continued to talk about the old days and their respective plans for the future. This time it was Dad who broke the spell, explaining that he had to prepare for another trip to
“After that, I have to fly back to my family in Tel Aviv,” he told Peppi. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back in
Peppi stood at the door until Dad disappeared round the corner. Stepping back into the Kneipe, he ordered another cup of coffee but, as soon as the waitress turned her back, got hold of his odd-looking bottle. The cork loosened obligingly.
“Thanks, Theophil,” he said, taking a hearty swig.
“You are welcome,” he mind was told.
III. AN ANTIQUES DEALER IN MUNICH
1.Peppi’s Second Career
Following this encounter, Peppi started to go from strength to strength. His friendship with Dad remained intact, with each rejoicing at the other’s success. Their paths, though, did not cross again.
For Dad, the turning point was
Dad returned to
Peppi did not return to Vienna. A few days after the incident on the platform, he apprenticed himself to one of Munich’s leading antiques dealers. Initially, Herr Schultz was reluctant to take on a middle-aged trainee. To allay his fears, Peppi launched into an analysis-cum-classification of the main artefacts displayed in the show window and cabinets. Duly impressed, Herr Schultz offered Peppi a six month attachment.
Peppi passed with flying colours. When his probation was over, Herr Schultz offered him a regular post. The wages were meagre but Peppi soon earned a fair living out of his sales commissions. By the end of his second year in the trade, he had acquired expertise in tapestries and in old masters’ prints. He also established excellent relations with the clients, who regarded him a trustworthy and knowledgeable dealer.
Herr Schultz, alas, was unable to reap the benefits of the business’s success. It came too late. Having lost his wife in an air raid and his only son on the African front, he had no heir. This disappointing fact of life, and his natural fair mindedness, encouraged Herr Schultz to constitute the indefatigable and resourceful Peppi a full and equal partner. His only misgiving concerned their surnames: a high-class antiques business ought not to be carried on under two common names. Obligingly, Peppi changed his surname to Stölzenfeld.
They continued to work together for another five years, and the business went from strength to strength. Then Herr Schultz came up with an irresistible proposition. Admitting that he felt the need to retire, he suggested that Peppi pay him an annuity in consideration of his share in the business. Despite Helga’s doubts, Peppi accepted. Some fourteen months after his retirement, Herr Schultz passed away.
On his return to
His two daughters were a source of joy. Lucy, it was true, remained a tomboy. Her blunt mannerisms and sharp tongue scared many a potential suitor away. But she was exceptionally bright, had consistently won all the school prizes on offer in the humanities and – to Peppi’s delight – had developed an interest in antiques. Her future, Peppi sensed, would be secure even if she remained unattached.
His second daughter, Anna, had the makings of a belle. She was mirror conscious, donned smart dresses and spent hours on her hairstyle. True, her marks in school were nothing to boast about and her piano teacher was taciturn when reporting on her progress and application. Peppi and Helga were unable to spur her into work. Helga grieved; Peppi remained unperturbed. “She may never develop into a business or career woman,” he mused complacently; “but she’ll sure know how to handle her husband and keep him happy and on the leash!”
Looking affectionately at his special bottle, Peppi concluded that all was well on the domestic front. Financially, too, his position was secure and, most importantly, he enjoyed his latest occupation and craved nothing else. Admittedly, he was well past the passions and great expectations of youth as well as the financial aspirations of mid-life. His main ambition was to use his remaining working years so as to expand Schultz and Stölzenfeld and turn it into the best antiques shop in Germany.
It took Peppi a few more years to achieve his target. In March 1966, Peppi’s standing was lauded in Der Spiegel. A reportage in its Art pages, which ranked the best known art and antiques shops in Western Germany, named Schultz and Stölzenfeld the leading experts in medieval tapestries and old master prints. Lucy and Anna were jubilant. Helga embraced Peppi in front of her daughters and, failing to suppress tears of joy, exclaimed: “At long last you’ve made it, Liebling!”
Peppi’s success did not go to his head. But it encouraged him to look for further openings for his business. Sensing that
He was about to give up when Lucy, who had just graduated from Munich’s University with a summa cum laude in Classics and Medieval Philosophy, suggested that they attend an antiques fair in London. Helga was supportive, and so Peppi agreed. His real object, though, was to visit the Tower of London and to spend a few days in museums.
2.The London Venture
To his own surprise, Peppi fell in love with
Peppi and Lucy spent an extra week in
“If you want, I’ll run it for you, Papa. I’ve been helping you out in
“You are a good judge of antiques and you do know how to run the business, but do you really want to live all on your own in London? The British are alright but just a little bit funny, aren’t they?”
“You fear, Papa, that I won’t find a suitable husband in
“That too,” admitted Peppi.
“But, Dad, I don’t intend to get married. I can manage perfectly well without a fool of a husband tied to my apron strings.”
“Oh well,” said Peppi resignedly. “If that’s the way you feel, you might as well start this new business here – if Helga agrees.”
“She will,” said Lucy.
They spent the next few days searching for suitable accommodation. Peppi’s idea was to purchase a flat in
“What worries you, Papa? Hampstead is a safe area: just as safe as
“I know. But I can’t bear the thought of your living all alone in such a big house. Suppose somebody loses his way on the heath and tries to get in?”
“Aren’t you just a bit fanciful, Papa?”
She had made her point. On her solemn promise to install a burglar alarm and keep the doors locked and bolted at night, Peppi agreed to buy the lovely house.
All that remained to be done was to find a suitable name for their new business. ‘Schultz and Stölzenfeld’ appeared inappropriate for a
“But we don’t know any Théophile. Why do you want to use a bogus name?”
“Why ever not?” countered Peppi, trying to sound authoritative.
“Why ever not,” mimicked Lucy. “Papa, that’s the funniest thing you have said in months! Still, I suppose Théophile sounds sort of cute.”
“It’s not ‘Théophile’ but ‘Theophil’ – without an ‘e’.”
“Lover of theorising? Come to think of it, I like it. Alright then, Papa.”
Helga was bemused when told of the exploits of her husband and elder daughter. “Well, well, so now we have two antiques dealers in our family. Whatever next!”
“Next is: Papa must become Herr von Stölzenfeld!” answered Anna.
“And why is that, my dear lady?” asked Peppi, looking affectionately at his younger daughter, a girl of fourteen, who was fast maturing into an attractive and self-assured woman.
“Because then I’ll be Fräulein von Stölzenfeld and everybody will treat me with great respect!”
“Now, now, Anna. Snobbery is a sin; and it’s also stupid,” censured Helga, but Anna persisted.
“But it’s cute to be Fräulein von Stölzenfeld!”
“And the British are great snobs,” intercepted Peppi.
“So because they are snobs you want to spend money for the privilege of adding a ‘von’ to your perfectly respectable name?” asked Helga, bewildered.
“Our teachers told us that Balzac just added ‘de’ in front of his surname. So why can’t Papa insert the ‘von’?” protested Anna.
The matter ended there. But Peppi went to bed in contemplative mood. After lengthy meanderings, he concluded that an antic, resorted to by a French penny-a-liner like Balzac, was equally fair for Peppi Stölzl. Shortly before her departure to
Under Lucy’s management, Theophil’s Antiques made steady progress. True, Lucy lacked Peppi’s psychological agility, monumental drive and natural knack for clinching a bargain. Clients, though, responded favourably to her sincere efforts to assist them and sensed that she was a fair and scrupulous businesswoman. Within two years, she had acquired a steady and loyal clientele. Her other achievement was the branching out into illuminated medieval books. In no time, she developed a first class expertise.
Peppi shuttled regularly between the two shops. After a while, he felt increasingly attached to
3.Becoming Freiherr von Stölzenfel
Problems surfaced when Peppi contributed an article on medieval tapestries from Anjou. A few weeks after its publication, he received a hand-written letter, carrying the postmark of Leipzig and signed ‘Karl Adelbert Freiherr von Stölzenfeld’. It ended with the words: “Will you kindly let me know forthwith by what right you sign your writings with a title conferred on my ancestor by Frederick the Great?”
A lesser man might have panicked. Peppi took the onslaught in his stride. To calm his nerves, he drew a few swigs from his cherished bottle. Under its strange influence he commissioned a private investigator’s report. The information he received confirmed the Freiherr’s exclusive right to his esteemed title but also established that the aging squire was penniless. When the nobleman’s fury had abated, Peppi began negotiations. In the end, the Freiherr agreed to receive a handsome stipend, and adopted Peppi into his family. In this way Peppi acquired the lawful right to use the ‘von’ and, as the old nobleman had no heir, was assured of succeeding to the time-honoured ‘Freiherr’ designation.
Lucy displayed her amusement without reserve. To her mind, it was all too silly for words. Helga, whose religiosity was reaching an advanced state, disagreed. Unable to hide her chagrin, she said the money could have been spent more sensibly on a donation to charity. She was appeased only when Peppi pointed out that the aging Freiherr was actually one of the deserving poor. Young Anna thought it best to keep her counsel. Late in the evening, though, when her mother had gone to church to listen to a preacher from
Time passed, and things continued to flow smoothly. For a while not a ripple disturbed the calm waters of their existence. Although Peppi was in his late sixties, he retained his old zest for life. Often, when Helga attended a religious function, he took Anna out to dinner.
IV.ANNA’S DEFECTION AND HELGA’S DEATH
1.Anna’s Cahnge of Heart
Anna was growing up. Occasionally she brought up subjects she had never raised before. Some related to human relationships. Others touched on faith and religion. Peppi recalled, in particular, a conversation they had one evening on their way home. They had been shocked to witness a van knocking a young man off his motorcycle. Once they had recovered, they continued their walk home. Then, unexpectedly, Anna asked: “Papa, does the Good Lord really exist?”
“You ask two separate questions, my pet. One is whether God exists. The other is whether He is good.”
“Our teacher says He exists and is good. She says He loves all of us. Is she right?”
“Then why did He let this young motorcycle rider die on the road? The poor youngster was only four or five years older than you.”
“My teacher would say we are too small to understand Him.”
“Your teacher, then, must be grand: obviously, she claims to understand Him.”
Anna did not reply. Instead, she looked sullenly at her father. The conversation, though, was the first sign of a change in Anna’s demeanour. Shortly after her fifteenth birthday, she began to distance herself from Peppi. She appeared to have lost her affection for him and remained aloof.
Initially, Peppi assumed that his pet was growing up and her aloofness was simply a passing phase. Anna, though, continued to maintain this distance and, worse still, never smiled when he was around. Genuinely irked, Peppi asked her what the matter was. “Nothing, Papa,” came the reply, and Anna slipped out of the room.
In his frustration, Peppi turned to Helga but, again, drew a blank. “You can’t expect a young woman to go on acting like a little girl!” she said dismissively.
“I know. This is what I keep telling myself. But often I sense that Anna is hostile, perhaps even afraid of me.”
“Aren’t you just fancying all this?” asked Helga, still doubtful.
“Am I a fanciful chap, Helga?” asked Peppi.
“Not normally!” conceded Helga. “Alright, I’ll look into it.”
Some two weeks later Helga resumed their conversation. She had raised the subject with Anna but got nowhere. Anna remained uncommunicative and elusive.
“You are right, Peppi,” she told him. “Something is wrong; but I’ve no idea what it can be. You must remain patient. Sooner or later we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“It’s just awful: feeling that she doesn’t love me anymore!” exclaimed Peppi.
“I don’t think that’s the case; but I can’t be sure. And you mustn’t apply pressure, Peppi! It would only make things worse. So be sensible,” said Helga. She then added, flustered: “It would all be so much easier if you were a believer. You would turn to the Good Lord.”
“We’ve been through this many times. I won’t profess a faith I don’t accept!”
“I’ll keep praying for your enlightenment,” sighed Helga.
Later that evening, Peppi retired to his study, unlocked his safe and took out his special bottle. As always, the cork slipped out readily but the hearty swig did not bring him comfort.
“I need your help, Theophil,” murmured Peppi. He had not beheld his metaphysical friend since that memorable day in
“I’m afraid there is not much I can do for you this time.”
Resignedly, Peppi closed his eyes.
“Why, Theophil?” asked Peppi after a while.
“All your previous ‘riddles’ could be solved by an application of reason. That, as you know, is where my skill lies. But I am no good at handling human emotion.”
“I’ll have to be patient, then,” said Peppi.
“Yes: take Helga’s advice,” agreed the voice in Peppi’s head. “But don’t look so crestfallen. Have a good look at the panel painting you purchased two days ago from the scruffy peddler, the one who calls on you from time to time.”
“Judging from the motives and composition, it’s a 13th century work.” The connoisseur’s smile spread on Peppi’s face.
“Have a good look at the lower left hand corner,” urged the voice.
“It has been overprinted. I wonder what’s under it.”
“Let me clean it for you.”
As if by magic, the ugly patch of dark paint disappeared. Using a piece of chamois, Peppi gently wiped the surface. When he had finished, his eyes opened wide. A diminutive image of a smiling Lucifer was staring right at him.
“Albigensian?” Peppi was referring to a religious group that had thrived in
“Albigensian, painted in Toulouse. This relic survived the first cultural revolution – the first ‘burning of vanities’ in the pious medieval world,” confirmed Theophil.
“I gave that peddler just 300 marks for it,” sighed Peppi.
“But that was what he asked for,” the gentle voice said soothingly. “And, my dear Peppi, we both know you’d never sell this piece. So – my boy – get a grip on yourself. As the British say: you win some, you lose some. Life was not meant to be a bed of roses.”
“As our History Master used to say: everybody has a cross to bear,” conceded Peppi.
“True, Peppi, except that I am not at all fond of the cross!” The voice chuckled, and then faded.
Resignedly, Peppi accepted his rejection by Anna. To escape the feeling of emptiness that descended on him from time to time, he spent many evenings in his office at Schultz & Stölzenfeld. Frequently – and although Lucy ran Theophil’s Antiques efficiently – he found excuses to fly to London. In due course, he became a familiar figure at Artiquar and a regular contributor to its quarterly.
When he felt disinclined to spend the evening in the club, he scanned the entertainment pages of The Times. Like many foreigners, he had developed a penchant for British comedies and musicals. Occasionally, he went with Lucy to a show in the
Shortly after Peppi returned from one of his sojourns in
“Some of my friends are going up to
“Have you told your mother?”
“She said it’s OK – if you agree.”
“You will be careful, Anna, won’t you,” said Peppi anxiously. Although Anna’s playful demeanour had been replaced by a sober, mature countenance, Peppi was overcome by the protectiveness he continued to feel for his younger daughter.
“Of course,” laughed Anna. “Papa: soon I’ll be seventeen! I’m not a child any longer!”
“I know,” Peppi hurried to concede. “But you have never been away on your own for so long!”
“It’s time I started – don’t you think?”
“Very well then,” yielded Peppi, charmed by Anna’s friendly manner.
Anna came back full of impressions. She admired
“Writing back promptly: that’s not like Anna,” said Peppi thoughtfully.
“Young women act this way when they set their heart on a man,” answered Helga.
“Who is he?”
“He’s a student of theology. His name is Otto Schwartz. Anna is very much taken with him.”
“Is it a passing crush?”
“I’m not sure. She read me one of his letters. He sounds like a nice young man; and I think he’s steady. He expects to be ordained in a year or two.”
Shortly after she finished her Gymnasium and obtained her Matura [the Mid European Secondary School Leaving Certificate], Anna had a heart-to-heart with Peppi.
“Papa – I want to talk to you about my future,” she told him.
“Go ahead,” said Peppi warmly, marvelling, as often before, at the change in her outlook and appearance. His younger daughter had lost her frivolous interest in smart clothes and innovative coiffeurs. She had grown into a seriously minded young woman of character. Her neat appearance and forthright manner were bound to leave an impact on many a man looking for a dependable and presentable wife.
“Papa, you will not like what I’ve got to tell you. Oh, I know you want me to enrol in a university; like Lucy did. But I’m not as smart as she and I am not interested in book learning.”
“What do you want to do, then?” asked Peppi, bewildered.
“I want to attend a school for professional secretaries, Papa!”
“But why?”
“I’m good at languages and I’m well organised. I can be of real use in a large company.”
“Then why not study business management?”
“Because I don’t want to run my own business and I don’t want to become an executive. I don’t want the responsibility.”
“What, then, is your main aim in life?” asked Peppi.
“I want to be a good wife and mother,” said Anna.
“So the professional skills are to be a sort of insurance, I suppose?” asked Peppi lamely.
“That too. But I may have to help my husband out for a few years.”
“Don’t you see that this is unnecessary, Anna? If you ever needed help, I’d be there. Don’t you realise?”
