4
Sunday, August 9, 1970
1954-55
They had made no arrangements for that
Sunday, under the expectation that Brigitte would be in the throes of her
period. In the last five years, since that mysterious condition that struck her
when he turned thirty and lasted for eight months, her bleeding had become more
copious than before, and while Dr. Severs had told her that there was no longer
anything to worry about, and had only prescribed iron supplements to help stave
off anemia, she did tend to become quite tired at that time of her month,
especially during the first two or three days. But her cycle had also become
somewhat irregular, and on that morning there was no sign of blood yet. They
took advantage of the delay by lingering in bed.
Frau Schmidt, as usual, had
the day off. In the midst of their
activities in bed they could hear her movements downstairs, preparing a
breakfast buffet for them before leaving the house for the day, to visit either
Ingrid or Klaus.
Miki was not reminded of Ora
until he began sipping his juice, freshly made by Frau Schmidt from Israeli
oranges, at the breakfast table. He was pleasantly surprised by the fact that
thoughts about his daughter, or her mother, had not intruded during his morning
time with Brigitte. It had been quite different the night before, when Ora and
Nili were on his mind even as he was kissing his wife with all the passion he
could summon. And during the night, the old dreams about Nili made a return
visit after a long absence.
As he was facing Brigitte
across the table, he wondered again if the decision to postpone telling her
about Ora was the correct one, but he quickly convinced himself once more that
it was.
The weather outside was
sultry. The aroma of roses from their garden entered through the open windows
of the kitchen.
We havent made any plans
for today, he remarked as he ran the wires of the egg slicer through a
hard-boiled egg.
Its just as well, she
answered with a happy smile. We had a nice unplanned morning. And I would like
to do some more reading.
The mystery script? he
asked.
She answered with another
smile, this time a mysterious one. Then she added, Youre looking rather
mysterious yourself. Im thinking that theres something youre not telling
me. It was uncanny how she could read him.
But dont tell me about it till youre ready, she went on. That way
well be even.
* * *
For Miki Wilner, the summer of 1954 brought him his first
experience of world travel. It included the classic inconclusive shipboard
romance: aboard the Gripsholm, one of his tablemates was a French Canadian
student named Louise, a few years older than he, who took a liking to him at
first because he spoke French, and soon began to flirt with him overtly. Almost
out of politeness, he flirted back, but his flirtation was held in check by the
constant presence of Brigitte on his mind. That he allowed himself to do it at
all was because there was no opportunity to go beyond flirting, since they were
both in tourist class and shared cabins with others. But when they got to
Halifax they spent the night there, in the same hotel, before taking the same
train the next day, he to Montreal and she to Quebec. The opportunity was
there, but he chose, consciously or not, to take no advantage of it.
In New York, where he spent
three days, he did the obligatory sightseeing: the Statue of Liberty, the
Empire State Building, the Metropolitan Museum. The talk that he heard, when it
was not about the amazing exploits of a baseball player named Willie Mays, was
about the recently concluded Army-McCarthy hearings. The people who talked to
Miki about it, except one, all agreed that Senator McCarthy had been exposed as
an opportunist, a bully and a liar, and were happy with his fall from grace.
The exception was an elderly Ukrainian waitress in a restaurant on the Lower
Eastside, who still saw him as a crusading anti-Communist hero. Makarti, he
great man, he fight Communist, she said to Miki as she served him his
borscht, which was cabbage-green, not beet-red as he had expected.
While he was on the Eastside
he visited the area around Delancey Street, where the shopkeepers spoke hardly
anything but Yiddish. From one such store he bought three pairs of jeans for
ten dollars, each of a different make: Levis, Lee and Wrangler. They were to
become his everyday wear for many years to come.
But by the time he was on the
Liberté, surrounded by French chatter, his mind was focused completely on the
upcoming reunion with Brigitte in Paris. And that, indeed, was the climax of
the journey.
