Klein had shown me a letter from Jiri with the word “Papa” on it, ostensibly proving Jiri was his son and he Jiri’s father. Would he show me a letter tomorrow from his father, or one from him to his father with his signature? But that still didn’t prove anything. Rare book dealers did a thriving business selling letters from famous people. And even signatures could be forged.
That day I spent several hours in the Czech National Library looking for proofs. I inspected old photos of K and various memoirs to see if I could find something personal. Did he limp? But that’s easy to imitate. Was he cross-eyed? Did he have a birthmark on his face or hands? Did he stammer? Also easy to mimic. Were his earlobes large or attached? Alas, there were no surviving family members. The Germans had taken and murdered K’s sisters and their families. I could find nothing. I even asked Dr. Hruska of the K Museum if he had anything in his archives or in storage. I could see my question hurt him. His eyes dimmed, as if not the museum but he himself had been insulted.
“We have no back rooms, no storage, no archives, no space, no revolving exhibits. What we have on view is what we have.”
If I could convince myself that Mr. Klein was K, I would run out to the streets and cry: K lives. K’s here. K’s back. People of the street, good citizens of Prague, do you know who is living among you? But I know I would be taken as a madman, in the same league with those who shout Jesus lives, or the Messiah has come, or those who claim, I am K’s son. People would stare at me, smile indulgently, and move away.
And what if he wasn’t K? What if he had taken someone else’s identity? There were plenty of stories of people assuming another’s identity after the war. Folktales had plenty such stories. Shakespeare is full of switched identities. The great Italian storyteller, Franco Sacchetti, has an amusing tale where an abbot who can’t answer questions put to him by the local lord asks a smart miller to don his hat and cloak and switch identities. And there’s a famous story about the Baal Shem Tov and his coachman switching places, just for a lark. When they come to a village and a local asks the faux Besht a hard question, the clever coachman just laughs and says, “That’s so easy even my coachman can answer it.”
One mitigating factor in favor of Mr. Klein’s story was his fingers. He had long elegant fingers, a fact noted in biographies. A voice one can imitate; stance, walk, even personalities can be copied. A writer’s works can be memorized; lists of the imitatee’s friends, names, places, bios, can be learned. But the length of a person’s fingers, like the classic birthmark that identifies a child of royal birth in the folk stories, that cannot be replicated. Those ten digits were a kind of birthmark: singular, unique, inimitable. Like fingerprints or DNA.
Of course I would return the next day. But Mr. Klein had a mountain to climb to convince me.
19. Back to Altneu
The next morning I went back to the Altneushul for a morning minyan, but I felt trepidatious. After what Mr. Klein had told me, I now saw Yossi in a different light. Yossi knew Mr. Klein; after all, he had sent me to his friend, Eva. Still, Klein puzzled me, saying he heard my remark about the Shawmee State from Yossi, when actually I had told it to Karoly Graf. It showed some contact between Graf, Klein, and Yossi. But now I knew something that perhaps Yossi didn’t know, and I certainly wasn’t going to share it — especially since I was still skeptical myself.
It wasn’t Yossi I wanted to see but the shamesh. However, since I sat in the back with Yossi after the service, I asked him:
“Did you ever hear of, or meet, a man named Karoly Graf?”
Yossi thought for a moment. The good side of his face lit up; the damaged side stayed flat, unmoved.
“I can’t say I have…. Why do you ask?”
“I met him at the K Museum and, seeing how enthusiastic I am about K’s works—”
“You like K’s works?”
“Of course. That’s one of the reasons I’m in Prague. Didn’t Jiri tell you that?”
Yossi shook his head.
“Anyway, when Graf saw how much I love K, he told me — as we stood outside the museum — he told me he has the honor of informing me that he is K’s son.”
As soon as Yossi heard this he let out a roar of laughter. The same raucous cackle as the first time we met, when I said I wanted to see the attic. This time both sides of his face flushed. Even the glass eye gleamed.
“K’s son!” He tried to stifle his laughter with his hand. “That’s hilarious. Ab-so-lute-ly hi-la-ri-ous!”
“So you never heard of him?”
“Who?”
“We’re talking about Karoly Graf, who said he was K’s son.”
“Oh, him. I’m so busy laughing at the wild idea of it that I forgot there was a man behind it.”
“Mr. Klein told me that you told him that I come from the Shawmee State.”
“What state is that?”
“It’s Missouri, but never mind that. I told that to Karoly Graf when he told me he was K’s son.”
“He told me that you told us that we told him. My head is spinning. You have to be a genius to follow all these tolds. I never said that. I never even heard of the Shawmee State. The old man must be mistaken.”
“Then how do you know he’s old?”
“Only an old man could be so demented.”
“So you never heard of Graf?”
“By name, no. But now that I think of it, I may have heard of a man who claimed that. I mean, there aren’t too many people around who have the honor of saying that. How old a man is this Graf? Fifty?” And he slapped his knee and burst out laughing again at his own joke.
I too had to smile.
“Or perhaps he’s ninety,” and again Yossi laughed. “Yes, ninety. Old and demented.”
I waited, annoyed. Yossi saw this and calmed down.
“Do you really want to know how old I think he is, or will this be another occasion for more derisive laughter?”
Yossi’s face fell. He had never seen me angry and he apologized.
“I would say in his mid-seventies,” I said.
Yossi looked thoughtful.
“But you’ll admit,” he said, “that there is something funny about this.” And he began laughing again, this time more subdued.
Now the shamesh approached.
“I heard laughter, Yossi. When I hear laughter, especially yours, I have to know what’s funny.”
“He asks me if I heard of a man named Karoly Graf.”
The shamesh pouted, shook his head. “And that’s funny? That’s not funny to me. Usually, when you laugh, it’s something funny. So why are you laughing?”
“He says he met Graf in the K Museum,” Yossi explained, “and Graf told him he has the honor of informing him he’s K’s son.”
“K’s son? Now that’s funny.” And the shamesh began laughing and Yossi joined him and the laughter invaded both sides of his face. His cheeks shook and both the good eye and glass eye shot sparks of laughter and delight. I thought back to my first visit, when they both began cracking up at my desire to see the attic, the very reason I was here now, to discuss the matter with the shamesh. One man’s mirth bounced off the other’s; each enhanced the other. Two merry men were they.
Soon, from somewhere, although I hadn’t seen any of them, the chorus of fellow cacklers would appear and approach and join in, and the shamesh, after all of them had laughed themselves out, would quiet them and scold them for humiliating and making fun of a guest. I realized how wise it was that I hadn’t told Yossi that Mr. Klein claimed to be Jiri’s father. I didn’t need another bundle of sarcastic laughter. And only a certified masochist would have shared the news with Yossi about Klein insisting he was K!