“I know, Papa. But I don’t want to depend on anybody.”
“I see,” said Peppi, a lump rising in his throat.
“And, Papa,” continued Anna, embarrassed yet determined to set all her cards on the table. “I want to enrol in the School for Secretaries in
“What’s so special about
“Mama told you about my friend Otto. He has just been ordained and constituted a curate in a protestant church in Bremen.”
“I see,” Peppi repeated himself.
“And the school is excellent; I’ve checked!”
“Does your mother approve?”
“She does. But I need your help, Papa. It’s a two year course; and it’s expensive.”
“Very well then,” said Peppi. “And, Anna, best of luck.”
“Thanks, Papa.”
2.Hlega’s Decline and Demise
The large suburban house, which the Stölzenfelds had purchased shortly after Peppi became old Herr Schultz’s partner, felt empty after Anna’s departure. Peppi suggested that they sell it and move into a flat in an inner district. Helga, however, refused to hear of it. She loved her garden, felt at home in her large kitchen and hated the idea of living in the inner city. Peppi gave way gracefully. To ensure that Helga would not feel isolated, he decided to give
“You like
“But I don’t like the idea of your staying alone in this huge house!”
“Don’t be silly, Peppi,” protested Helga. “Believe it or not – I can still look after myself.”
The trips to
“Lucy, can’t you persuade Helga to move to
“Mother will not leave
“But Anna has moved to
“I know, Papa. But mother won’t listen.”
“Then I’ll have to be patient,” sighed Peppi. “But you know, Lucy, next month I’ll be 72!”
“You don’t look it, Papa,” soothed Lucy. “So stop talking like a septuagenarian.”
In the event, Peppi’s patience was not tested for long. One morning, as he was tiptoeing into their bedroom with two cups of steaming coffee, Helga did not rise to take the tray from him. Having placed the tray on his bedside table, he called out Helga’s name softly. She did not move. With a growing sense of unease, he nudged her, first lightly, then, when she did not react, more vigorously. Still there was no response. Peppi gingerly turned her on her back. One look at her face confirmed that she was dead.
3.Peppie’s Credo
After the funeral, Peppi and his two daughters had a quiet meal in a neighbourhood restaurant. For a while, each was lost in thought. Peppi was the first to break the silence.
“I can’t live alone in the big house,” he said.
“Why don’t you sell it and buy a flat near the shop?”
“I thought you might like to have it,” he responded lamely.
“I’ve decided to settle in
“I prefer
Once again there was a lull in the conversation. The waiter served dessert and coffee. Peppi sensed that Anna was eager to get away. Nevertheless, he felt the need to unburden himself.
“I never thought Helga would go before me. She was only forty-nine years old.”
“There are no guarantees, Papa,” observed Lucy.
“I know: but it was a shock,” said Peppi. “My only comfort is that I did all I could to make her happy.”
“But you didn’t accept the Good Lord,” said Anna sternly. “She craved for your conversion more than for anything else; and it’s not as if you didn’t know.”
“Anna ...” started Lucy.
“It’s alright, Lucy. Yes, I knew, Anna. But I am not a believer; and a conversion without faith is a sham. And I am not a hypocrite! Your mother would not have wanted me to pretend!” said Peppi. He did not flare up, but a distinct firmness crept into his tone.
“Would it have been so difficult for you to accept a simple truth?” Anna snapped angrily.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Peppi, ignoring Lucy’s imploring look.
“I mean ‘faith’ – simple faith in God!” said Anna, unruffled.
“I was unable to do this; just as others are unable to offer of a word of comfort when those who love them are down!”
“Papa!” exclaimed Lucy, shocked.
“No, Lucy,” Peppi had raised his voice. “Don’t try to stop me. If we must have it out it’s better that we do so now. I’ve swallowed a lot but I’m not taking this bullshit. Anna, what gives you the right to use your faith to criticise me? Who on earth do you think you are?”
“I am only expressing my views as a believer – as a Christian. Why shouldn’t I? And what gives you the right to dismiss my views out of hand?”
“I’ll tell you what gives me the right,” Peppi yelled. “In the course of two wars I have seen people dying around me like flies. Those who escaped unscathed were usually not the decent ones, not the brave ones, but the malingerers, the rogues, the racketeers. And how about plain civilian? Many poor or middle-class persons, who did not have the means to escape, perished. Worse still, I saw innocent men and women being dragged from their homes by the Nazis. And I don’t remember your fine church or any other unaffected religious group standing up for them. And this is not an isolated episode! Long before our own ‘enlightened’ days, some of the worst crimes in history were committed under the banner of one faith or another. As far as I am concerned the annals of all religions are soaked in the blood of murdered men and women. And I won’t throw my lot in with any of them! So don’t try to bully me, don’t patronise me and don’t offer me homilies. I have the same right to have my views as you yourself!”
Peppi was breathing hard; his face contorted. But he did not regret his outburst: just for once he openly expressed views he had formed over the years.
Peppi’s two daughters stared at him speechless. Never before had their father lost his temper or, indeed, spoken harshly to either of them.
“I didn’t intend to bully you. Perhaps I should have held my tongue. But you always encouraged us to speak our mind and I thought you should know how I felt about ... about all this; I mean about mother’s sadness,” said Anna after a long, uncomfortable pause.
“When she agreed to marry me, Helga new that I was not a believer. And I told her I did not intend to search for God. On this front I never relented: I remained true to my own convictions – my own creed. I was a good husband to her in all regards. Neither she nor you ever wanted or had any cause to complain.”
“Neither of us would argue with you on this,” Lucy stepped in quickly. She was relieved to see that Anna nodded. “And I think we’d all better have a rest,” Lucy added.
As they rose, Anna told her father: “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Papa. I’m sorry if I did. I shouldn’t have spoken. If you feel you don’t want to support me any longer, I’ll understand. I think I know how you feel.”
“I will of course see you through,” said Peppi. “But issues of religion and morals shall remain out of bounds.”
This altercation led to a change in Peppi’s heart. As soon as the estate had been probated, he put the family home on the market. Out of the handsome price it fetched, he purchased a comfortable two-bedroom flat a short walk from Schultz & Stölzenfeld. The balance he invested in a portfolio of blue-chip securities with a private bank in Zürich.
V. PEPPI’S LAST DAYS IN MUNICH
1.Sale of the Munich Business
Peppi decorated his new flat to his own taste. The Albigensian panel painting, which prior to Helga’s death had been kept out of sight, now adorned the wall of his study.
Shortly after moving into his new flat, Peppi received two letters. Anna wrote to say she had completed her secretarial studies and had accepted a well-paid post in one of
The other letter, from Lucy, was short and to the point. She wanted to know why Peppi had not joined her in
This second letter was music to Peppi’s ears. In his reply, he explained that he had to remain in Munich for a while in order to dispose of the old business. He realised that the maintenance of two shops was no longer advisable.
Some three months later Peppi mentioned his interest in selling the business to Herr Schneider, who had initially joined him as an apprentice shortly after Herr Schultz’s retirement. Settlement by payment of an annuity being unacceptable to Peppi, Schneider began to look around for a suitable financial package. As was to be expected, Herr Schneider, who had no financial experience or acumen, took his time. Peppi shrugged his shoulders and waited.
2.Anna’s Wedding and Lucy’s Doctorate
One evening, when Peppi returned home after work, he was surprised to find a letter from Anna. She had not written since her graduation and, truth be told, Peppi was not disturbed by her silence. He glanced over the letter as he unpacked his sandwiches, and came to an abrupt halt. Anna wrote that she had married Otto Schwartz. They had had ‘a discreet ceremony followed by an intimate reception’, to which they invited only a few close friends, most of them protestant clergymen and their wives, and Otto’s widowed mother. Anna explained that, as it was a ‘solemn religious occasion’, she thought Peppi would not be comfortable. An epitaph, added to make amends, read: ‘I very much hope you will find the time to visit us soon. Otto would love to meet you.’
Peppi was stunned. His sandwiches tasted like rubber and the nip of Slivovitz had no zest. For a few seconds, he looked thoughtfully at ‘Adam and Eve’, which concealed the safe housing his special bottle. His instant problem, though, was the pain in his heart: not an issue to be discussed with Theophil. After a while, Peppi rose to his feet and began to pace the room. When he had made up his mind he grabbed the telephone.
“You alright, Papa?” asked Lucy as soon as he announced himself.
“As well as can be expected! Lucy – were you invited to Anna’s wedding?”
“Don’t you think this is something to discuss with her, Papa? I don’t want to come between the two of you.”
“You won’t; I promise. Just tell me the truth.”
“Yes, she invited me. But I didn’t go.”
“Because she told you I wasn’t asked?”
“That was one of the reasons, Papa; and I told her so. I wrote back and said: ‘It’s up to you whom you invite; but I am not coming’.”
“You mentioned another reason for not going over. What was it?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise; but I might as well tell you now.”
“Well?”
“My viva had been fixed for the very day after Anna’s wedding!”
“Your viva?”
“Yes, Papa: my viva voce – the oral examination of my doctoral thesis. I have been reading for a PhD in
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“But now it’s finished: and you’ve got it!”
“Well, I had a pleasant viva. I’m optimistic; and so is my supervisor! But you cannot really tell until the examiners have submitted their report.”
Peppi rejoiced at the good news. His anger over his rejection by Anna gave way to a solid feeling of satisfaction and pride. The ensuing euphoria dispersed the cloud of darkness that had engulfed him.
“What were you researching, Lucy?”
“The thesis deals with illuminated books of the Anglo-Saxon period.”
“Then you are bound to pass,” Peppi announced. “You know more about them than any other person in the field!”
“Except my supervisor and the examiners! Papa, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I have come up with a new theory. One of the examiners is an arch conservative, and I’m departing from her views.”
“With good arguments and backed by proof, I’m sure!”
“So I believe; but I wasn’t going to tell you until I had the piece of paper in my hand.”
“I’m sure it’ll be alright. Do you know what this means to me?”
“The first Doctor Stölzenfeld in the family?”
“That’s the main point, of course. But there is another point, Lucy. I have had plenty of luck throughout my life; and I needed it! True, I worked my guts out. I never gave myself a rest. All the same, fortune was on my side! Yours is a solid achievement – your own work; your own creation. This is splendid news. If they don’t pass you, we’ll publish your work without their blessing!”
“Thanks; but, Papa, I too had a lucky break.”
“Luck – how come?”
“From the start, I was certain that my type of illuminated book originated in
“Well?”
“On the final day of a break I took some time ago, I had a last browse in an antiquarian bookshop in
“What a strange coincidence,” said Peppi trying hard to hide his excitement. “Lucy, what did this old fellow look like?”
“He was almost as tall as you, Papa; and he wore old fashioned clothes. Still, what struck me most was the way he looked at me. It was a friendly look; but his glance went through me – as if he could see right into my soul.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I insisted on treating him to a coffee. He was reluctant but in the end agreed. He looked old, Papa, but not at all frail.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“He is Professor Dr L.M. Theophilius, a philosopher from Heidelberg. Judging by his accent, he is a German from the North.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“When I told him about my thesis, he said I might find some books in a village near
“His own field?”
“Theology. He averred that more rubbish had been written on this subject than on any other.”
“And you found some further manuscripts in the place he recommended?”
“I did indeed!” said Lucy.
“Did he give you his card?”
“No. But he suggested I look him up in his Faculty if I happened to come over to
“Idle curiosity,” replied Peppi nonchalantly. His heart, though, was beating fast. Was it possible that Theophil had decided to assist Lucy? But why had he chosen to reveal himself to her? Why did he not just nudge her?
“What a scream you are, Papa,” Lucy broke the ensuing silence. “Just a few minutes ago you were mad. And now you are asking a lot of friendly questions about a total stranger! Still, I am glad the storm is over.”
“It is, rather. There is an old saying, which I think your Dr L.M. Theophilius is familiar with: you win some, you lose some. Your success, is also my victory. So to hell with Anna’s petty mindedness.”
“I haven’t got my degree yet, Papa!”
“You will,” said Peppi.
“Let’s hope so. But now tell me – you are no longer furious with Anna, correct?”
“I’ll put it down to experience. But I’m not travelling to
“Fair enough. And, Papa, it’s high time you came over to
“Now, now, Doctor Lucy – don’t you dare criticise your old father. But alright: I’ll make the move within three months.”
3.Theophil Explains
Peppi cleared the table and washed the dishes. He then slid into his comfortable chair, took his special bottle and raised it to his lips. As always, the drink had a sedative effect followed by a sensation of inner peace.
“And how are you, Theophil?” he asked as soon as he felt the other’s presence. “Or should I say: Herr Professor Dr L.M. Theophilius?”
“Now, now, Joseph-Dieter Freiherr von Stölzenfeld,” chuckled the voice in his head. “As the British say: ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit!’ You agree, don’t you?”
“You have a point there. And please accept my thanks. It was good of you to help her.”
“Your daughter is a nice and outspoken lady! I like the way she dubbed you a ‘scream’.”
“But don’t you think mine was a natural reaction?”
“It depends, Peppi. What you experienced was a sudden transition from hot fury to sheer bliss, or as the Rabbis of old used to say: ‘From abysmal depth to a high plateau’. Would you, my dear Peppi, call this ‘natural’?”
“Put yourself in my position, Theophil – wouldn’t you have reacted in the same way?”
“But, my boy, I have no hot emotions, no sexual drive and, of course, no family affiliation. How can I possibly put myself in your place? Still, I suspect you wanted my advice about moving to London. Actually, it may be a good idea: take Lucy’s advice!”
“I must first dispose of the business here.”
“You’ll do that sooner than expected!”
“May I ask you just one question, Theophil?”
“You want to know why I approve of Lucy although she is a devout Christian?”
“Well, yes.”
“To discard all believers would be just as irrational as to grant my support to every ‘sinner’. Shall we say that I approve of Lucy’s personality. She is, as I have said, a nice lady.”
“Thanks, Theophil.”
“Don’t mention it. But now, Peppi, it is my turn to be curious. How do you propose to reply to Anna?”
“I’ll send her a cheque – as a wedding gift. But I’ll tell her that I shan’t be travelling up to
“Why not add that they are welcome to visit you here or, later on, in
“Good idea. Thanks for the suggestion!”
“Always glad to assist my friends.”
Theophil’s prediction concerning the business came true sooner than Peppi had expected. A few days later, the owner of an antiques shop in Hamburg offered to acquire Schultz & Stölzenfeld, taking Schneider on as Junior Partner.
VI. PEPPI MOVES TO LONDON
(THEOPHIL’S ANTIQUES)
Peppi arrived in London just in time to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday. Despite his advanced age, Peppi adjusted to his new environment in no time. Soon he felt at home both in Hampstead and in Kensington Church Street. With the joint efforts of father and daughter, Theophil’s Antiques continued to flourish. Within two years, they had taken over all the shopping space in the house. To facilitate further expansion, Peppi purchased the building.
Socially, too, Peppi’s move proved successful. To his own surprise, he was elected Treasurer and later on President of Artiquar. He was also elected an officer of the Association of Antique Dealers and became a regular contributor of articles on old master prints and on tapestries. In addition, he frequented important auctions held in the international sales rooms. This regular attendance at leading events contributed to the rapid growth of Theophil’s Antiques. An old customer from Munich, who recognised Peppi at a Christie’s sale, accompanied him back to Kensington Church Street. On his return to Munich, he spread the word about the London shop. Many of Peppi’s old customers made the pilgrimage to Theophil’s Antiques.
Peppi’s substantial income enabled him to donate large sums to causes he considered worthy. He also gave artefacts from his ever-growing collection to museums and art galleries. This service to the public did not go unnoticed. In due course, Peppi was Knighted. Despite his worldly outlook, he savoured the recognition conferred on him in this manner. Lucy, too, was elated. As they walked home after a sumptuous celebration dinner in Peppi’s favourite Viennese restaurant in Chelsea, Lucy said to him smilingly:
“Well, Sir Joseph-Dieter Freiherr von Stölzenfeld – how does it feel to be a nob?”
“I only wish that Helga had lived to see this. She would have been delighted – even if she had snorted!”
“Do you think of her often, Papa?”
“I do,” confided Peppi. He paused for a moment; “Your mother was the caring type, even if she didn’t always let you see it. I was happy with her.”
“I know, Papa. But you seldom mention her name.”
“True,” said Peppi.
“Perhaps your thoughts are too ... intimate?”
“I still wonder, Lucy, if she was happy with me,” the words wrenched themselves out of Peppi’s mouth.
“Why do you doubt it?”
“Don’t you recall what Anna said to me?”
