“The only man I know of,” I said, “who attended his own funeral.”
“Well, it also happened in Mark Twain,” K reminded me, “either in Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.”
“Wait a minute! Did you say you’re wearing that beret for almost seventy years?”
“Yes.”
“Sixty-nine, almost seventy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think I’ve solved the mystery of sixty-nine minus eighty.”
“Congratulations,” K said drily.
“Now I get it. The year of your death is also the year of your rebirth, so you also mark your birth year from 1924. Which means that you are now sixty-nine, almost seventy.”
K smiled.
“But I interrupted you. The funeral, you were saying. Was Max Brod there?”
“My parents called upon Max to deliver the eulogy. It was Max who began. He looked down at the open grave and said:
“‘My dear beloved friend…you…’
“And I felt a tweak at my heart. So guilty to that childhood friend who was so close to me I felt he was another me…I almost felt like rushing forward and saying, ‘Max, dear Max, it’s all a horrible mistake. I’m not dead. It’s me, here I am…’ But I bit my lip hard and waited to hear more.
“Once more Brod said, ‘You…’
“And then — silence. One moment. Another. A chill wind blew through the cemetery that early June day. Everyone sensed the silence. Heard only the mournful wind. Brod swallowed. The sound of that loud, difficult cluck hung in the air. We waited. The stillness of empty space became heavier, as though a cloud had come over us, growing darker and darker and bringing gloom as it descended, until the silence became unbearable. Then Max broke down and began sobbing. From the back of the circle of mourners I saw the tears running down his cheeks and, feeling so sorry for his grief, I felt sorry for myself and my lonely life, and I too began to weep…
“Brod broke down, he broke down, my beloved Maxie. He had hardly said a word and everyone was already sobbing. At first he wept openly and then he covered his eyes. His shoulders shook. Two men approached and held him. Max wiped his eyes. He tried. He bent forward, opened his mouth, but he could not continue.
“I looked at my parents, my sisters, my relatives. All were dabbing their eyes.
“‘Forgive me, Franzl,’ Max Brod whispered in a choked voice. ‘Please forg…’
“And with that word stuck in his throat, he backed away from the grave.
“It was at that moment that I stood on the precipice. As in a dream I tottered at the edge. I could go this way or that. The slightest wind. There, then, my resolve was tested. If I did not reveal myself then, I could maintain my charade forever. But what would happen if I revealed myself? How many heart attacks and traumas would I cause by my dramatic, egoistic gesture? For a moment I imagined that I’d rip off my false paste beard and mustache, which really were not false, take off my beret, and say theatrically, ‘No, I am not dead. I still live.’ My father, my iron father, who had the strength of his father, an innkeeper who once picked up two gentile attackers, one with his left hand, the other with his right, and cracked their skulls together, my iron father — who knew what might happen to him seeing his son’s second wild gesture? Again changing his mind. No, I could not do it. There was no backpedaling anymore.
“I kept silent. Perhaps at some later time I would contact Brod. Just then, beyond the edge of the mourners, I saw a little bonfire and, in an excited, overstimulated frame of mind, I thought of it as a memorial candle for me. In all likelihood it was the cemetery caretaker burning refuse.
“As I was thinking this, someone came up to me and asked me, as a relative, to say a few words. To my counter-suggestion to ask the father or a sister, he replied that it might be too much of a strain. If Brod broke down, how much the more a close relative. So he begged me, saying since I lived in another city and wasn’t that close to K, I could maintain my equilibrium and say the few words that K deserved to have said about him and that must be said on such an occasion.
“I agreed.
“If anyone noticed how much the distant cousin, Philippe Klein, looked like K, he said nothing. But of course who would believe, who could possibly believe that the real K now stood at the gravesite of his own funeral? And, in any case, I had a dark black Van Dyke and mustache and wore a navy blue beret that K had never worn. I had on glasses and affected a slight stoop to make myself somewhat shorter.
“I stood where Max had stood. I looked at him. He wasn’t standing now where he had stood before. I nodded, bowed slightly in the Mitteleuropa manner, but saw no recognition in his moist eyes. And I reviled myself for betraying my brother and for being such a reprobate.
“Then I gazed down at the open grave and thought of the miracle that had been granted me: life. For normal human beings it is either life or death — but for me, uniquely, now it was both, and at the same time.”
K looked pensively at his bookshelves and, for a moment, up at his two model aeroplanes; he held his chin, remembering.
“I really didn’t think of what to say. The words tumbled out spontaneously. Before I began to speak I made an effort to change my voice. I lowered it. Under the circumstances, no one would have noticed, but it would have been too eerie for people to hear K’s second cousin delivering a eulogy about K in K’s voice. Also, K spoke rather quickly because he thought quickly. He, I, hardly formulated one thought, one phrase, when another came leaping along like a cheetah. So I deliberately spoke…slowly…in…my…newly…deeper…voice,…as if…carefully…gathering my thoughts.
“‘How awesome is this day for us. The book of life is closed and yet, strangely, open. In the last days of his life K no doubt thought of the words Jews recite on Yom Kippur, Who shall live and who shall die; who shall come to a timely end and who to an untimely end; who shall be at peace and who shall be tormented? Dear K, you passed through this world and beyond. You wanted justice in this world. You wanted happiness. He was a quiet man, was K.’ I looked over the heads of the mourners as I continued speaking slowly. ‘A good man, a lonely man who had wonderful friends. He loved his family, adored his friends.’ Thinking of my friends, I was overcome for a moment and I stopped. ‘“It was worth coming into this senseless world,” K told me, “for the precious friends I have. Blessed with friends am I,” he said.’ And I looked at Max as I said this, and tears spurted from his eyes once more. ‘K loved books and writing. You loved Judaism and began to study Hebrew and Yiddish to strengthen your bond with your people. You loved laughter and elicited laughter even in your most absurd stories. In your work you fulfilled the prophet Joel’s prophecy that old men will prophesy and young men will see visions. And you, a young man, had visions of a world where people are oppressed and where the individual is lost.’
“I looked down at the grave. I found myself in a puzzling, enigmatic situation. I was delivering a eulogy for myself but also had to pay my respects to the poor, lonely, abandoned Johann Eck who actually had died in the sanatorium and was now being buried.
“Jews believe in the continuity of life. So do I. K’s life will continue. Now let us weep for this unheralded man so few knew; let us weep for this unknown man…. May the soul of the man who rests here be bound up forever in the bond of life.’
“But Brod interrupted.
“‘K will be heralded. K will be known.’
“And then, before the rabbi had a chance to say it, I began the Kaddish for the poor man who was taking my place in the earth where I should have lain but for the miracle: