The others in the room, who saw the whole thing as a great joke, expected Böhni to choose something that would be much easier for him, the farmer’s son, than for city-boy Rosenthal. It would, most of them assumed, have something to do with Napoleon, the Strickhof’s prize-winning bull. This particular creature was a cunning and malevolent great hunk of a thing, which could barely be tamed even with a nose ring, and Böhni was one of the few who was able to cope with him to any extent at all.
But the challenge that Böhni finally made was quite different, and apart from Rosenthal himself the witnesses to the bet at first didn’t understand what it was actually about. Böhni explained that the most horrible and scary thing that he himself had had to do recently had been a perfectly ordinary visit, he wouldn’t say where to quite yet. They’d tried to bore him to death, and that, he could assure his listeners, was a particularly painful way of being killed. Hillel had to put up with the mockery, because any kind of denial would only have made him look ridiculous. So, Böhni went on, he had decided that as a test of his courage Rosenthal should also go with him on a visit. Yes, just a visit, they didn’t have to look so surprised. Where they were going to go, however, he would only say once Rosenthal had accepted the invitation. Of course he could refuse, but then he would have lost the bet, and his week as a servant would begin immediately. He, Böhni, thought that cleaning the toilet would be a nice first task, ideally with his bare hands, so that at least they got something out of it. So, what was it to be, yes or no?
What option did Hillel have but to say yes?
That was very brave of him, Böhni grinned. He had in fact decided to go the Bauschänzli on Saturday evening, the National Front meeting, that was a kind of visit, and Rosenthal could go with him if he dared. He could imagine that they would have a special warm welcome there for a Hillel Rosenthal.
‘You’re a sly bastard,’ said Hillel.
‘And you always thought cunning was your speciality? You’re going to pull out, of course.’
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Hillel, proud that his voice didn’t tremble. ‘Of course I’m going to come.’
He said nothing about any of this at home. His mother would only have tried to persuade him out of the whole thing, and his father would have thought he could forbid him from going. But some things you just have to go through with, when you’re eighteen and it’s a matter of honour. Even at the Hashomer Hatza’ir, where they met on Shabbos afternoon, he didn’t say a word about it. They wouldn’t have let him go on his own, and there would have been a big fight before they even got to the front door.
He went quite deliberately in his work gear. As Grandmother Chanele would have said: where does it say in the Shulchan Orech that you have to put on a tie for reshoim? And in any case, his work gear includes heavy boots, and if it came to the crunch those might come in useful.
They had agreed to meet at seven, a time when it was still light in the summer. Even so, the Fröntlers had already set up burning torches in front of the pub, which flickered away unnoticed in the daylight. A Bavarian band in lederhosen blared out tunes for people to sway back and forth to; but the music had nothing to do with the event in the hall, it was to entertain drinkers in the beer garden. Children played tag on the gravel paths between the rows of tables. The men had hung their jackets over the backs of the chairs and pushed back their hats, there was a general hubbub, and they were already waving for the waiter while they washed down their bratwurst or pig’s knuckle with the last dregs of their beer. The women laughed too loudly and fed the ducks in the Limmat with bits of bread. The smoke from countless cigarettes and cigars mixed in the air with the black, oily fug from the torches.
The atmosphere was peaceful, as if on a big family’s excursion into the country. And yet Hillel was about to set off on an adventure even bolder than his race down the steps on the box-cart.
He had deliberately arrived a few minutes early, and spent a while strolling around between the tables, like someone who has already got a seat but just wants to stretch his legs for a few minutes. He noticed a few policemen who were sitting at a table by the entrance to the pub. They had taken off their helmets, and were trying to look as if they had just come from police headquarters after a hard day’s work, to enjoy a quiet beer in privacy by the river. But their glasses were still full, even though — as one could tell from the dried-on foam — they had been served some time ago, and they studied everyone who walked past them with an interest that was far from private. Hillel didn’t know whether he should feel threatened or protected by their presence.
No sign of Böhni. But the Fraumünster clock was striking seven, and Hillel had decided to be exactly on time. A minute’s lateness would have been construed as cowardice.
Coming from outside, one first entered a narrow entrance hall, and after the late sunlight on the terrace he had first to stop for a moment to let his eyes get used to the gloom. He was almost rammed into by a waiter coming out of the kitchen with a fully laden tray. The man murmured a curse, but only very quietly, and looked anxiously over his shoulder. Hillel followed his gaze, and only then did he spot the two stout lads guarding the entrance to the hall. They were part of the Harst, the fighting troops of the National Front. You could tell by their grey shirts, their black ties and red armbands with the party emblem, the long-legged Swiss flag with the spiked club — the ‘Morgenstern’ — in the middle.
‘Morgenstern is a Jewish name,’ Hillel found himself thinking, and agitated though he was, he nearly burst out laughing. There were two brothers by that name in the Hashomer Hata’ir.
He walked towards the entrance, and the two bouncers stopped him. They didn’t actually stand in his way or hold out a hand, but the way they just looked at him with their arms folded clearly said: no stranger was going to get past them.
Was Aunt Rachel right after all? Could they really tell you were Jewish just by looking at you?
But probably they stopped anyone they didn’t know.
‘Is this where the meeting’s being held?’ asked Hillel, and tried to peer into the hall. Böhni must be waiting for him somewhere.
No reply.
‘A friend invited me. His name’s Böhni. Walter Böhni. We’re at agricultural college together.’
‘Aha, a man of the farming class,’ said the other of the two bouncers, and appreciatively pondered Hillel’s working gear. ‘We can use someone like you. Name?’
Hillel was prepared for this one. ‘Rösli,’ he said, and almost stood slightly to attention. ‘Heinrich Rösli.’
‘Admitted,’ said the bouncer, and for a moment Hillel thought he meant he had just admitted that his name was Rösli. It was only when the other Harst man gave the appropriate nod of the head that he walked quickly — but not too quickly, that would have attracted attention! — past the two men.
Böhni had been standing just behind the door, and had listened to the conversation. ‘Rösli,’ he repeated. ‘I see, I see.’
That was the crucial moment. What was Böhni capable of? He only had to tell one of these Harst men — and there were plenty of them in the hall — what this fellow Rösli’s name was, and all hell would break loose.
But he just nodded appreciatively. ‘You’ve got a neck. Have to give you that…’ He nearly said ‘Rosenthal’, which was what he always called him, but he quickly swallowed the name. ‘I’ll have to give you that, Heinrich. How did you choose the first name?’
‘That’s what it says in my papers.’
‘Not Hillel?’