“She was way off the mark there. Mother kept praying you’d have a change of heart. But, no, she wouldn’t have wanted you to put on a show for her sake. She hated humbug!”
“Was she happy, Lucy?”
“She was content.”
“What was remiss?”
“When mother and you got married – were you in love with her?” asked Lucy after a pause.
“I respected and appreciated her. I knew she would be a model wife!”
“But were you in love with her?”
“I was about fifty when we married: not the age of passionate love and romance.”
“I suspect she wanted it. Mother was a romantic girl at heart. Her tough shell and sharp tongue were a façade. You were her first love.”
“I showed her as much tenderness as was in me,” said Peppi, apologetic but not on the defensive.
“I know. Anna and I used to watch you creep into the kitchen in the morning to make mother a cup of coffee, how you always came home with a big smile and, more often than not, with a bunch of flowers or some other token for her, and how you always rushed to help her with the dishes and any other chore.”
“Did she understand?”
“Didn’t she ever! Mother used to wake up early, Papa. But she stayed in bed, pretending to be asleep, just because she liked her Peppi to get up first and make her a cup of coffee. She knew you were a good husband; and she was appreciative and contented. But deep down she yearned for the big breakthrough. Still, you mustn’t blame yourself: you gave her everything you could.”
“I did,” said Peppi.
Theophil’s Antiques continued to prosper. Despite the onslaught of old age, Peppi retained his drive and versatility. His success was reflected in the steady growth of the portfolios he maintained with his Swiss bank. Occasionally, when he retired to his study to calculate his financial position, he looked in amazement at the figures that stared up at him. For a kid from one of
Moreover, his calling was also his hobby – his main passion in his comfortable and robust old age. The only thorn in his flesh was the rift with Anna. In search of solace, Peppi often took his special bottle out of its hiding place and, on experiencing the serenity produced by its elixir, had a lengthy and comforting conversation with his invisible benefactor.
Lucy hoped to reconcile Peppi and Anna. She knew she had to bide her time but she kept her eyes wide open. When, eventually, the opportunity presented itself, she discovered to her dismay that the breach could not be mended. The wound inflicted by Anna had been too deep. Despite his urbane and usually tolerant outlook on life, Peppi had become inflexible on this issue.
The olive branch from
“Well, Papa: so I’m going to be Auntie Lucy and you are a grandfather. Shall I book seats on Lufthansa for tomorrow?” asked Lucy.
“Just one seat,” said Peppi.
“Papa!”
“No, Lucy – I’m not going. But you must, of course, go.”
“But why aren’t you coming with me?”
“I have no stomach for a Christening! And I think it’s wrong to baptise babies.”
“Since when have you become so doctrinaire, Papa? Why not treat it as a reconciliation – a family reunion? And don’t you want to see your grandson?”
“Not in the circumstances!”
“What’s wrong with ‘the circumstances’?”
“You better tell me what is wrong with ‘Joseph’ or, if that’s too common a name, with ‘Dieter’?”
“So that’s the real reason! I never thought you – of all men – would be so petty! Why can’t you accept Anna’s explanation? The baby is named ‘Gregory’ after ‘Gregory the Great’, whom her Otto admires, and ‘Erwin’ is the name of Otto’s father. Don’t you think you are being too sensitive?”
“No, I am not! Anna has excommunicated me. For years she has given me the leper treatment. She even failed to invite me to her wedding. Frequently, I asked her what the matter was. But she just kept that stubborn silence of hers. Does she think I have no feelings? I may be an old man, Lucy, but I’m not ready to crawl!”
“But she’s offering you an olive branch.”
“Coupled with a barb! No, Lucy, don’t argue with me! Anna can call her baby whatever she wants. But I’m not coming; and that’s that!”
“Why don’t you sleep on it, Papa,” implored Lucy. “I’m not suggesting Anna has done the right thing by you. But there is give and take in life. You used to tell me this in the old days, when I flew off the handle. Do you really want to close the door once and for all?”
“Anna closed the door on me. And I’m not taking an opening on her terms. But, alright, I’ll think it over. I don’t want to act hastily.”
Peppi’s painful meditations during that long, dark and sleepless night failed to produce a change of heart. Nor did a conversation which he had early next morning with Theophil. Initially, Theophil refused to become involved. The matter concerned Peppi’s relationship with Anna. To resolve it, Peppi had to make his own decision.
“Is it a crucial decision?” asked Peppi.
“It is rather,” replied his friend. “If you fly over, you accept a reconciliation on her terms. If you turn her down, you may pass the point of no return.”
“Shall I simply send a gift, plus a cheque, accompanied by a letter explaining that my travelling days are over?”
“I see no need for the cheque. She might see in it an attempt to patronise her. Better send a valuable gift.”
Lucy flew to
Lucy returned after three days. Peppi gauged that she liked Otto, was delighted to see Anna once again and had been charmed by little Gregory Erwin.
“He is so cute, and he has such a lovely smile. But you know what is so very funny?”
“Well?”
“Otto is quite a bit like you!”
“Oh?”
“He is a big warm hearted sort of a fellow. He is not the aggressive type of clergyman you hate so much.”
“That’s a comfort,” mumbled Peppi, unconvinced.
“And, somehow, I don’t think it was his idea to shut you out of their wedding. He asked a lot about you. I think he would like to meet you.”
“The flight from
“But I’m not sure Anna is keen on the trip. You turned her down. That didn’t help.”
“I have resigned myself to not seeing her again,” said Peppi sombrely. “But I do wish I knew what went wrong. Lucy – do you know?”
“Anna told me – just after it happened. But she made me promise not to tell. And she reminded me of my vow of silence again and again.”
“So, of course, you can’t tell me. But perhaps you can tell me this much – is it something I did or said? What on earth can it be?”
“It’s something that went through her mind. You mustn’t blame yourself, Papa. I tried to talk her out of it but it was no good.”
“Then my only course of action is to dismiss it from my mind.”
VII. PEPPI’S DELVE INTO PORCELAIN
Theophil’s Antiques continued to go from strength to strength as did Peppi’s fame. He was delighted when one of London University’s Colleges conferred on him an Honorary Doctorate. Another source of joy was Lucy’s appointment as an Adjunct Professor in another College. Initially, Peppi was concerned about her drained appearance when she returned home after her classes. To his relief she soon adjusted to her position, carrying on her new duties without neglecting their shop.
Being a realist, Peppi acknowledged that he had no cause for complaint. He continued to lead the active life of a businessman and, in addition, enjoyed excellent health. Undoubtedly, the need for a hearing aid was a nuisance. So was the cataract in his right eye. Still, none of these trifles was going to get him down: he was still going strong!
All the same, Peppi sensed a growing void appearing on the horizon. Frequently he felt morose, depressed and unwilling to step out of his daily routine. Lucy, who viewed him with mounting concern, was therefore not surprised when Peppi failed to display any emotion when Anna announced the birth of her daughter.
“I’m glad they’re going to call her ‘Helga’. But I’m not up to such a long flight, Lucy. Please give my apologies to Anna and tell her I’m gratified. I’ll give you a cheque and please get a nice gift for the baby.”
“Of course, Papa. But is it alright for me to go? Are you sure you can manage?”
“Yes, I can. Don’t worry about me. But don’t you tell Anna to come over to see me. It would be too much of a strain.”
“Alright, Papa,” said Lucy and rushed out of the room.
She left early the next morning. In the evening, after an uneventful day in the shop followed by a quick meal in a nearby restaurant, Peppi had a heart-to-heart with his ephemeral friend.
“Isn’t it time for me to join you, Theophil?” he asked, the moment he sensed the other’s presence.
“Now, now, Peppi. Aren’t you being melodramatic? You imply that you find life dull. Well, do you aspire to chase young girls in the Prater or in
“You know very well that that’s not what I’m after! That Schlemiel, Faust, can have them all! No, Theophil – it’s just that there is no meaning to my life any longer.”
“You feel hollow?”
“I do! But, perhaps, this is not a feeling you have experienced.”
“Oh, I know what you are talking about. I, too, know the meaning of boredom and isolation. What else would spur me to take an interest in you humans?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” admitted Peppi.
“Do you realise how old I am?”
“As old as the universe itself?”
“Quite,” affirmed the gentle voice in his mind. “And so is He.”
“What then makes us humans of any interest to you?”
“Both of us faced a problem. He solved it by demanding that you worship and obey him. My course is to observe humanity and set it free! Well, Peppi, can you guess the nature of the problem that spurred us to our respective resolves?”
“Could it be that in this way you found a ... purpose – an aim?”
“Well spoken, my friend.” The soft voice chuckled. “Without an interest in humans, life would be dull for both Him and me. He, I suspect, would once again become a spirit hovering over an amorphous abyss. And I, Peppi, would cease to think, would cease to doubt and hence would cease to exist.”
“I think I understand. But why are you telling me all this, Theophil?”
“I hope to convey a message.”
“I can’t read it!”
“Try, Peppi.”
“You have told me many times yours is the force of pure reason!”
“It is, hopefully. And I have just defined the predicament I would face if there was no longer something to reason about or to arouse my curiosity.”
“So your existence would lose its meaning! Oh, I see! You are telling me I, too, have to find something that interests me: a sort of a new purpose in life.”
“Precisely!”
“But I’m close to eighty. Most of my contemporaries have passed on: even Tommy Berger!”
“All the more reason to enjoy your existence!”
“But what sort of ‘new thing’ can I launch at this time of life?”
“Something utterly new may very well be beyond your reach. But can’t you think of something related to your current interests – something that would give you a fresh focus without requiring a change in your way of life?”
“I often wanted to get into the old master paintings market; but most of the so-called ‘new’ discoveries are the work of second- or third-class artists. They are eulogised by the sales houses because the real treasures of the past are in museums or in select private collections and hence not for sale.”
“How about some other areas of artistic enterprise?”
“I can’t think of anything directly related to tapestries and old master prints!”
“Look a bit further afield, Peppi. How do you feel about plastic art?”
“I have no taste for sculpture. Hold on – are you, by any chance, referring to ceramics?”
“What do you have against them?”
“I’ve not had the time to get into the field. So I am not able to judge. Generally, though, I prefer pure art to functional art.”
“In your opinion, porcelain is a branch of applied arts. Well, let’s try to overcome your prejudice. Do you have any porcelain in your stock at present?”
“Lucy told me she bought a few figurines from a ‘rum sort of a chap’. Shall I go down and get them?”
“Let me save you the trouble,” said his friend and, even as he spoke, six mid-European figurines materialised before Peppi’s startled eyes. For a few moments they swayed pertly in front of him and then settled gracefully on his desk.
“Well, what do you think of them?” asked Theophil.
“They’re alright,” conceded Peppi.
“Just alright? Why not study them closely.” Noting Peppi’s baffled expression, he went on in the same coaxing tone: “Ah, you are still in the dark. Let’s try a different tack. Fix your gaze on any one of them and then try to magnify it.”
“Magnify it?” asked Peppi, just as bewildered as before.
“You are slow today, Freiherr von Stölzenfeld! Try to imagine any one of these figurines in the size of a grown-up person. Why don’t you try Lola, the ballet dancer.” There was a pause. “So the penny has dropped,” observed his visitor as Peppi’s eyes cleared. “Well, what do you think of her now?”
“She is magnificent. A fine, realistic, sculpture in porcelain! So are the other figurines.”
“Try to hazard a guess about their age!?”
“Judging by their attire: early to mid-18th century?”
“Quite so, Peppi. Well, what do you have to say about them now?”
“They are realistic – oh yes, I get it: realism in the midst of the Baroque and Rococo!”
“Do you still maintain that they constitute inferior, purely functional, art?”
“No, Theophil. I was wrong there. They are sculptures – real ones. And exceptional, at that. Further, they have an extra dimension: they are polychrome, whilst sculptures hewn in stone or cast in bronze are monochrome! These porcelain sculptures attain the Greek ideal of sculpture in colours!”
“They do; and this extra dimension drove 18th century sculptors from the studio to the porcelain kilns. They strove to create three dimensional representations of life, expressed in the full range of colours available for brush work!”
“Amazing ... a revelation! Do you have anything else to show me?”
“Lucy has not unwrapped the second parcel. Shall we do it for her?”
“Please do!”
“Let me first fit this glove over your right arm and hand. Now straighten your arm out as far as you can and don’t bend it or move your hand any closer to your face; and keep still!”
The noise of beating wings was swiftly followed by the appearance of a peregrine falcon, flying majestically through the open window. It glided proudly around them, then, in response to a sound that appeared to emerge from Peppi’s lips, came to rest on the glove.
“Here,” said Theophil gently, as a hood slid over the bird’s eyes. As if by magic, the glove disappeared and the small translucent figurine, into which the falcon had metamorphosed, settled beside the other pieces. “Kändler: the greatest animal sculptor of all times,” explained Theophil.
“A brilliant artist,” said Peppi, deeply moved.
“And you have neglected his creations!”
“Isn’t it getting too late to make amends?”
“You are unlikely to excel, Peppi. There are too many specialised dealers and knowledgeable collectors in the field. But you should be able to launch a respectable porcelain section in your shop – the shop which bears my name.”
“Consider it done,” said Peppi thoughtfully. “But you know, once before, when I was despondent, you helped me out by ...”
“... by distracting you; by diverting your attention to something new, something exciting.”
“As I used to do when little Anna came running to me with one of her woes.”
“Precisely. Don’t tell me you are offended because I’ve used the same tactics.”
“But then, are all our human affairs as insignificant, as fleeting, as a child’s momentary anguish?”
“Not necessarily,” retorted the eternal observer. “And a child’s momentary anguish, as you choose to call it, can have far reaching effects in its adult life. The therapy I have used in your case – and which you applied when Anna came to you crying bitterly – is based on a time-honoured formula. We cure the patient by giving him something to alleviate his suffering. Just now you were succumbing to boredom. I provided something new – something to arouse your interest.”
“And last time?”
“I provided a painting which diverted you from the wound inflicted by Anna.”
“I see. A priest, of course, would have proffered solace through faith.”
“Quite,” agreed Theophil, gratified. “And don’t forget Karl Marx’s saying: ‘religion is the opium of the people’. Opium is a great pain killer!”
“Strange,” reflected Peppi. “Since time immemorial you, Theophil, have been blamed for innumerable crimes committed by humanity. But my experience tells me you are kind. Further, many of the crimes were committed in His and not in your name!”
“The old dualism,” sniggered Theophil. “God’s name is employed as the incentive for a misdeed. For instance, one nation wants to destroy another. Its leader proclaims a war in the name of the Good Lord. The victim nation – so the manifesto goes – is sinful, corrupt, evil. It ought to be wiped out. After the perpetration of the crime, when a more humane generation feels ashamed of it, another seer blames the devil for having incited the mob or its leader. The Good Lord, Peppi, is the legitimation. The evil devil provides the excuse voiced much later. Quite a neat allocation of roles.”
“But – as you made Tommy Berger see – both good and evil are inherent in the creation,” mused Peppi.
“They are. And I, let me remind you, am not the Creator! Neither Eve’s curiosity nor the murder planted in Man’s heart is my doing! Am I then to be blamed for their effects?”
“Not on any rational grounds!” proclaimed Peppi.
When Lucy returned to
“But how are we going to display all these pieces?” she asked, bewildered. “Our existing show rooms are full to the brim!”
“That’s no problem,” replied a cheerful and invigorated Peppi. “Mike Smith wants to close down his clock shop and retire. We can acquire the premises!”
“It’s as if somebody planned it for you!”
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” agreed Peppi, trying hard to sound innocent.
Peppi’s discovery of porcelain was one of the major events in his long and fruitful life: it paved the way for his Indian Summer. In addition, the ripples on the surface of the pond – occasioned by the pebble Peppi dropped when he embarked on this new trade – affected the life of yet another person: my own self.
VIII. PEPPI MEETS PETER BERGER
Initially, Peppi’s new venture attracted limited interest.
Peppi benefited from his contact with connoisseurs and from the professional literature available to him. He realised, at the same time, that he had dabbled in porcelain too late in life to acquire a first-class expertise. Lucy, too, remained a dilettante. She was too engrossed in her study of illuminated medieval books to be diverted by a fresh challenge. All the same, father and daughter enjoyed their new pursuit. They attended lectures and exhibitions and made their presence felt at the important porcelain and ceramics auctions. The best pieces they acquired were placed in a show cabinet in Peppi’s own office. Often, at the end of a busy day in the shop, Peppi amused himself by animating the figurines in his mind. He sensed that this trick gave him a special insight into, and an understanding of, the modellers and decorators who had collaborated in the production of his mini sculptures.