Her hair was still in the
Minna von Barnhelm style when she stepped off the train at the Gare du Nord. He
had been imagining her the whole time that he was away, even while keeping
company with Louise, but he was still not prepared for the beauty that faced
him, or the overwhelming feeling of love that invaded him. It filled him with
wonder that he, an orphan of the Second World War, could be so happy.
His first question after
breaking from the long embrace was, Did you get my postcards?
Yes, she said, all three.
From Halifax, Quebec and Montreal. But he had sent four.
And New York? he asked.
No, we havent received that
one yet, at least as of yesterday.
It must have gotten on a
slow airplane, he said with a laugh.
How are Leon and Fela
doing? she asked, after he took her suitcase from her and they began to walk
out of the station.
Fabulously, he said. They
live in a beautiful villa at least we would call it a villa, they just call
it a house with other rich Jews. You know, my uncle Leon, the old socialist,
who just barely survived the war, with his health broken and nothing but scraps
of clothing on his back I had no idea how rich he became. It turns out that
just after the war, when there was no coffee to be had in Germany, and the people
were willing to trade anything for a cup of real coffee
I remember very well, she
said.
Leon, with a few partners,
found a way of smuggling coffee in from Holland, and they all got rich very
quickly. He wasnt sure what he would do in Montreal, but he found that there
was demand for high-quality coffee, so he got into coffee importing, and now he
has his own brand, Café Lion, with a picture of a lion on the package.
The result is that he told me that I never need to worry about money, that if I
need anything expensive I should just call him collect and he would pay for it.
So we will start out by staying at the Ritz
Youre joking, she said.
Youre right, he said. I
wouldnt know how to behave at the Ritz. But I found us a very nice, cozy little
three-star hotel near the Louvre, and the Palais-Royal, and the
Comédie-Française
The Comédie-Française? Can
we go?
I already have tickets for tomorrow night, Le Bourgeois
gentilhomme with Louis Seigner. Tonight we will see a film called Le
Carrosse dor with Anna Magnani. She plays the star of a touring theater
company
She laughed and kissed him
again just as they reached the taxi stand. The driver took Brigittes bag from
Miki and placed it in the trunk while Miki told him where to take them.
So, he asked as they sat in
the backseat, holding hands, how did this touring-company star do?
Fabulously, she echoed him.
I will show you the reviews.
His concern, then, had been
unwarranted. Things must have improved since the rehearsal that he attended.
They spent more time in Paris
than he had originally planned, taking in the sights and gorging on French
food. September was coming to an end, and, since they were both due shortly at
their respective places of study, on the return trip they barely had enough
time, in Brussels, to see the Grand-Place and the Manneken Pis who turned out
to be much smaller than they had believed between trains, and in Cologne the
cathedral. They lingered at the Hanover station, where Miki let two
Göttingen-bound trains go by before he finally boarded one, after a farewell
kiss. They would see each other again in a few days, in Bad Harzburg, but as
Mikis fifth train of the day there had been a change at Dortmund neared
Göttingen, he knew that he was coming to the place that would now be his home.
* * *
He was back at his desk. He quickly looked over the four
pages that he had completed and thought about some changes he might eventually
make, but continued on page 5.
Nevertheless,
the contradiction between the mass-man and the mass-movement fanatic is more
apparent than real. In any society, after all, the fanatics are the exception.
Even when Hitler was elected Chancellor by a majority of Germans, the true
Nazis were a minority. And when the whole population of a village, for example,
is somehow stirred to fanatical action, it is normally only for a short time,
before as we usually read cooler heads prevail.
But it is precisely in a
modern mass society that the mass-man, when he becomes dissatisfied with the
asphyxiating monotony of his life, is likely to join a modern mass movement
as molded by modern mass media, and thus become a fanatic or true believer à
la Hoffer. Such fanaticism can rightly be called modern fanaticism.
It therefore behooves us to
consider present-day fanatical movements that differ from this mold and that in
some ways are more reminiscent of the older forms of fanaticism as practiced by
minority sects (such as the Zealots in Judaism, the Assassins in Islam, and any
number of them in Christianity). We may call such a form of fanaticism postmodern.
He now had a title. He would call the
essay Postmodern Fanatics. He wrote the words in ink in the space that
he had left on the first page.
What is most characteristic
of such movements is that the fanaticism with which the belief is held is
typically of greater importance that its precise content, illustrating
McLuhans now-famous dictum that the medium is the message. The credo itself
may not be much more than a slogan: Death to [...]!; Freedom for [...]!;
[...] is great! What matters is the intensity with which the slogan is
internalized, an intensity that is sufficient to engender action. Indeed, it
can be said that the vagueness of the beliefs is compensated by the zeal with
which they are held.
Page 5 was done.
But this was no time to stop.
As an
example, let us consider the anti-nuclear movement. Let me state at the
outset that I am as opposed as anyone else to nuclear weapons. Nothing about my
alma mater has made me prouder than the Göttingen declaration that was issued
when I was a student there. But lately voices have been raised under the same
anti-nuclear banner in opposition to nuclear power plants, with threats not
yet carried out, but imminent nonetheless to attack such plants physically.
Now, one may oppose
nuclear power on technical or environmental grounds, but it cannot be denied
that its use will lessen the worlds dependence on petroleum and thus help
avert petroleum-inspired conflicts such as the Suez Crisis. Equating nuclear
power with nuclear weapons is, from a logical point of view, not very different
from the Nazis equation of Jewry with Bolshevism, or the Stalinist equation of
Jewry with capitalism. We thus see that even a fringe movement with no
aspiration of becoming a mass movement or at least not, since it has limited
itself to a single issue, a totalitarian mass movement can resort to
propaganda techniques not unlike those of the latter.
If we consider an anti-nuclear
activist as an example of the postmodern fanatic, then he is a curious blend of
Ortegas mass-man and Hoffers true believer. Like the former, he has only a
vague set of ideas that he wishes to impose. Like the latter, he holds these
ideas very deeply. He thus combines two contradictory features of modern man,
and it is just such combinations that contemporary cultural critics (Leslie
Fiedler in literature, Robert Venturi in architecture) have characterized as
postmodern.
This is going
well, he thought. Let me think of another example, and then try to generalize.
The distant barking of a dog got him typing again.
Another
possibility of postmodern fanaticism in a seemingly noble cause is brewing in
the area of animal rights. Some scholars at Oxford have been laying a new
theoretical groundwork for such a movement. One of them has coined the term speciesism
(I will refrain from commenting on the linguistically shoddy construction of
the term), analogous to racism, as something that such a movement might be
against. Under a banner of rights for animals I can foresee the possibility
of referring to, for example, a cattle-raising farmer as a speciesist swine,
thereby dehumanizing him and making him a potential target of guerrilla action.
Six pages done.
He was averaging, thus far, two pages, sixty-odd lines, a day, the equivalent
of a regular newspaper article.
* * *
At German universities, the semester adheres literally to
its original Latin meaning of six-monthly, and so in an academic year, the
first or winter semester runs from the beginning of October to the end of
March, and the second or summer semester from the beginning of April to the end
of September. In practice, the winter semesters classes typically go from
mid-October to some time in February, with a midwinter break around the New
Year, and the summer semesters go from some time in April (always after
Easter) to some time in July.
Miki Wilners first semester
at Göttingen, consequently, spanned Brigittes and his twentieth birthdays,
hers at the beginning and his at the end. Helga gave a birthday party for
Brigitte, and a few of their high-school classmates who were still in the area
attended. Renate came too, though without Jürgen, and the strained relationship
between the sisters dampened the festivities. Afterwards Brigitte declared to
her mother and to her boyfriend that she did not want any more birthday
celebrations.