It was during that period – shortly after Peppi’s eighty-third birthday – that I (Peter Berger) stumbled into his shop. I did not discover Theophil’s Antiques earler mainly because I was living elsewhere. On my occasional visits to London, I went on shopping sprees in Kensington Church Street. But I looked for nothing but mid-European porcelain. Peppi’s original show windows, with their display of silver, tapestries, a limited number of prints and illuminated books, did not attract me.
The scene had changed when I came over in 1981. I recall walking distraught down Kensington Church Street, lamenting the closure of my two favourite porcelain shops. Then my gaze fell on the new display at Theophil’s Antiques. I stared in disbelief at two fine
The woman in her mid-thirties who came over to greet me was dressed neatly rather than smartly. Her tweed skirt and white blouse were a good match, and her old-fashioned glasses and conservative hairstyle complemented her plain necklace. She appeared ordinary: few men would turn their head as they passed her on the street. My own impression of her, though, was affected by the solemn atmosphere of the discreet shop. She appeared to blend harmoniously into its background – except that her bright keen eyes elevated her a notch above the subdued surroundings.
“Would you like to see the figurines in the show window? I watched how you stood there lost in your thoughts. You admired them.”
“Kändler’s drunken peasant is magnificent. So perhaps I’ll have a closer look just at him.”
“I might as well get all three,” she smiled.
She observed me closely as I concentrated on the fine piece. The peasant’s carefree, derisive, leer and his unsteady movements, which made you fear he might topple over as he swung on his feet waving his mug, portrayed his environment and era. He had spent his meagre takings at the fair and would once again be short of cash needed for fodder and fertilizer. But he had no regrets. For weeks he had craved for his binge, would have another one the next market day, and did not reflect for a moment on his conduct and its wisdom.
“You find him fascinating, don’t you?” she said. I had by then identified her pronounced accent as Bavarian from the
“I do,” I conceded, my eyes still fixed on the figurine. “He is the very antithesis of his creator, Kändler – the sober freemason, conscientious and devoted pater familias and the most prolific and accomplished modeller of all time!”
“You must be a University Professor,” she said and, as I turned to answer her, I was startled by the twinkle in her eye.
“As a matter of fact, I am. Sorry for having lectured in this manner.” I let my embarrassment show.
“I enjoyed it,” she hurried to assure me. “But how do you like the other two pieces?”
“The pug is fine, except that I already have two similar ones. The
“Fair enough. Do you have a large collection?”
“Only about two hundred pieces,” I confided.
“Only two hundred?” She seemed amused. “And where amongst them would you rank the peasant?”
“As good as any of my figurines. He is one of Kändler’s masterpieces. Actually, how much is he?”
“Eight hundred pounds,” she smiled.
“Eight hundred?” I let my surprise show.
“Too expensive?”
“You’d get at least twice as much in a Christie’s auction,” I said impulsively.
“We never put pieces in auctions. And don’t worry about the price. We got him cheap.”
“Your supplier must be out of touch with current market prices.”
“He is an old, eccentric gentleman. He brings us pieces from time to time and tells me how much he wants. We never haggle with him. I suspect he doesn’t care too much about the price, as long as we attend to him forthwith.”
“Can I pay by Diners Club card?” I asked.
“I am afraid we don’t accept credit cards. But you can send me a cheque.”
“I don’t have an account in England. I’ll use my credit card to get cash from the bank around the corner. I’d better give you my calling card: please let me know in case you get further pieces like this.”
“I certainly will,” she said with a smile.
When I returned with the banknotes, the saleswoman asked forthrightly: “are you by any chance from Vienna?”
“You guessed from my accent?”
“That too. But your name is Berger.”
“Quite a common Jewish name.”
“I know. But Papa’s best friend in Vienna was a Robert Berger, nicknamed Tommy. And I know he had a son called Peter. It’s a long shot ...” Seeing the change in my expression, she stopped mid-sentence.
“Tommy Berger was my father’s name. He died a few years ago,” I stammered. “But he never mentioned a friend by the name of von Stölzenfeld.”
“Have a look at my own card,” she invited.
“Lucy Stölzl, PhD,” I read out mechanically. “Is your father Peppi Stölzl?!” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Just give me a minute while I tell him you are here,” she said.
Peppi Stölzl was in shirt sleeves. The ravages of time had not corrupted his posture and appearance. He remained as tall and presentable as I had imagined from Dad’s description. True, his hair had turned silver grey, but it had not thinned out; and his bushy mustachio still curled upwards rather rakishly. His skin, too, proclaimed his good health and vigour. Although it reflected his age, it did not have the dry, leathery tinge so noticeable in frail elderly people. The most remarkable feature, though, was the youthful, keen look in his eyes.
“So, you are Peter’le,” he said warmly. His Otakring accent, which I remembered so well from my early childhood, was music to my ears.
“I am,” I said, clasping his extended hand. “Dad never told me you changed your name – or that you had been knighted!”
“Why should he? I’m still Peppi to my friends, old and new alike.” He regarded me keenly, with the expression of one who had found a long lost relative. He then asked: “But which fair wind blew you through the door of our modest enterprise?”
“He is a collector of porcelain,” volunteered Lucy, whose eyes danced with sheer glee.
“A porcelain collector? Tommy never told me. He used to go on about your university posts and your legal consultancies.”
“I didn’t often talk to Dad about my collection. That was, rather, Mother’s department.”
“I remember,” agreed Peppi. “I used to tread carefully in your old flat in the Oberen Donaustrasse for fear of breaking something. And what do you collect, Peter’le?”
“Just
“He told me I was asking too little for our drunken peasant,” volunteered Lucy.
“The piece brought in by Mr X?”
“Quite.” A strange expression crept over Peppi’s face.
“Peter’le,” he asked “what made you come over today? I take it you are in London on a visit. Tommy told me you’re a Professor of Law.”
“I’m in London on business – my first appearance as an expert witness in a banking case. The other party’s expert is in the box today, and their Silk asked that I be absent. I used the morning for a shopping spree. I was really looking for Herr Wolfsohn’s shop. But it’s no longer there.”
“He migrated to Israel some time ago,” said Lucy, whose excited eyes flitted between the two of us.
“What a remarkable coincidence,” I mused. “I looked for another shop and found yours!”
“We must celebrate!” said Peppi, warmly. “Are you free for lunch?”
“I certainly am!”
“I’ll get my jacket.”
Peppi looked grandiose in his fine suit and neat Italian silk tie. “We’ll catch a taxi on the corner,” he said as we made ready to go.
“You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” I asked Lucy.
“No, Cousin Peter,” she said light heartedly. “It’s better if you two boys get acquainted without the burden of female company!”
“But it’s no burden, Cousin Lucy,” I assured her.
“You may as well call me ‘Lucy’. But I’m going to call you ‘Cousin Peter’ to make sure the parameters are well defined from the start. And I won’t come with you today. Papa is going to tell you his stories and I’ve heard them a hundred times. I must also make a few telephone calls. Off you go and have a good time.”
“Are you sure, Lucy?” asked Peppi, concerned. “It’s almost a family reunion.”
“Next time I will,” said Lucy and the exchange of warm glances between them evidenced their strong bond. I realised that these two might occasionally argue hotly, and might even sulk, but, ultimately, they would stand unflinchingly by one another. It was the type of closeness forged only in the midst of a happy family.
The restaurant in Chelsea had an old-world atmosphere, reminiscent of a dining room in the Rathaus [town hall]. Our orders were taken by the chef, who emerged from the kitchen to greet us. Peppi shook hands with him, introduced me as a friend of the family and gossiped with our host for a few minutes.
“How long have you known this place, Peppi?” I asked.
“About five years. It’s quiet here during lunchtime. But it livens up in the evening. Some two years ago, Franz wanted to give up the luncheon business. I managed to stop him.”
“You bought in?”
“I did indeed. Call it an old man’s whim.”
“Not such a whim if you enjoy the food!”
Peppi and I got to know each other during that splendid meal. Peppi had much to tell. I, too, talked. Gently but persistently Peppi steered me through my own story and, from time to time, asked perceptive questions about my career and affiliations.
“What I don’t understand, Peppi, is why Dad never mentioned that you had moved to London.”
“Perhaps he liked to talk about our days in Vienna,” he replied, breaking eye contact for a moment. Sensing that he was prevaricating, I pressed him.
“But Dad moved with the times, Peppi. Believe it or not, he developed a penchant for jazz and rock ‘n’ roll and went to see every new American film! His stories about you, though, ended with that strange affair in Munich. I know you continued to correspond and even rang one another on special occasions. But I don’t think you met again after that day.”
“You’re right there. You see, Peter’le, our ways parted on ‘that day’.”
“Because you decided not to return to
“Partly,” nodded Peppi. “But that was a mere trifle. The main reason was different. But tell me first – what did Tommy tell you about the episode in Munich – the ‘revelation’ as I call it?”
“Everything, I think.”
“Did he tell you who appeared to us?”
“He did. And he said both of you had swigs from that special bottle.”
“Quite so, Peter’le, except that I had ... a full cup; Tommy took just three nips and stopped.”
“I don’t understand, Peppi.”
“I went the whole way, Peter’le. Tommy did not. True, he was deeply moved by what he learned that day. He showed his respect and voiced his gratitude. But he did not board the train.”
“I’m not sure I fully understand.”
“Tommy was a conformist at heart. He wanted to remain in the fold. I had no such constraints. I was glad to be freed from a past I wished to put behind me. I have no regrets, Peter’le. Neither did your Dad. Each of us stuck to his decision and followed his own destiny. We remained as close as ever but, all the same, a barrier, or wall, separated our trails.”
“So this is why Dad liked to think of his Peppi of the old days!”
“Just as I stuck to my old Tommy! Well, are you still perplexed?”
“Not at all, Peppi. But tell me, please, is this odd being real? Does Theophil exist?”
“Can you possibly doubt it?”
“Have you seen him again since that day? Has he materialised in front of your eyes?”
“No, Peter’le; I have not seen him since. But I hear him in my head every now and then. On many occasions he has opened my eyes to the truth and has guided my mind in moments of mental strain and indecision. I owe him my good fortune, my inner peace and my ability to persevere!”
“But does what you hear come from outside your own mind? Aren’t you just listening to your own subconscious?”
“Tommy and I saw him on the very same occasion, Peter’le.”
“But, if Dad got it right, you saw him through Dad’s eyes.”
“In a sense I did. I was fast asleep yet wide awake. But, even so, how could Tommy and I experience the same ... hallucination?”
“Telepathy has not been scientifically discarded.”
“What an ardent rationalist you are, Peter’le,” smiled Peppi, with only a trace of sarcasm. “With this approach you can safely dispute each and every premise until proved empirically by material evidence! I understand. But, you know, the universe is not a courtroom!”
“True; but I won’t accept a premise unless it is proved to my satisfaction.”
“I see. Yet, you can’t rule it out altogether?”
“Correct,” I agreed. “I keep an open mind.”
“You may get your answer, Peter’le, if Theophil sees fit to provide it.”
I spent a great deal of time with Peppi and Lucy during the remaining days in London. We dined in the Savoy and, one bright evening, walked down to Clarke’s in Kensington Church Street. Initially, Peppi grumbled about the set menu but, when the dishes were served, relished every morsel. When, eventually, my turn came to enter the box as expert witness, Peppi appeared in court and sat through the searching cross-examination.
When I arrived at Theophil’s Antiques the next morning to take my leave, Peppi showed me his study and the cabinet containing his choice porcelain pieces. The sight of them mesmerised me.
“Are they so very special?” asked Peppi, perplexed. “They are not ‘important pieces’ modelled for courts and the nobility.”
“No, they aren’t,” I admitted after recovering. “These pieces are the typical wares and figurines modelled for the connoisseurs of the day. Still, today many of them are so rare that you do not find them in standard literature or in catalogues. How did you get them?”
“Most of them were brought in by a chap we call Mr X. He deals only with Lucy, accepts nothing but cash and lets her have them for a song. She’s tried to pay him more; but he declined.”
I managed to arrange two further flights to London during the remaining months of that year. Thereafter, I came over to London every ten months or so. At the end of our second reunion, Peppi invited me to stay with them.
“It’s no trouble, Peter’le. We have a comfortable guest room. Lucy furnished it for Anna and Otto, but they never come. It will be nice to put it to good use.”
“Do come as often as you can, Cousin Peter,” added Lucy.
IX. ENCOUNTER WITH MR. X:
ALIAS FRIEDRICH DUVAL
My friendship with Peppi and Lucy filled a gap in my life as well as in theirs. Usually, I packed my suitcase with joy for the flight to London and with a glum face for the return trip back to my barren home.
I could fill a whole ‘bundle’ with anecdotes from my visits to London. Despite his advanced age, Peppi had retained his zest for life and his keen intellect; and he was full of fun. Lucy too was an excellent companion. Occasionally, when Peppi was reluctant to go out in the evening, the two of us went to the West End on our own. After the show, we would have a snack or a drink in one of the numerous bars where, often, I listened with admiration to Lucy’s witty critique of the performance.
Then, one bright day, a crucial event took place when I was all alone in the shop. I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the small kitchenette, hoping to clear my head from the drowsiness occasioned by the sumptuous lunch in Chelsea and the three glasses of Moselle I had downed with it. Unexpectedly, the electronic bell chimed. The door opened slowly and through it came a tall man, wearing a dark, old fashioned and loosely fitting suit and a navy-blue raincoat.
“Is Miss Stölzl available?”
“I’m afraid she has stepped out for a while,” I answered, startled by his German accent.
“How long will she be?”
“About half an hour, or perhaps longer. Would you like to wait, or can I be of help?”
“I have some pieces for sale. I always deal with Miss Lucy. So, I’d better wait.”
“Can I perhaps offer you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?”
“A coffee would be nice. But tell me please: aren’t you from Vienna?”
“You have an acute ear. Would you prefer to speak German?” I asked.
“It makes no difference to me – but, yes, very well then.”
We sat down, clasping the steaming mugs. Having refused sugar and milk, the caller sipped his coffee appreciatively. He seemed unperturbed by the silence whilst I – feeling the duty to act as host – searched for words. At the same time, I had a good look at him. For no apparent reason, a twinge of fear shot down my spine.
“Do you come to this shop often?” I assumed the courage to ask.
“Once or twice a year – when I decide to sell some of my pieces. But I’ve not seen you here before.”
“I’m just a friend of the family. I visit them when I come over to London.”
“So that’s why we have not met before! And, as a matter of interest, do you collect porcelain, Herr ...?”
“Berger, Peter Berger. And yes, I do.”
“I have a large collection,” he told me. “This is why I sell some of my pieces. I hate cluttering. Well, would you like to see what I’ve got with me today?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took a parcel out of his shabby briefcase. I viewed the figurines with approval. They were of the type to be found in Peppi’s showcase and in my own collection.
“This hunting group is splendid!” I said, letting my fingers run gently over the pack of hounds keeping a lion at bay. “Kändler at his best. I’ll see if Lucy agrees to sell it to me. You would have no objection, Herr ...”
“Duval, Friedrich Duval,” he told me, and, to my surprise, his eyes started to dance merrily. “They call me Mr X in this shop. But you might as well call me by my name. And, of course, after we have clinched a bargain, Miss Lucy is free to sell her pieces to whomsoever she wants.”
“She might think it fit for Peppi’s cabinet.”
“True. Obviously, you’ll have to persuade her.”
“I’ll certainly try. But tell me, please, from where do you hail, Monsieur Duval?”
“From Göttingen, Herr Berger. I used to teach Theology and Philosophy. But I retired years ago.”
“I thought ‘Duval’ was a French name.”
“It is. But then, Europe is a hotchpotch. And, of course, Duval is derived from a longer name.”
He paused for a moment. Then, without any change in his mannerism, he said: “Please, have a look at this piece – it is not for sale. But I should value your opinion.”
For the next few minutes the shop, the desk with the coffee mugs and Herr Duval himself ceased to exist. My eyes were glued to the aging yet unbeaten Harlequin-Boulevardier. I was fascinated by his Mephistophelian airs, captivated by his proud posture and by the extravagant costume he wore for the carnival. A black mask concealed the figurine’s face.
Lost in a fantasy, I pictured the Boulevardier strolling down the Champs Elysée’s, looking over other gallants and allowing his eye to rove over the dresses of the attractive women walking in the opposite direction. His face, though, remained an enigma. Then, as if by magic, the mask lifted itself and revealed the very face of my caller, Herr Friedrich Duval, alias Mr X.
“Well, what do you think of it, Herr Berger?”
“Need I tell you?”
“Speaking as a fellow connoisseur, I should like to have your views.”
“Needless to say, it is brilliant!”
“I am gratified by your assessment. But what captivated you?”
“The Boulevardier’s subtle irony! Your Boulevardier finds life ironic. He’ll take what he gets (provided he wants it) and won’t flinch when he loses out.”
“What did you think of his face?”
“It’s hidden behind the mask. Still, it appeared to uplift itself for a moment. And the face behind the mask looked strangely like yours! I must have had a hallucination!”
“Why couldn’t the artist have modelled me?”
“This piece is over 200 years old!”
“You base your conclusion on general experience?”
“Well, yes. I’d rather describe it as ‘universal experience’.”
“Let’s not quibble over words. Why not start with a different premise?”
“Such as?”
“That ‘general experience’ cannot refute what you see with your own eyes!”
“But can I deny a universal truth in reliance on a single peep, a mere impression?”
“But do you have to accept common wisdom, or experience, as absolute truth?”
“I see what you mean. All the same, a great deal of evidence would be required to convince me that a man can live 200 or 250 years. I find it difficult to shed my belief in the ‘universal truth’ respecting man’s life span.”
“More difficult than others have found it to rid themselves of their own gospel truths?”
There was a long pause, and then I responded. “I think I get your point, Herr Duval. You are telling me that my application of reason is predetermined by the premises I accept as my foundation?”
“Precisely, Herr Berger. Except that I prefer to call them ‘axioms’ rather than ‘premises’.”
“Are my axioms then too narrow?”
“They are: if they require you to reject all metaphysical experiences without analysis.”
“Come to think of it, certain religious dogmas were ‘real’ to the medieval mind,” I mused.
“They were. But to you such dogmas are irrational.”
“They are. But – if I understand you correctly – so is my a priori rejection of them.”
“Quite so,” he said gently and, once again, his eyes danced merrily.
“You have certainly given me food for thought, Herr Duval,” I said.
“I am gratified.”
He was about to add something when the doorbell rang and Lucy stepped through the door. The warm smile on her face melted when she spotted Herr Duval. Gone was the self-assured, forthright lady of the house. We were, instead, facing an apprehensive Lucy looking ill at ease.
“Have you been waiting long, sir?”
“Not at all,” replied Herr Duval. “Professor Berger and I had a most interesting and enlightening conversation about porcelain and related topics.”
“Herr Duval is an expert,” I added. Lucy’s expression conveyed her surprise that our caller had seen fit to introduce himself to me.
“As before, I have come to your fine shop to see if you might be interested in some of my pieces.”
“We always are. But I wish you would let me pay you a better price.”
“I have no use for extra money,” he assured her. “And I forgot to mention: the Boulevardier is not for sale.”
“How much can I pay you for the rest?” she asked, still apprehensive.
“The usual two thousand pounds, if you please.”
“But there are eight pieces here altogether. More than you ever brought before!”
“Consider it a windfall,” he said benignly. “You know I never haggle. But tell me, please, what do you think of my masked Boulevardier?”
Lucy had already cast several surreptitious glances at the splendid figurine. Facing our caller with mounting unease, she said candidly: “I’m sure it’s an excellent piece; but I don’t like it. It’s uncanny.”
“In what manner?” he wanted to know.
“He is mocking me from behind his mask.”
“Well, well,” he said, unoffended. “So, Herr Berger, our assessment of the piece is not universally accepted. I suspect it is a matter of orientation: like most rationalists we are drawn to the metaphysical!”
“Oh, I know it is a fine piece,” said Lucy contritely. “But you did ask for my personal view.”
“So I did; and the truth is always acceptable.” He paused for a moment and added in haste: “But it is getting late. I’d better be on my way.”
Lucy disappeared into the office and returned with a sheaf of notes. Duval shoved them into his wallet without counting, offered his hand to both of us and stepped toward the door.
“You forgot your Boulevardier, Herr Duval!” I exclaimed.
“Please take good care of him. I have looked after him since he came out of the kiln,” he replied.
“But you mustn’t part with him,” I said, distressed.
“I’ll come back for him when he is needed,” he said with a warm smile and walked out.
I stood dumbfounded, then rushed after him. But there was no trace of the tall, dark clad figure. Herr Professor Dr Friedrich Duval had vanished into thin air.
“He gives me the creeps,” shuddered Lucy as she placed her new figurines in one of the display cabinets and proceeded to pack the Boulevardier for me.
“I think he likes you,” I said, surprised by the edgy tone of my voice.
“I know. I feel sort of guilty for reacting to him like this. Still, I can’t help it. But you got on with him famously!”
“He is brilliant,” I concluded. “But I know what you mean. It’s as if he can read your thoughts.”
“Precisely,” said Lucy. “And you, Cousin Peter, couldn’t take your eyes off that figurine!”
We tried to relax over a coffee, and then Lucy went upstairs to take a cup to Peppi. When she came down, she looked puzzled.
“Papa tells me you want the hunting group. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have packed your two pieces in one box.”
“I completely forgot,” I prevaricated.
“A sign of aging, Cousin Peter! Well, I think Papa wants to have a chat with you. Why don’t you run upstairs while I wrap your second treasure.”
Peppi was rubbing his eyes as people do when they have just roused themselves from sleep. “How did you know about the hunting group?” I asked straight away. “You couldn’t have overheard my conversation with that fellow Duval.”
“I watched the two of you and heard every single word!”
“How? Weren’t you up here?”
“I was. But I sort of saw it all as if in a dream – like then, in the Munich station.”
“Is he who I think he is?”
“Of course he is,” said Peppi. “But then, you don’t believe in his existence.”
“I’ll certainly have to think it over carefully. What I can’t understand is why he doesn’t communicate directly with you.”
“Perhaps he fears the pull would be too great. Or, maybe, he prefers just to talk to me.” As he sat up, the light fell on his face. He looked drained and I was alarmed by his pallor. “You alright, Peppi?” I asked anxiously.
“Just a bit tired – like that day in Munich. Peter’le, do you mind opening that safe behind the painting? The combination is Abracadabra. I need a drink from the bottle I keep in it.”
Peppi took a few swigs. He waited for a few moments, smacked his lips and took another hearty draught. To my relief, the blood returned to his face and his weary expression gave way to his usual smile. Soon his eyes were illuminated by a knowing, warm twinkle.
“What a potent drink!” I observed.
“It is! It surpasses even Slivovitz.”
“Can I have a sip?”
“Let’s see.” Peppi handed me the bottle. To my surprise, the cork refused to budge when I pulled at it. Grinning slyly, Peppi handed me a corkscrew; but the screw turned without penetrating the cork.
“I think you are not meant to partake,” smiled Peppi.
“Have I offended him?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He might communicate with you in a different manner.”
“Could I at least smell it?”
To my surprise, the stubborn cork popped out and a sweet, alluring scent filled my nostrils. “Thanks,” I said, bewildered. As the cork slipped back into its place, a voice in my mind replied in Friedrich Duval’s German accent: “Don’t mention it!”
X. PEPPI’S LAST YEARS AND DILLMA
Peppi, Lucy and I used to take long walks on Hampstead Heath or in Kensington Gardens. From time to time, when the weather permitted, I hired a car and drove us down to St Albans, Windsor or Oxford and, on many a fine spring day, to Hampton Court. Like most visitors, we continued to get lost in the maze and invariably had to wait, with the rest of the crowd, to be guided out by one of the warders.
Another excursion we enjoyed was a trip up the Thames to Richmond or Kew Gardens. Despite his advancing years, Peppi rose to these occasions and, more often than not, spurred Lucy and me on to yet another stroll through the grounds. Another successful venture was our day at the Derby, where Peppi, properly attired with a carnation in his buttonhole, received many admiring glances from women of all ages. His chest swelled with pride!
Peppi’s mind, too, had remained agile and active. He was invariably the winner when, sitting by the fire, we played a game of Dominoes or Monopoly. Lucy, I regret to have to relate, was a poor strategist and I had a habit of taking unreasonable chances. Peppi was also victorious on the many occasions we played Tarrock, the national card game of Austria. Although Lucy and I were proficient players, we lacked Peppi’s innate wit and his knack of sending out misleading signals. If Lucy or I won a game it was, usually, by luck rather than by good management.
As the years slipped by I did, of course, notice that Peppi’s age began to catch up with him. Frequently, his legs were painful and, eventually, even our regular strolls on Hampstead Heath became shorter and shorter. All the same, I shut my eyes to the inevitable: I was too happy to anticipate the inevitable. In the end, it was a long conversation with Peppi that alerted me to the realities of the situation.
This revealing exchange took place on a cloudy autumn evening, following a hearty supper in the comfortable dining room in Hampstead. Having helped Lucy with the dishes I went up to Peppi’s sitting room. To my surprise, he had uncorked his special bottle and was taking small sips from it.
“I thought you kept the bottle in the shop, Peppi.”
“These days I bring it home with me in the evening, Peter’le. Sometimes I need a drink before I go to bed.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I can’t make up my mind about my will!”
“Why is that so difficult, Peppi?” I asked. “I’ve always assumed the bulk will go to Lucy. Still, I’d be careful in one regard.”
“Go on.”
“There is much altruism in Lucy. My advice would be to tie up what you leave her in an iron clad trust – for her own protection, I mean.”
“You’re not afraid some chap may get the better of her?”
“I think she’s pretty world-wise there. No, Peppi: I dread the machinations of certain charities and other goody-goody organisations. Lucy may find it hard to say ‘no’ to them.”
“You’re right there. Well, I’ve already taken care of that. What I’ve left her is invested in an unimpeachable offshore family trust. We needn’t worry about her. But I’ve two other problems.”
“What are they?”
“One, Peter’le, is you. I have a right to ask: how well off are you?”
“I’m alright, Peppi,” I assured him, grateful and touched.
“I see. But Peter’le, are you sure you have enough?”
“Honestly, I’m fine. Is the other problem more difficult?”
“It is,” muttered Peppi. “I don’t know what to do about Anna.”
I looked at my friend with growing unease. Up to that evening, Peppi had seldom mentioned Anna’s name. I knew, of course, that his second daughter lived in Bremen, had two children and was married to a clergyman. A few remarks, dropped by Peppi from time to time, had alerted me to their estrangement. Even so, Peppi’s muted outburst that evening came as a surprise.
“I know very little about Anna,” I told him warily.
“I wanted to tell you about her before. But I found it too painful!”
“Are you sure you want to go ahead now?”
“I think I’d better.”
Despite his efforts to retain his self-control, Peppi’s voice rose and fell as the story unfolded. Twice he had to refresh himself with a swig from his special bottle. At one point – as he told me about the exchange of words after Helga’s funeral – he was close to tears. I sat there spellbound, but, alas, unable to help.
“So, you see, Peter’le. I have Lucy and you. But Anna, the pet of my early days in Munich, my little doll, has cut me off once and for all.”
“But you still love her, Peppi,” I said after a pause.
“That’s the dismal side of it. It’s not as if I had managed to put her out of my mind. The truth, Peter’le, is plain: I crave to have her back; but not at the price of crawling!”
“She offered you an olive branch, Peppi,” I said lamely, saddened by the pain in his eyes and the stricken expression on his usually serene face.
“With a barb, Peter’le. If it was an olive branch at all, she made sure I’d reject it!”
“Do you have any idea what went wrong? What is behind this stupid carrying on? She sounds pretty hysterical to me!”
“Don’t you think I’ve racked my brain? All I can say is that it simply doesn’t add up! Can you think of anything?”
“Not really. Have you talked to ... Theophil?”
“Whose existence you still doubt,” Peppi managed to force a grin. “Well, yes, I’ve raised it with him. But he, too, won’t tell me. He keeps saying: ‘emotions, mon cher Peppi, are not my department’!”
“Then her stand may be some kind of religious hysteria. But, I fear, we shan’t find out.”
“We shan’t. But – Peter’le – that’s not my problem for the moment.”
“What is it then, Peppi?”
“Should I leave her anything in my will? I want to do the right thing by her, but I’m not sure what this is – in the circumstances.”
“Is it too late for you to send out your own olive branch – as a prelude?” I ventured.
“I’m afraid it is! I have my pride! But she’s still my daughter. I still love her.”
“You are not seriously thinking of disinheriting her altogether? Even if you didn’t love her any longer, you would have to make some provision for your grandchildren.”
“There can be no doubt about that. But how about Anna and Otto, Peter’le?”
“By disinheriting a child the parent says ‘Get lost’ from the grave. If you still love Anna, you mustn’t do this. Further, if you left Anna nothing you would create a problem for Lucy. She’d feel miserable about it and would try hard to compensate.”
“You are very fond of Lucy, Peter’le,” Peppi sidetracked with a smile. “But, yes, you are of course right. Do you think I should leave as much to Anna as I leave to Lucy?”
“It depends on Anna’s circumstances. I know nothing about them.”
“Otto gets a reasonable stipend. But he is generous to needy parishioners. From time to time, Peter’le, I make anonymous contributions to his church fund. This way more is left for them at the end of the month. But, even so, they have a tough time. The mortgage payments are heavy, and Anna doesn’t work any longer. My granddaughter is sickly and Anna must look after her.”
“How do you know all this – from Lucy?”
“She tells me very little: doesn’t want to worry me. Still, I found out by chance that she sends them money. And I’ve made my own enquiries. I used a reputable private agency.”
“So you still care, Peppi!”
“I do!”
“Good,” I told him. “To make sure they retain the money, you ought to order your executors to pay off the mortgage. And you can leave Anna an annuity. I think that’s the decent thing to do. It’ll give Anna something to think about, Peppi.”
“What do you mean, Peter’le?”
“If you leave her nothing, the rift will remain final.”
“And if I ignore the rift in my will?”
“Then, if she has a conscience, she’ll have a good look in the mirror!”
“You are right. Actually, I did not intend to cut her out of my will. But I wanted to make sure I haven’t become a naïve old fool!”
“What a daft thought,” I protested.
XI. PEPPI’S DEMISE AND FUNERAL
Peppi did not mention Anna again. Neither did he refer to his will. At our next reunion the sun was shining bright and the breeze was light and soothing. Shortly after I returned to Singapore I found a concise message on my answering machine. Lucy asked me to return her call as soon as possible.
For a while I stared apprehensively at the telephone. Snippets of conversations and fleeting images from my encounters with Peppi ran through my mind. When I sensed I was in control of myself, I picked up the receiver and dialled the number I had come to know so well.
“Is it you, Cousin Peter?”
“Yes, Lucy. When did it happen?”
“He was dead when I went up with his morning coffee. And, you know, he was smiling.”
“I’ll catch the evening flight.”
“You might as well wait until tomorrow. Anna can’t make it till Monday. The funeral will be on Monday afternoon.”
London was unnaturally quiet that morning. The taxi made excellent progress through the deserted streets. One might have thought that Heathrow was the airport of a sleepy town on the Arabian Peninsula.
“You must be tired, Cousin Peter,” said Lucy as I came through the door.
“I’m alright, honest. I slept a bit on the plane.”
“Come, let’s have breakfast.”
To my own surprise, I was able to eat. The rashers of rosy bacon, the rich Bavarian rye bread and the slices of Swiss cheese cheered me up. Lucy watched me intently and, without even asking, kept my cup topped up with hot coffee.
“He was a very old man, Peter’le,” she said gently when we had finished.
“I know. And he had a good life. But, Lucy, I can’t bear the thought of it; I just can’t.”
“You’ll have to come to terms with it,” she said, averting her eyes as I wiped my tears.
“If he had only lasted just a little longer. I was due to come down in ten days. We were going to have a special lunch at Franz’s.”
“I know. He too was counting the days. But, as you well know, it’s not up to us.”
“True – and I’m being silly. I’m making it more difficult for you.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” she smiled. “Women are far more down to earth than men. I’ve been preparing myself since he started to complain about his hip.”
“Where is he now?”
“They’ll bring the coffin over in the afternoon. A few months ago, Papa told me he wanted to go from home and pass by the shop. I’ve arranged a service in a nearby Roman Catholic church. As you know, he was brought up a Roman catholic.”
“I am sure he would have liked that,” I told her.
“You’d better have a rest now. You look exhausted.”
I awoke to the shuffling of feet treading ponderously under a heavy load. By the time I came down, the coffin bearers were gone. Lucy was securing the door leading to the basement but left the lights on.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How about a cup of tea?”
Lucy made a pot of strong aromatic tea. She took hers with lemon and sugar and smiled wryly as I poured milk into my cup before filling it up.
“Lucy,” I said as soon as she was settled in her chair. “I thought matters over during the flight. Look, I know how well you run the business. But could you do with an extra pair of hands?”
“What’s on your mind, Cousin Peter?”
“I’m fed up with teaching. I’ve been conducting the same courses for over thirty years! I can’t even dream up new jokes and anecdotes.”