Soon the semester got
underway. All of the subjects that Miki was interested in pursuing were given
in the philosophy faculty: history, German literature and philosophy itself. In
order to study all three he would have to choose one of them as his major
subject and the other two as minor subjects. But German literature was only a
part of German studies, and to have this as a major subject would require
studying another part linguistics or medieval studies as well, something
that did not interest him. It was similar with history: he was interested in
modern history, not ancient or medieval. With philosophy, on the other hand, he
felt no such limitations. Indeed, he could not imagine how one could understand
Spinoza, Kant or Hegel, let alone Russell or Wittgenstein, without studying
Plato and Aristotle. And he could study logic and metaphysics, ethics and epistemology,
aesthetics and political philosophy.
The choice of his program of
studies thus made itself, and the fact that all three subjects were given in
the same faculty would make its administration easier. At some point, he was
told, he would have to decide which of the two minor subjects would be the
first and which would be the second; the main difference was that, in the
second minor subject, no written intermediate examination would be required.
* * *
In the afternoon Brigitte, in a sleeveless polka-dot dress
and sandals, was back in the garden with her script. Miki wondered if there
were any garden scenes in the plot, since Brigitte liked to learn her parts in
surroundings that resembled those of the action. He walked out to the garden
with her, and it did not escape his notice that she held the scripts binder in
a tight grip. He kissed her just before she sat on the bench and he walked back
to the house, but when he looked back at her before opening the back door he
saw that she still had not opened the binder. She flashed him a knowing smile.
Ah yes, secrets must be kept.
The words that he was going
to type were forming in his mind even before he sat down at his desk once more.
Let us
generalize a little bit. What do the anti-nuclear and animal-rights movements
have in common? A fanatical belief in a noble cause, of course, and the fact
that the cause is one of opposition to some practice of society at large that
the movement regards as evil. But, just as importantly, that the evil must be
seen as vague and ominous. If it is precisely defined, then opposition to it is
usually held rationally.
For example, the
aforementioned movement of abolitionism, which led the opposition to Negro
slavery in the United States, was a highly rational one, led by moderate
religious and literary leaders; the extremist group led by John Brown was very
much an exception to the rule.
Conversely, an opposition
to some generally perceived immorality of the society is likely to generate a
fanatical movement. If the immorality is seen as the flouting of a divinely
inspired code, then the movement becomes one of religious zealotry, such as the
one led by Savonarola, or, in recent years, the Muslim Brotherhood, especially
the radical faction led by Sayyid Qutb.
While the Islamic concept of jihad is represented by some Muslims
as a struggle that is an inward, spiritual one, or, if outward, a peaceful one,
according to Qutb such struggles are only preliminary phases to a holy war on
behalf of Islam. And if, as is currently rumored in the Arab world, the
mainstream leadership of Muslim Brotherhood decides to renounce violence,
radical jihadist movements will undoubtedly be formed.
There goes Wilner with his predictions, he said to himself.
But they had been successful
for him. Don't mess with success, he had heard Americans say.
He now had a little over six and a half pages done, and the rest
of the essay seemed clear. He had touched on fanatical Islam.
He would go on to discussing the various radical leftist splinter
groups, and then fanatical nationalism. He would lastly show how
these elements tie together in the fanaticism that is fueling the conflict
in Palestine.
For the most
part, however, societys evils are nowadays more likely to be described in
Marxist rather than religious terms: they may be ascribed to bourgeois
morality, or the contradictions of capitalism, or rapacious imperialism.
Consequently the movements that rise up to oppose them tend
to see themselves as
Marxist. A Marxist perspective allows one to subject any social evil, however
vaguely perceived, to a detailed theoretical analysis that helps mask the
vagueness of the perception. The analysis also enables the movement to tack on
an additional label such as Leninist, Trotskyist or Maoist.
Page 7 was done.
He was getting close to the probable halfway mark. Not bad.
He felt the need to stretch
his limbs.
He stood up and walked over
the window that looked into the garden. Brigitte was absorbed in reading her script.
In her usual way, she would glance at a page and then lift her head without
actually looking at anything, not mouthing her lines but acting out her part in
a way that showed on her face. They had been living in this house with its cozy
garden for only two years, so that he had had only a few opportunities to
observe her in this way, and he cherished this one. Eventually she would notice
him spying on her and flash him a mock-angry expression, but that, too, was
worth the wait.
At one point she put the
binder on the bench beside her, stood up and walked around in a small circle
before she sat again. Before picking up the script again she made some subtle
gestures, whose significance he did not capture, with her hands. She still had
not looked at the window where he was standing. Perhaps she knows that Im here
and doesnt want to acknowledge me, he thought. And the more he thought about
it, the surer he became of it: hardly anything ever escaped Brigittes notice.
Finally she seemed to have
finished her reading session. She closed the binder at looked at him directly,
her smile telling him that of course she had known all along that he was there.
Of course.
He returned to his desk,
turned the typewriter off and walked out to meet her. Her shoulders, only
minimally covered by the straps of her dress, were calling him to kiss them.
* * *
Because he managed to see Brigitte about two out of three
weekends, either in Bad Harzburg or in Hanover, Miki found himself, during the
week, free of the distractions that affected most of his fellow students (for
the males, mostly drinking and chasing girls) and able to concentrate on his
studies, which, in the first semester, consisted mainly of introductory lecture
courses; there were only two proseminars, one on Socrates in his major subject
and one on the French Revolution in modern history. He always had been somewhat
of a grind, and there was not much in Göttingen to change his nature.
Occasionally he would go to a concert or a film with a group of students, typically
ones with whom he met in the mensa and not necessarily classmates, and have a
beer with them afterwards in one of the old citys many taverns.
By the end of the semester he
realized that he was learning his subject matter with the greatest of ease, earning
grades between 1 and 2 on his written work, and that he had made a few friends
that he could have fun with. When Helga proposed to give a twentieth-birthday
party for him as well, he invited them to Bad Harzburg. At the party, however,
Brigittes glowing beauty and the overabundance of schnapps that Bruno had
provided got to be too much for two of the friends, who got rather rowdy
including lewd remarks to Brigitte and had to be driven by Bruno to the
railway station.
Rather than renouncing birthday
parties altogether, however, Miki proposed to Brigitte that they wait till they
were twenty-five for the next such occasions. And so was born their pact of
celebrating only those birthdays whose numbers were multiples of five.
* * *
After dinner Brigitte took time to make some telephone
calls, including the usual Sunday evening call to her mother. Occasionally,
depending on what Helga had told her about Renates life, she would call her
sister. Miki could always tell when such sisterly calls had taken place,
because Brigittes mood suffered visibly in consequence of them. She would tell
him a little of what they had talked about, but in a neutral way, with no
indication of what, specifically, might have irritated her. Invariably there
was something about Renates daughters, and Miki speculated that Renate talked
about them too much, flaunting her motherhood in the face of Brigittes
barrenness.
Whenever she spoke about the
matter directly, Brigitte never expressed any regret over not having children.
On the contrary, she professed to see only the positive side of her
childlessness: that having children would disrupt her work, to which she was
passionately devoted; that her body would lose its shape, especially her
breasts (which, as she well knew, Miki found magically perfect); that her life
with her husband would lose its spontaneity. Miki saw no reason to doubt her
sincerity in these pronouncements, and came to believe that her irritation with
Renate was due to her sisters self-righteous style, not the substance of their
conversation.
On this occasion no such
irritation could be discerned. Evidently Brigitte had called only her mother
and, probably, some friends in her profession. After some more reading by both
of them they played a leisurely game of chess, which ended in a stalemate (as
it most often did). They went to bed with Brigitte giving every indication that
she was still ready for action.
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