“Well?”
“If you like, I’ll come over and give you a hand with the shop. I know nothing about manuscripts, tapestries and the other stuff you have. But I know my porcelain and prints; and I can learn!”
“I thought you had something like this in mind, Peter’le. But how about Pat, your consultancies and your books?”
“I’ve had a dry marriage for years, Lucy. I suspect Pat will be glad to see the last of me. And my consultancy, the opinion work, and my books, they’ve lost their attraction. Getting involved in the promotion of this shop, will give a new meaning and purpose to my life. And look, Lucy, between the two of us we can push the business to even greater heights. You have the customers and the ... suppliers. I too have contacts.”
“We certainly have one supplier,” she said, and I saw a shudder pass through her. “It’s very kind of you. If I wanted to keep the business, you’d be welcome, that is if you still felt the same way after you got over your shock. But I have other plans!”
“Other plans? Surely, you’re not thinking of giving up the shop?”
“I am, rather. Actually, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Lucy!”
“Yes, Cousin Peter. I, too, crave a fresh start.”
“But you’ve achieved so much!”
“Haven’t you too? But that’s not stopping you.”
“But I’m close to retirement. You, in contrast, are at the peak of your academic career. You’ve carved a niche for yourself. And the reputation of Theophil’s Antiques is second to none! Why do you want to throw all this away?”
“Because I want to do something useful, Peter’le. The world is full of academics who care for nothing but their pet subjects, their writings and, if they have a heart, their students. And successful antiques dealers are ten a penny. I am fed up and tired – I’m plain disgusted – with my self-centred, covetous and miserly existence!”
“What do you propose to do?”
“I’m joining a hospital on the Ivory Coast as volunteer trainee nurse. It’s run by a Christian charity; and they need people.”
“Has all this been settled?” I asked, downcast and bewildered. “When did you contact them?”
“I met one of their nurses two years ago in Brittany. She had flown back to visit her aging mother. We spent some time together and she told me all about the institution. We have corresponded ever since. I promised to join when I was able to do so.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Pretty soon. Our friendly competitor, Jack Marx, wants to acquire the business. I expect to settle everything in two or three months.”
“Why not put a manager in charge of the shop? Won’t you be sad to see it go?”
“No, Peter’le. It has outlived its usefulness. Even if I remained in London, I’d dispose of it and move into full time academia.”
“But why?”
“I’ll give you just one reason – do you know who it’s named after?”
“I believe I do,” I conceded.
“I’m not one of his admirers, Cousin Peter.”
“Hasn’t he been rather kind to you – assuming that he exists?”
“Don’t tell me you are still in doubt!” her laughter eased the tension. “Haven’t you looked up our Friedrich Duval?”
“I have made enquiries. A Doctor Friedrich Duval used to teach philosophy and theology in Göttingen.”
“When?”
“Around 1745. His nickname was ‘Fra Diablo’.”
“And Doctor Theophilius, who directed my attention to the books I needed for my research, taught at Heidelberg in the middle of the seventeenth century. He was dreaded by young and old!”
“But has he ever ill-treated anybody? My Fra Diablo appears to have been of a kindly disposition. His only faults were his piercing eyes, his ardent sobriety and an acid tongue!”
“Then why did you look so diminished after your encounter with him?”
“An irrational reaction, Lucy. Every time I look at my masked Boulevardier, I feel grateful to him and deeply ashamed of myself.”
“Don’t. I’m telling you again: I wish to put all this behind me and do something for others; something unselfish and – yes – something good!”
“I think I understand,” I said, forlorn. Then unexpectedly an alien voice murmured to me: “I do, too! But you, Peter’le, shall see me face to face before long.”
We had dinner in a salt beef joint in Piccadilly. Lucy savoured the Latkes while I enjoyed the pungent pickles. Just before we left, Lucy mentioned that Peppi had left me his porcelain, a set of prints and some paintings.
“One is a rare Albigensian piece. I think I know who ‘sold’ it to him. You mustn’t refuse, Cousin Peter.”
“I’ll cherish them, Lucy. One day you may want them!”
“I won’t. They are yours; you might as well enjoy them to the full.”
“You will, Peter’le,” said the alien voice.
Back in Hampstead, I asked Lucy whether we should take turns or sit in vigil together throughout the night. To my surprise, she sought to dissuade me, suggesting that it would be better to get a decent rest.
“But I can’t bear the thought of leaving him down there all on his own.”
“I know. But sitting there in vigil in the dark cellar is inadvisable, Peter’le!”
“But why?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Lucy!”
“Did Papa tell you the story of a certain event in Munich?”
“Dad told me – long before I wandered into your shop.”
“Yet you feel no apprehension?”
“Peppi wouldn’t harm you or me or – come to think of it – anybody.”
“But how about his ... supporter? He is the epitome of evil!”
“I have seen no evidence of this – supposing I accept that he exists!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cousin Peter: of course he exists. You have even talked to him. He is a tricky one – I don’t trust him.”
“You talk like a religious fanatic, Lucy. I thought that, like Peppi, you were a free thinker – a rationalist. I used to think that, in this regard too, you were your father’s daughter.”
“Don’t forget, Peter’le, that my mother was a devout believer. In this regard, I followed in her footsteps. This did not stop me from loving Papa and respecting him: he was my father, and a good one at that. In matters of religion, though, Anna and I adopted mother’s faith. So, you must understand my apprehension towards your plan to sit in wake over Peppi. His supporter – his alter ego – is unpredictable.”
“All the same: my place tonight is down there – in the basement.”
“Well spoken, Peter’le,” applauded the gentle, internal voice. Although Lucy could not hear him, she looked at me with concern. Finally, she gave way, dejected.
“Alright then. But do yell if anything goes wrong. There’s no heating down there. All you can have is a sleeping bag and a few blankets. But please, please, leave the light on.”
Shortly thereafter, I settled into my makeshift bed in the basement. For a while my thoughts centred on Peppi. I had been deeply fond of him and had every intention of keeping my emotion alive. Then, as I luxuriated in the warmth of the well-padded sleeping bag, my eyelids closed.
I awoke to the sound of a discreet cough. What I saw made me rub my eyes in disbelief.
“Peppi, is it really you?”
“I have not been blessed with a twin brother or alter ego,” he responded with a grin. As always, I looked at him with unconcealed affection. He wore one of his three-piece brown suits, a well ironed white shirt and a matching tie. Sitting there, on the edge of his coffin, he looked every inch the well-to-do member of the long extinct mid-European gentry.
“I’ve turned on the heating, Peter’le. You’d better unzip your sleeping bag.”
“I didn’t know there was a heater in the basement.”
“Shall we say that I have attended to it. I command certain extra powers now, Peter’le.”
“Thanks, Peppi,” I said, as I peeled off the blankets and slipped out of the sleeping bag. Moving a chair close to him, I sat down and held out my hand. His grip was as warm and as reassuring as ever.
“You look well, Peppi. Just the way you did when we first met.”
“Thanks. I could have appeared in an even earlier guise. But the apparition might have unsettled you.”
“Strange,” I mused. “You address me in English. We used to converse in Otakring when we were alone.”
“Would you eppes wollen speak Yiddish, or Hebrew?”
“No thank you,” I protested. “English will do. Still, you never told me you were conversant in my People’s tongues.”
“I am now, Peter’le. I am going through a state of transition.”
“But you are still Peppi?!”
“Guilty as charged,” he confirmed.
“In that case, Peppi, I ought to give you a scolding!”
“I’m terrified!” He raised his arms high in mock fear. “Still, it sounds imperative. So out with it, mon cher
“Do you think, Peppi, it was right to leave us – just like that?”
“Bad timing?”
“Appalling! There was I, counting the days to my flight and – out of the blue – I got Lucy’s call. What was the great hurry, Peppi?”
“Peter’le,” said Peppi, reverting to the Otakring slang. “It was bound to come sooner or later. I was, as you well know, ninety-four! Would you have wanted me to linger around endlessly, degenerating into a malfunctioning body with my mind gone – a geriatric monstrosity?”
“No, Peppi,” I exclaimed. “That would have been ghastly.”
“So be a Mensch, Peter’le, be sensible. Your Peppi enjoyed a long and excellent life. He came from nowhere, drifted about for fifty years and then rose from strength to strength. And his last few years were his best. True, he lost a daughter; but he found a son. No, Peter’le, Peppi’s time had come.”
“I know,” I admitted, crestfallen. “But I can’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to him.”
“You don’t have to! Peppi can materialise so long as you have the will to see him.”
“Even if I am far away – back in Singapore or retired in Sydney?”
“Such small distances do not count any longer. So, Peter’le, stop looking so glum. You are breaking my heart; and that won’t do!”
“All right, Peppi. But it’s not easy for me to smile.”
“Let me cheer you up, then.”
For the next hour Peppi recounted events from his long-gone youth. Dad figured in many of them. Some were recollections of tricks they had played on their schoolteachers, others related to adventures and misdeeds in the Prater, and others still to Peppi’s years in the army. Despite my anguish, I broke into peals of laughter.
“Am glad to have amused you!” Peppi grinned from ear to ear. “But now, Peter’le, I’ve got to ask you to do me three favours.”
“You know I’ll do anything for you if I can!”
“Let’s start with the easiest. You, Peter’le, must not try to stop Lucy! Let her proceed as planned.”
“But she is heading for the worst region in the lousiest place on earth. Don’t you love her any longer?”
“What a silly question! You know I do. But it’s no good stopping her. She has set her heart on her ... sacrifice. Giving it up will break her. She has reached the point of no return.”
“Will you ... at least ... persuade Theophil to ... you know what I mean?”
“Poor Theophil, whose existence you stubbornly refuse to accept! Very well, I’ll have a word with him!”
“Thanks.”
“That’s settled then. Next: you must have lunch at Franz’s.”
“That would be like going to a birthday party when there is no birthday kid.”
“For the second time, Peter’le – don’t be ludicrous. Good old Franz went to no end of trouble to get the breast of veal from Innsbruck. And he spent hours perfecting the recipe for the low cholesterol stuffing. If you don’t turn up, he’ll think you don’t like his food!”
“But sitting at our table without you … The food will have no taste, Peppi.”
“Nonsense,” he countered spiritedly. “Just tell Franz to bring two glasses of wine and place one in front of my chair. Drink it to his good health in my name. And enjoy the new diabetic dessert he has dreamt up. I’ve tried it: it’s delicious!”
“Will you be there?”
“I shall; but I won’t materialise: Franz would have a fit if I did.”
“And what is my third errand?”
“It is a delicate task. You’ve got to find out why Anna cut me off!”
“You mean you still don’t know?”
“I’d prefer to hear it from her mouth. This way, there will no longer be room for doubt.”
“I’ll do my best – but how? Shall I give her a good and proper scolding?”
“That would be counterproductive. Anna sulks and clams up when you tell her off. She does not fear rows. Her weakness lies elsewhere. She likes to be liked. If she senses you think badly of her, she may try to explain. It’s her way of gaining your sympathy.”
“Very well then. But I can only try.”
“Of course. And now we have talked enough. You’d better have some rest. Slip back into your sleeping bag. I’ll have to turn the ‘heating’ off. Otherwise, Lucy will call the fire brigade in the morning or, if she suspects foul play, will arrange an exorcism!”
Lucy said little over breakfast. I knew something was on her mind but thought it best to wait. Eventually, she came out with it. Early in the morning Anna had rung to tell her she might be late for the funeral. Her daughter had succumbed to an attack of bronchitis with high fever. They had to wait for the physician.
“What are you going to do?”
“We’ll give her 30 or 40 minutes. If she hasn’t turned up by then, we’ll go ahead. I’ll leave the key to the house with the neighbours.”
The hearse arrived shortly after lunch. A number of people were already gathered in the church. Some were members and office bearers of Artiquar; others were antiques dealers who had done business with Peppi. Certain charities were also represented. Franz and his wife were sitting in one of the back rows. By 2.15 the church was full. By 2.30 it was overcrowded.
The traditional Roman Catholic service was followed by the priest’s balanced obituary. And still there was no sign of Anna. With a shrug of her shoulders, Lucy nodded. I watched sadly as the pallbearers – men younger and sturdier than myself – carried the heavy coffin back to the hearse. Whatever else you might think of Anna, you had to concede that she was consistent!
XII. ANNA’S REVELATION
Anna and Otto were waiting for us in the sitting room. I was struck by Anna’s appearance. The middle-aged woman who got up to meet us bore little resemblance to the charming little girl and vivacious teenager whose captivating smile livened up Peppi’s family album. I was put off by her severe expression, her firm mouth and her eyes – eyes devoid of mirth. Otto, in contrast, appeared friendly and well balanced and his eyes were warm.
“I’m sorry we missed the service,” he said as he shook Lucy’s hand. “The doctor took his time, and Anna didn’t want to leave home before she knew all was well.”
“I hope the service was well attended and that everything went smoothly. I take it our absence was not noticed,” interjected Anna.
“The church was crowded, and everything was fine,” said Lucy. “Your absence wasn’t noticed. Few people knew that Papa had two daughters.”
Anna swallowed hard. Otto opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. I was lost for words. After an uncomfortable pause, Anna broke the silence. Stepping over to me, she held out her hand:
“You must be Professor Berger. Lucy has told me a lot about you. I’m sorry we’ve not met before.”
“The loss is mine,” I assured her, translating clumsily from English to German. “Peppi sometimes talked about you. So, you are not a stranger.”
“You were very fond of him. I’m glad you were here so that Lucy wasn’t all on her own.”
“Actually, I flew down from Singapore after Lucy rang to tell me. I had to say goodbye to him.”
“Cousin Peter kept vigil by Papa’s coffin last night,” Lucy broke in.
“By his coffin? Lucy, how could you let him?” Anna had paled perceptibly.
“I tried to stop him. But he wouldn’t listen to me!”
“Didn’t you warn him about Papa’s ... alliance?”
“I know all about it, Anna,” I told her. “It started after a certain event in Munich.”
“And weren’t you afraid to be there alone?”
“Of course not. Why should Peppi, or whoever is behind him, wish to harm me? Actually, he cheered me up yesterday!” I had not intended to say the last words. The gentle voice I had heard before prompted me to utter them.
“So he did appear to you last night. I came down to make sure all was well and heard you laughing your head off,” said Lucy.
“Peppi told me some very funny anecdotes,” I said lamely.
“Oh ... my God.” Anna was shaking. “He could have taken you with him, Peter!”
“To what purpose, Anna? Don’t you realise I would have gladly gone with him if he had asked me?”
Anna stared at me, nonplussed. Otto, to my surprise, looked at me with understanding.
“You loved him, Professor Berger,” he said gently.
“I did; and, as often before, talking to him gave me heart!”
“What did you talk about?” he asked.
“He told me anecdotes. But we conversed seriously about Lucy, about the Chef of his favourite restaurant in Chelsea and, well, about Anna.”
“About me? What did he say?” Anna asked nervously.
“He asked me to find out why you had cut him off, Anna,” I said openly.
“Was he very upset?”
“He was, rather. You, see, he never ceased to love you. He wanted to have you back; but – to use his own words – he wasn’t prepared to crawl.”
“I see; and you were right all along, Otto. I wish I had listened to you!”
“I told you the same thing,” said Lucy.
“What on earth was it then?” I asked eagerly.
“Shall I tell him?” Anna’s glance shifted from Otto to Lucy.
“I think you’d better,” said Otto. Lucy just nodded.
“Alright, then. The night it happened I had already gone to bed, but then realised I had forgotten to give Papa his good-night kiss. So, I went up silently – intending to surprise him. Well, when I opened the door quietly, Dad was taking a sip from that funny bottle of his. For a moment he was still Papa – my Papa ...”
“... and then?” I prompted as she stopped, too embarrassed to proceed.
“A change came over him and – I know it sounds crazy – but he was no longer Papa. I was looking at the devil, Peter – the devil incarnate, with his red eyes and malicious grin.”
“What happened?” I asked frantically.
“I fled to Lucy’s room – too frightened to yell. She calmed me down. When we tiptoed back to the study, Papa was sitting at his desk. But he didn’t see us: his eyes were staring at some point far beyond us. I spent the rest of the night in Lucy’s bed. I didn’t dare go back to my own room.”
“But don’t you realise it was a hallucination? I’ve seen Peppi drink from the same bottle. The stuff galvanised him: but he always remained Peppi.”
“Don’t you think I tried to tell myself it had been a mirage – a trick of the light? But it was no use: I knew what I had seen.”
“I understand. You were unable to dismiss it from your mind! But how did you feel about him after this?” I asked.
“I was afraid of him.”
“Didn’t you love him any longer?”
“I did; but couldn’t overcome my fear!”
“Poor Peppi,” I gave vent to my feelings. “All this suffering – produced by an illusion – a phantasmagoria.”
“But was it an illusion, Peter?” asked Otto.
“What else?”
“Was your experience last night yet another illusion?”
“Assessed on a rational plane – it had to be. My subconscious was playing tricks on me!”
“Your subconscious could, undoubtedly, project Peppi. But how about the anecdotes. Had you heard all of them before?”
“Not as far as I can recollect. Still, Dad might have told them to me when I was a boy; and I may have forgotten them.”
“And is that the only rational explanation that comes to your mind?”
“It is,” I conceded.
“But then, aren’t you being dogmatic?”
“How do you mean?”
“I can see two possible explanations for last night’s events, Peter,” said Otto. He was still speaking gently, with no hint of anger or irritation. All the same, I sensed his fervour.
“The rational and the irrational?” I asked.
“You could call them that.”
“What would you call them, Otto?”
“The Freudian and the metaphysical: an unaccountable dream or a genuine appearance of the devil. Bearing in mind that you had no earlier recollection of some of the anecdotes, the second explanation appears the more likely one!”
“But Otto – how can you, rationally, accept the existence of the devil? How can you rationally explain his willingness to manifest himself in such a manner?”
“I have no need to resort to reason, Peter. Once you accept God, the metaphysical world need no longer be established by logical argumentation. It becomes part and parcel of your perception of the world!”
“So how do you explain my having remained unharmed; and, come to think of it, how do you explain Peppi’s decency, goodness and humanity?”
“My faith tells me that the devil has his own designs and motivations. I cannot and do not feel the need to explain or discern what he is up to. My duty is to give him a wide berth.”
“Without grounds for accepting that he is evil – that he is out to get us?”
“His malignity is pronounced by my faith. He is evil because he opposes God. I have no right – and feel no desire – to question this precept.”
“Just as I, Otto, will not accept his existence, let alone his being an enemy, unless my mind, my intellect, drives me to this conclusion!”
“For Otto, for Anna and for myself faith prevails over any precepts dictated by personal observations or reasoning,” interjected Lucy.
“Just as you, Peter, regard your intellect as overriding any dogma seeking to prevail over it,” concluded Otto, speaking even more gently than before.
The argument went deep. To my relief, though, it had not created tension. We had tea together and, to diffuse the spirit of dissension, conversed about Peppi’s early days in Munich. We then turned to Otto’s work in Bremen and to my own life as a law teacher. Later on, when Anna returned all flustered from a telephone conversation with the friend who was looking after her sick child, Lucy suggested that they return home early the next morning. Before all of us retired, I mentioned to Anna the generous provisions made for them in Peppi’s will.
“You mustn’t reject the bequest, Anna. You can’t deliver such a final, undeserved slap in his face.”
“We can put the money to good use,” declared Otto in response to Anna’s questioning look.
“I’m sure you can. I intend to do so with what he left me,” said Lucy warmly.
Next day Anna and Otto flew back to Bremen. Lucy began to wind up her affairs. I had to attend to the packing and shipping to Singapore of the treasures left to me by Peppi. The only enjoyable event during this spell was a luncheon at Franz’s. Despite Peppi’s absence it went well.
Two days before my scheduled return to Singapore, Lucy decided to fly Munich to visit Helga’s grave. She urged me not to move to a hotel and mentioned, in passing, that she had decided to keep the house.
“You will write to me regularly, Lucy?” I asked before she disappeared into the departures lounge.
“As long as you reply punctually,” she chuckled.
XIII. THEOPHIL’S OUTLOOK
On my last day in London, I had an early breakfast and, following a pleasant stroll on Hampstead Heath, decided to have a last browse in Kensington Church Street. Leaving the train at Notting Hill Gate, my feet soon led me to Theophil’s Antiques.
Lucy had concluded the negotiations forthwith. The new owners transferred the stock in trade to one of their shops and removed the furniture. The building, which was to be put on the market following refurbishment, looked desolate. Gone were the tapestries, the illuminated books, the silver, the glass and the porcelain displayed in the show windows. The vacant rooms and bare floors, visible through the panes, announced ‘empty’. The signboard alone bore witness to the fact that this barren shell had once housed one of London’s famed antiques stores.
I looked at the building sadly. A chapter in my life had drawn to a close: a blissfully happy epoch of some ten years! My Peppi – the man of flesh and blood – had left this world. All the same, I knew that, as far as I was concerned, Peppi was still with me. His sound judgment in matters of mores and religion, his tolerance and his urbane outlook on life had left a lasting impression on me. They did so despite my suspicion – perhaps even knowledge – of the force behind Peppi. True, I still had my reservations about the existence of that force or being. All the same, I had sensed it and respected it from afar from my early childhood. Now, at long last, I was prepared to commit myself to it. But would that being – be it Theophil or Peppi’s spirit – give me the chance?
Downcast, I turned away from the shop, but at the last moment spotted a piece of paper protruding from beneath the front door. Instinctively, I approached and bent down to pick it up. In the process I brushed against the door. To my surprise, it gave way.
A sense of unreality, of trepidation, engulfed me as I entered. Dropping my umbrella into a stand that had been left behind, I walked slowly from room to room. Satisfied that the movers had done a conscientious job, I took the stairs leading to the second storey and, ignoring the chime of an inner warning bell, tried the handle of Peppi’s office. The door opened noiselessly. I stepped inside, my heart racing.
Peppi’s elegant desk and well-upholstered armchair were still in their place, as, indeed, was the visitor’s chair which I had occupied so many times since we had met. Without further thought I took my seat, rested my tired feet, and – just for a moment – closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Peppi was sitting across from me. He looked distinguished in the fine two-piece light blue suit, custom made by a tailor in Savile Row.
“You look great, Peppi. Thanks for the treasures you left me. I’ll cherish them.”
“I know. They’ll go well with some I gave you … under a different guise,” he replied, shaking my hand warmly. “And Peter’le, thanks for the information you got from Anna. Her encounter triggered off her metamorphosing from a light-hearted adolescent into a seriously minded young woman.”
“Did all this make sense to you?”
“Now, when all is clear, it does,” he nodded.
“But how could you – or Theophil – let this happen?”
“I had forgotten to lock the door. Poor Theophil – whom everybody blames for all wrongs in the Galaxy – is not always in command!”
“I am still baffled. I saw you taking hearty swigs from the same bottle. It’s true that a change came over you. Yet you remained Peppi!”
“But Peter’le, truth is in the eye of the beholder. You are a hardened rationalist. Even if you had witnessed a total change, you would have dismissed it from your ... prejudiced ... mind. Anna was in her teens – a mere child – and so she believed her eyes.”
“Anna’s hysterical reaction was underscored by the vicissitudes of puberty and of growing up,” I added. “Still, Peppi, I maintain that on all these occasions you remained yourself!”
“Except at the very moment contact was made. For just a second there was a sort of a ... transition. If young Anna had arrived a minute later, she would have beheld her loving father, would have crept up behind him and yelled ‘boo’ in his ear, given him a kiss and returned triumphantly to her own bed!”
“What an unfortunate coincidence.”
“It was, rather. But even great events can be triggered by trivial causes!”
For a while we sat lost in thought. I was pondering on the unhappiness and suffering that a single moment had inflicted on my friend and on his daughter. Peppi, I sensed, was reflecting on the events of the last few days. In the end, it was I who broke the silence.
“Peppi, what is your reaction to Otto’s simplistic explanation of ‘good’ and ‘evil’?” I asked with some hesitation.
“It is dictated by his faith. Further, as an exercise in consistency, it is impressive.”
“Many years ago, in Munich, Theophil convinced Dad that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were separated by a narrow, perhaps imperceptible, line! Well, Peppi, don’t you think the distinction is altogether illusory? The terms are relative. What is ‘good’ today may be ‘evil’ tomorrow. Further, what is ‘good’ for Tom may spell ‘evil’ for Dick and Harry.”
“Would you care to elaborate?” he asked with growing interest.
“How about King Sha’ul? His failure to annihilate the Amalekite women and children strikes me as decent and humane. But the poor chap lost his Kingdom for this purportedly horrid crime!”
“What would Otto’s reply be?”
“What the Bible says: disobedience is a sin, as is the very questioning of a divine command!”
“And your conclusion, Peter’le?”
“Both ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are relative terms. ‘Purposive’ [or utilitarian] and ‘counter-purposive’ are more to the point. The former engulfs anything that furthers a goal. The latter is anything that stands in its way. Let me illustrate the point: even love, when take to extremes, might become a prison. In most cases, passion fades, doesn’t it? This means that what begins as a passionate fire between husband and wife cools to ashes unless companionship and understanding replace it. Often this metamorphosis does not take place. Accordingly, what started as ‘good’ might turn to something undesirable and hence ‘counter-purposive’!”
“I agree. And how about Otto’s further conclusion that the Devil is ‘evil’ because he casts doubt on the goodness and omnipotence of the Good Lord, who is deemed the epitome of all that is ‘good’?”
“Except that, like the Devil, a rationalist is bound to question both the ‘goodness’ and the ‘omnipotence’ of the Good Lord.”
“Why?” asked Peppi.
“Because a rationalist refuses to accept a principle or rule without proof!”
“But Peter’le, who taught Rationalist Man to take such an assertive stand?”
“We know the answer; that is, if Mephisto exists.”
“You remain unconvinced,” he grinned.
“Why can’t he simply appear in front of me?!”
“Didn’t he speak to you?” For just a second Peppi let his irritation show. Then, in a milder tone, he added: “You, Peter’le, believe your eyes but doubt your ears. Still, will you be able to face him if he materialises in front of you?”
“Of course!” I let my own irritation show.
“Very well then. But, whatever happens, do not break our eye contact.”
Even as he spoke, a subtle change came over him. Initially, he remained Peppi as affected by a sip from his bottle. Then his face mutated, becoming elongated with protruding cheekbones and a firmly set chin. At the same time, the colour of his pupils and of his skin altered, assuming a reddish tinge; and his hands, arms and neck became sinewy, leathery. His figure, too, mutated from Peppi’s bulk to Friedrich Duval’s gaunt physique.
As this metamorphosis took place, my heartbeat grew faster and faster. As it progressed, I was overcome by waves of panic. My hands shook, my jaw tightened and beads of sweat formed on my brow. My mouth opened wide, but a remnant of sanity, abetted by pride, suppressed my scream of terror. Then, gradually, reason returned. My breath steadied, my hands regained their strength and the black circles in front of my eyes vanished.
“So, we have braved this storm, Peter’le,” Theophil spoke gently, affectionately.
“The voice is still the voice of Peppi but the shape is Friedrich Duval’s,” I said, surprised that my words were not hindered by a stammer.
“What a clever adaptation of Genesis 27:22,” he smiled benevolently.
“Peppi would not recognise the verse,” I countered, my gaze holding his. “And you are Mephisto, known to me as Theophil!”
“Who else, old friend?”
“It is you who under different guises has befriended me over the years. And during my ten years of friendship with Peppi, I formed a bond with him and tightened the commitment to you.”
“So you did; and you befriended him although you sensed, perhaps even knew, that the force behind Peppi was Theophil!”
“I sensed it. But I didn’t comprehend! But, you know, I owe you an apology,” I told him.
“Not for doubting my existence? You were quite rational there – even if perversely so. Still, dogma dies hard. But me’thinks you are contrite for yet some other reason.”
“I am ashamed of my idiotic reaction. Why on earth did I turn into a terrified child!”
“Your reaction was natural, or ‘as anticipated’. All in all, you under-reacted!”
“I thought I did the opposite. Looking rationally at what had happened, I fail to see what frightened me.”
“But is fear rational?”
“Fear is an instinctive reaction to danger: an in-built safeguard or warning device. But how does this explain my reaction to you? What made my nerves classify you as a threat? There is no ‘past experience’ to justify their reaction.”
“Simply put: your nerves treat the ‘unknown’ as dangerous. The precise answer is more complex. The human race is programmed to fear me because I am ‘evil’.”
“A genetic instinct?”
“Many instincts are! Fear of the dark is one. Fear of sudden change is another. You can call these instincts the human ‘self-preservation mechanism’. My presence induces Man to question his basic dogmas. Your instincts protect you against this ‘evil’ influence.”
“I understand; and you have to find ways to deal with this fear when you visit us in person.”
“Often.”
“Is why you are called ‘tricky’?”
“Precisely – and don’t you fear. I was not offended by our fair Lucy’s words. She spoke as programmed. She represents the human norm. You, with your incessant urge to question, are the exception. This is why I’ve been able to reveal myself to you without catastrophic repercussions.”
“Thank you,” I said, gratified by the implicit compliment.
XIV. THE PACT
For a while we remained silent. He was watching me closely. I contemplated him with admiration. Despite his unappealing appearance I was mesmerised by his bright eyes. True, they looked straight through me and read my thoughts effortlessly and accurately, stripping me of all pretence. All the same, I sensed their warmth and was captivated by the understanding they reflected. I knew I was facing a being superior to me and realised I was in the presence of an intellect that dwarfed mine. Nonetheless, I was overcome by an intense feeling of brotherhood.
“You have been my friend all along, Theophil. In a way, you were always with me, if you know what I mean.”
“Fundamentally, you are right. But remember: I am no altruist. From the start I knew one day we might talk in this fashion.”
“Why didn’t you come earlier?”
“You weren’t ready. I had to prepare the ground: I hate failure!”
“I trust you,” I said inconsequentially. “But Theophil, are you really here – in front of me?”
“Surely, you no longer doubt my existence. I believe you are convinced.”
“I am. But are you here physically?”
“I am not flesh and blood. You have discerned that. Well, what is on your mind?”
“Just now you were Peppi. A few years ago you appeared to me in the form of Friedrich Duval. Now you are Theophil, who, earlier on, revealed himself to Dad in Munich. Are you real or just an image?”
“You shook hands with Fra Diablo!”
“But when I rushed after him, he had vanished into thin air. It doesn’t make sense. I hope you don’t mind my speaking bluntly.”
“I should not be here if I minded. Still, to answer your question, let’s shake hands again.”
Smiling, he held his hand out; try as I might, I could not grasp it. My hand passed through his as if it were thin air. It was as if I was trying to touch an image projected on a three-dimensional screen. Reading my thoughts, he dropped his hand onto the desk within my reach. It looked real. But, when I placed my own hand over it, my palm came to rest on the smooth wooden surface without making contact.
“Would you mind lifting your thumb?” I asked.
“Always happy to oblige,” he teased.
Initially, my hand closed around a void. Then, slowly, a feeling of contact took over. Closing my hand firmly, I sensed the touch of the leathery skin and the knuckles beneath it.
“Got ’cha!”
“Not for long,” he countered, and although my fingers continued to encircle his thumb, the sensation of contact was gone.
My mind was now racing, seeking to grasp the new reality. Was it the experience of watching an object projected on a cinema screen from a source that could transmit not just light and sound but other sensations, such as touch and smell?
“Slow down,” he urged. “You’re going too fast, far too fast!”
“Sorry,” I said apologetically, startled by his anxious tone. “Somehow, your proximity has stimulated my thought processes.”
“It has. But your mind is not programmed to work at this speed. You might burn yourself out. I have had some sad experiences.”
“So your presence acts as a catalyst. Is it because our intellect is modelled on yours?”
“Either that or because both stem from the same mould. Mine, though, is not handicapped by the constraints of a body.”
“But do you have any physical – bodily – existence?”
“You were on the right track when I had to break in. You feel, hear and see me through a sensation I produce in your mind.”
“And Friedrich Duval; and the locum in
“I can make myself felt by a crowd. Further, I can appear in person – as a physical being. But this involves a risk and so I tend to avoid it.”
“How then did Friedrich Duval give me the Masked Harlequin?”
He did not answer but, as if by magic, a pot of tea, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and cup and saucer materialised in front of me. Turning the cup over, I smiled at him gratefully. It displayed an early Meissen mark.
“Won’t you join me?” I asked.
“With pleasure,” he answered, pouring the steaming tea into both my cup and its twin that had appeared in front of him.
I enjoyed the aromatic tea but, most of all, concentrated on the porcelain pieces. Once we had finished, Theophil said nonchalantly: “I’m delighted you like the set. So let us place it in your Meissen cabinet.”
“It’s ... in Singapore,” I stammered.
“I know. Well, let us see on which shelf the set looks at its best.”
My eyes almost popped out of my head as the cabinet with my Meissen pieces materialised in its full splendour against one of the walls. Unable to contain myself, I walked over, moved some of the early figurines from the middle to the upper shelf and carefully placed my new pieces in the centre. For a while I was unable to tear myself away from my treasures. The world around me – even my ephemeral friend of the twilight zone – had ceased to exist. Then, with an effort, I turned back to him gratefully.
“They’ll be there when you get home,” he said as the cabinet vanished.
“How did you get them, Theophil?”
“I bought them from the Meissen store. I kept them in my own environment until I found somebody who would appreciate them as much as I do.”
Once again I was captivated by the look in his eyes. They were no longer ominous or threatening. Their determined, proud and penetrating glance searched for understanding.
“There is much humanity in you, Theophil,” I said, overcome by a deep sense of commitment.
His image remained in front of me. Yet, suddenly, I was alone in Peppi’s old study. Theophil’s keen eyes were no longer holding mine. I was gazing into lenses of unimaginable length, blurred as if by a fog at the end of an infinite tunnel.
“Theophil, where are you?” I screamed inwardly. “Don’t leave me alone here!”
“Sorry to give you a fright,” he replied looking at me again as before. “For just a moment I returned to ... base. Your words startled me. And no, don’t worry: you have not offended me!”
“Did I say something out of the ordinary?”
“You did, rather. I have been called many things: powerful, resourceful, and – less flatteringly – evil, vile, and tricky. But nobody has told me before that there is a human element in me. Was your statement triggered by your mind?”
“No. It came from my heart. You see, I was deeply moved!”
“By my gift?”
“That too, but mainly by your expression.”
“Try to tell me – without dissecting – what exactly moved you.”
“My happiness brought you joy. I saw it in your eyes and ... I felt it!”
“Is this, then, the human element?”
“I believe it is. Man is cruel to man. People exploit each other and are often ruthless and, alas, unscrupulous. All the same, they need each other. Man is not an island. He is not self-sufficient. You know of course what is the worst punishment you can inflict on a criminal?”
“Prolonged solitary confinement. I have seen strong men and self-assured women driven to insanity in their isolated cells! But then, aren’t many other mammals herd animals?”
“They are. But in animals, the herd drive is instinctive: it secures the survival of the pack and the species. The survival instinct may also be the origin of the drive in man. Yet the human urge is more complex. Man needs to share his emotions with other humans: his woes, his sadness, his victories and his happiness. I suspect that this type of social urge – social appetite as the pundits call it – is confined to us.”
“It is,” he confirmed calmly. “You are also right about me: Theophil is unique. But he, too, needs to share his thoughts and experiences. He turns to humans because they have the intellect and the capacity to respond.”
“So, notwithstanding your repeated assertions to the contrary, you do have emotions. You are not just the power of pure reason. You know joy, hate, defeat. And you know how to smile!”
“Quite so. But my ‘reactions’ are not comparable to your race’s emotions. Put simply, I react and respond; but my actual acts are based on my reasoning process.”
“All the same, you seek out those with whom you wish to share your thoughts and ‘reactions’.”
“I do. But – then – I am selective when I choose my friends!”
“I see.” I was touched by his words. “Why do you appear in this ... form, when you reveal yourself to a potential friend?”
“This is a term of the pact between Him and me.”
“Are you referring to the Treaty made after the ... rebellion? I do not accept your ‘violent revolt’ evolving into a war of sulphur and fire. It sounds bizarre: two unique forces battling physically.”
“Sheer nonsense – I agree. My first ‘rebellion’ was my attempt to create a Man in my own intellectual image. He objected and so we had an ‘engagement’ of sorts. He won but thought it best to conclude the affair with a mutually acceptable treaty. Both of us have observed it ever since. Nowadays we are on the best of terms.”
“But how about your whispering to Eve that blind obedience was untenable and that an order should be obeyed only if anchored in reason. Wasn’t this a second ‘revolt’?” I asked him.
“What makes you think this ‘whisper’ was a rebellion?”
“It must have been, because Man’s ‘role’ was to obey blindly, unthinkingly. When you encouraged Eve to yield to temptation, you upset the order ordained by Him. In the process you set us free!”
“I did, rather,” he smirked. “But my encounter with Eve did not entail a ‘revolt’. The two metaphysical forces made a bet. He was certain Man would never disobey him. I had my doubts. So, Peter’le, we set out to settle the point. In the process I proved that Man had his own agenda. He conceded the bet.”
“I see. You utilised a flaw in his preordained order of things. You acted as a catalyst.”
“How?”
“By triggering our intellectual curiosity and by feeding our yearning to comprehend cause and effect. We ought to thank you for nurturing our spark of independence, for acting as our pilot along the winding passage.”
“How did I act as pilot?”
“Didn’t you, once upon a time, assume the name Prometheus?”
“No, I didn’t. I am no interventionist. I did not steal the fire from the Gods! In any case, I have no liver. An eagle couldn’t peck at it.”
“But didn’t you teach us to use fire?”
Again he did not answer, but this time he produced a vast kaleidoscope. At the end of the tunnel I perceived a man, with a strangely shaped cranium and dangling arms, sitting by a burning tree in a dark forest. Wrapping an untanned fur firmly around him, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. When a strong gust of wind signalled the approach of another thunderstorm, he rose to his feet anxiously, his eyes fixed on the fire. For a moment he looked around him helplessly. Then his expression changed. Breaking a thick branch off a tree, he thrust it into the smouldering ashes. The moment it caught fire he ran off, clutching this torch. Following his steps, I saw him entering a cave and calling out loudly.
“Getting him to concentrate was an effort. You see, I did not put the idea in his head. All I did was assist him to focus on his own ‘notion’.”
“Well: I was right about you all along!”
“You were. Still, my promptings have also led to much misery: think of the bow and arrow, the gun and all instruments of war; and don’t forget the thumbscrew. They too are products of Man’s intellect. Progress has not been an uninterrupted upward journey.”
“Did you anticipate this?”
“I knew all along that it was feasible. The intellect is a tool. My object is to advance it. Any resulting ‘evil’ is a by-product.”
“A by-product of what?” I asked.
“Of Man’s emotive structure. You can call it a by-product of ‘human nature’ for which I, Theophil, claim no responsibility!”
“But what, then, induced you to prod our intellect?”
“As I told you, I am no altruist. Neither am I motivated by sadistic impulses. The development of the human mind serves my object! Have you worked out what it might be?”
“To spur on those you may wish to associate with – to close the gap that separates you from them?”
“I should rather say: to enlighten those likely to search for me!”
“By which you mean: to help them search for reason in an irrational universe?”
“Precisely,” he nodded.
“This has been the theme of my own life. True, my search was often interrupted. Sometimes it became sporadic. But, like Peppi before me, I have not abandoned it.”
“I know. That’s why I am here!”
“Will you then accept me?” I asked.
“But are you holding your hand out to me or to Peppi?”
“To you. Peppi’s presence is comforting and, as you well know, his friendship prepared me for my discourse with you. But Theophil, his own story would remain incomplete unless his object was served by my pact with you. So, in reality, my hand reaches out to both of you.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
“I have! But you, Theophil, look undecided.”
“True! Your orientation suits me. But your motivation poses a hurdle.”
“My motivation? I tried to free myself from dogma since boyhood!”
“But weren’t you prompted by emotions triggered by your years as refugee?”
“Perhaps. All in all, though, mine was an intellectual response. I found the answers given to my basic questions unacceptable. They induced me to reject conventional dogma.”
“This was in all probability the main cause. And the piety and pedantry of your teachers in primary school in Tel Aviv added fuel to your fire. So did the ragging of your Orthodox classmates, who objected to the non-Kosher sandwiches you brought with you for lunch. The stupidity of some of your secondary school teachers cemented your ‘heretic’ stance.”
“My sheer hatred of dogma, Theophil, is gone. Over the years, you have set me free.”
“I have. You are now free to turn either way: onward with me or back to Him. The choice is yours!”
“I have no wish to turn back!”
“Are you certain?”
“I am!”
“But why? Didn’t you wrong Him amongst others? Shouldn’t you consider your next step carefully?”
“My equations, Theophil, still hold true. I may have worked them out for the wrong reason. I know this now. But aren’t they foolproof?”
“Why don’t we put them to the test together?”
It took me a while to overcome my reluctance. The formulas I had taken years to perfect were bound to appear basic, unsophisticated, to him. His encouraging smile, though, gave me heart.
“The proposition I question is the existence of a perfect God who created us in his own image. If this postulate is proved true, there is no room for argument. He then deserves our thanks and veneration. If, by contrast, the proposition is flawed, there is no rational basis for the love and worship which we are expected to lavish on Him.”
“And why is that so?” he asked.
“Because the foundation on which the tenet is postulated is, then, shattered.”
“How is the tenet proved wrong?”
“By its internal inconsistency,” I said fervently. “It postulates a perfect and omnipotent creator who shaped a world occupied by humans created in his own image. I maintain that the imperfection of Man proves the imperfection of the creator in whose image Man was moulded.”
“Does the deficiency of the product establish the maker’s failing?”
“If the imperfect product was made in his own image – it does. If the image is faulty, can the mirror image be perfect?”
“But can’t the maker, or creator, make a mistake?”
“Can perfection be imperfect? If a potter throws a defective piece, he discards it. He then reforms the clay and starts again. He may succeed. Still, the inadequacy of the first piece establishes that the potter has his failings!”
“Me’thinks,” smiled Theophil, “that you make much of a single argument. You equate ‘perfect’ with ‘faultless’. But even if we accept this point, how do you refute the creator’s omnipotence?”
“Can an imperfect Prince be omnipotent? Doesn’t the imperfection render him vulnerable!”
“Agreed. But do you rest your argument on that single sequence?”
“No, Theophil. I have two further arguments up my sleeve!”
“Quite some sleeve,” he chuckled. “Would you like another nip to sustain you?”
“Thanks.” I sipped the fiery liqueur appreciatively. Then, in a calmer tone, I continued: “The act of creation, which we presume to be wilful, establishes that He is neither perfect nor omnipotent!”
“Would you care to explain?”
“If He were perfect, he would not have experienced the urge to create. Any move from a perfect state must, by definition, be a move towards imperfection!”
“I am glad you have seen the point.”
“Didn’t the great ones?”
“They shut their eyes to it in their barren attempt to prove a foregone conclusion! But you – Peter’le – still have to establish that the creation, or the wish to create, refutes the creator’s omnipotence!”
“That is my remaining point. The wish to create a world in order to be worshipped by it is a manifestation of the creator’s doubt and insecurity. An omnipotent creator – like an outstanding teacher – does not desire to be praised or worshipped!”
“Touché,” said my lifelong friend.
“May I expand on this?” I asked, savouring his praise.
“There is no need. Your sequence is conceptually irrefutable. But me’thinks you wish to add a pragmatic point!”
“I do indeed. I maintain that perfection and omnipotence are inseparable. You can’t have the one without the other. His letting the world degenerate into the depraved state so often encountered in our sad history casts doubt on the perfection of his original creation and on his ability to rectify the faults. Hence it casts doubt on his omnipotence. Accordingly, the onus of establishing His perfection and omnipotence rests on those who assert them. Neither point is provable by rational argumentation!”
“To accept them you must make an act of faith, which is an emotive response: dictated by wish and desire. Well, can you refute faith?” asked Theophil.
“I can’t, I won’t and I don’t wish to! I cannot accept ‘faith’ because, to me, it is ‘blind’!”
“Why then do you wish to join me?”
“Because you are the manifestation of reason. It was you who liberated us, humans, from a naive existence in Utopia; and it was you who set us on our quest for identity and individuality. I realise you are neither perfect nor omnipotent and that you make no claim to either. But to me this is immaterial. I have no use for perfection.”
“Are you then committed?”
“I am!” I confirmed, holding my hand out to him.
“Welcome to the brotherhood.” I grasped his leathery hand firmly, and a deep sensation of achievement, of fulfilment, ran through me.
For a while we sat together peacefully, a sense of harmony binding me to him. Then, as scenes from my life rushed through my galvanised mind, a question formed.
“No,” he told me even before I expressed it. “There is no ‘price’. The notion is far too simplistic. True, in the wrangling between Him and me we accepted a loose arrangement. Frequently, those who attempt to follow me are made to go through a period of suffering. They may end up ‘repenting’, disowning me in the process and turning back to Him. I have never tried to stop them. Their route then parts from mine!”
“So only those who are fully committed remain in your fold?”
“Precisely. And they are the ones I treasure. You, Peter’le, went through your bad spell long ago. You are a free agent!”
“I have made my choice,” I said.
“Acceptance of God can come most unexpectedly. I have had my disappointments. You, too, will have your choice to the last,” his voice full of both sadness and pride.
“I have my conviction!” I assured him. Then, as I sensed he was getting ready to depart, I added anxiously: “Please, do come to me often.”
“I shall. And you must teach yourself to turn to me when I am needed.”
I was about to answer when a bold knock at the door interrupted us.
Irritated, I snapped, “Who on earth can that be?”
“They have come to pick up this furniture. Wasn’t it careless of them to leave it behind? Well, you’d better let them in. See you soon.”
XV. AFTERMATH
The driver of the van and his mate dismantled Peppi’s desk unceremoniously, hauled its three parts down the lift and returned for the armchair and stool. The former smacked his lips appreciatively as he reinserted the cork into the neck of the bottle of Slivovitz which I had asked him to take away with him.
For a while I wandered through the empty rooms, scenes from my many encounters with Peppi and Lucy racing through my mind. It was only after I had pulled the front door shut that I noticed it was raining heavily. Instantly, I realised that I had left my umbrella in the stand in the entrance hall. Looking around me anxiously for cover, my mind strayed to Theophil. At the very same moment I heard a sharp sound and turned to see my umbrella hanging from the door handle. Had the men put it there?
As I walked down the road, the clouds gathered at the skies turned an ominous dark grey. Soon the howling storm threatened to tear my umbrella from my hand. “What wouldn’t I give for a taxi?” I groaned inwardly, adding spontaneously: “Theophil!”
For a moment, my ears doubted the welcome hum of the approaching car’s engine. Then, as the taxi’s dimmed headlights emerged through the deluge, an immense feeling of gratitude descended on me. Sinking into the comfortable seat, I said to the driver: “Lucky for me you passed by!”
“Quite,” he agreed. He turned and winked; and I realised who he was.
“Thanks for coming to my aid,” I told Theophil.
“Don’t mention it. I had to make certain you would know how to turn to me. Well, to occupy us during this horrid storm, let us take an excursion through human history. It will reinforce your equations!”
“You could write a perfect history of mankind, couldn’t you, Theophil?” I observed, when we were back in present day
“Factually, it would be accurate.”
“But?” I asked.
“The interpretation may be faulty. I have not mastered the finer nuances of human machinations. No wonder Fra Diablo’s students were critical of his exposition of the Reformation. One of them went so far as to say that the Herr Professor was naive!”
“But you can read our minds?”
“If I apply myself to the task. When I don’t, I tend to overlook the emotive background to human events.”
“This, then, is why you wanted Peppi, with his keen understanding of human nature, to join your ranks.”
As we continued en route, a strange thought – initially just a vague notion – began to form in my mind. Soon a barrage of ideas was tumbling through my mind, but, recalling Theophil’s grave warning, I checked myself. When I was ready, I got his attention.
“I believe I have hit on a sequence establishing that perfection is unattainable.”
“Let’s have it.” I sensed his excitement.
“Perfection can exist only when the whole universe is flawless – without even a hint of discord. The very notion of imperfection existing side by side with perfection establishes that perfection has not been reached!”
“Well?” he prompted.
“Movement in space and in time is the essence of the universe. Even the galaxies keep expanding as time moves on! A static state is incompatible with the nature of the universe. Indeed, the absence of movement, in what we regard as a perfect static state, would be a flaw and hence an imperfection.”
“And your conclusion?”
“A state of perfection is imperfect!”
The taxi came to a gentle halt on an isolated unearthly plane and Theophil, in his traditional form, materialised beside me. Knowing that my thoughts had been sparked off by his proximity, I said, my voice charged with emotion: “Thank you for opening my eyes – eyes that observed but didn’t perceive!”
“You didn’t need much help. You were ready,” he answered.
“You, Theophil, are searching for answers to questions that are still imponderable. Are you, then, looking for clues to events preceding your own materialisation?”
“Mine and His: I look for data pertaining to an era beyond the discernible horizon.”
“And I shall be with you as you continue searching.”
“You will,” he said eagerly. “But remember, there are no guarantees: we, too, may stray!”
“The road to El Dorado is paved with gold even if the destination remains illusory,” I told him.
“You have spoken wisely,” he affirmed happily.
Looking out of the window, I observed that the taxi had once again merged with the flow of traffic. Back I was in our world. However, my route into the future had been sanctioned.
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