“Yes,” I say, thinking of the sparrow-like woman of this morning.
It is late afternoon. I am reading the family items in the newspapers and cutting out the death notices. That always cheers me and restores my faith in humanity—especially after the evenings when we have had to entertain our suppliers or agents. If things went according to the death notices, man would be absolutely perfect. There you find only first-class fathers, immaculate husbands, model children, unselfish, self-sacrificing mothers, grandparents mourned by all, businessmen in contrast with whom Francis of Assisi would seem an infinite egotist, generals dripping with kindness, humane prosecuting attorneys, almost holy munitions makers—in short, the earth seems to have been populated by a horde of wingless angels without one’s having been aware of it. Pure love, which in reality is to be found so seldom, shines on all sides in death, and is the commonest thing of all. The highest virtues are to be found in abundance, sincere concern, profound piety, selfless devotion; even the survivors know what parts to play—they are bowed with grief, their loss is irreparable, they will never forget the dear departed—it is elevating to read all this, and one can feel proud to belong to a race possessed of such noble feelings.
I cut out the death notice of Niebuhr, the baker. He is described as a kindly, conscientious, and well-loved husband and father. I myself have seen Frau Niebuhr rushing from the house with flying braids when the kindly Niebuhr was after her with his leather belt; and I have seen son Roland’s broken arm which his conscientious father inflicted by throwing him out of. a second-story window in a sudden attack of rage. Nothing better could have happened to the careworn widow than for that blustering tyrant finally to be carried off by a stroke as he was baking breakfast rolls and pastry; nevertheless, she does not think so now. All the woe that Niebuhr caused her has suddenly disappeared. He had become an ideal. Man, the eternal liar, finds brilliant scope for his particular talent when death occurs and calls it piety, and the astonishing thing about it is that he believes as firmly in it as though he had put a rat into a hat and then drawn out a snow-white rabbit.
Frau Niebuhr has undergone this magical transformation at the moment when that clod of a baker, who beat her daily, was being dragged upstairs to their apartment. Instead of falling on her knees and thanking God for her deliverance, there began in her immediately the transfiguration through death. She cast herself weeping on the corpse, and since then her eyes have not been dry. When her sister reminded her of the frequent beatings and of Roland’s crookedly set arm, she announced indignantly that these trifles were due to the heat of the baking oven; Niebuhr, in his never-wearying consideration for his family, had worked too hard and the heat of the oven had resulted in something like a sunstroke. Thereupon she showed her sister the door and went on mourning. In other respects she is a sensible, diligent, and alert woman who knows what’s what; but now she suddenly sees Niebuhr as he never was and firmly believes in the picture—that’s what’s so marvelous about it. Man is not only an eternal swindler but also eternally credulous; he believes in the good, the beautiful, and the perfect even when they are not to be found or only in very rudimentary form—and that is the second reason why I find reading the death notices uplifting and why it makes me an optimist.
I put the Niebuhr notice with the seven others I have cut out. On Mondays and Tuesdays we always have a few more than usual. That’s a result of the week end; a celebration, eating, drinking, quarreling, excitement—and this time the heart, the arteries, or the brain cannot hold out any longer. I put Frau Niebuhr’s notice in the pigeonhole for Heinrich Kroll. It’s a case for him. He is a straightforward fellow without irony and he has the same conception of the transfiguring effect of death that she has, provided she orders the tombstone from him. It will be easy for him to talk about the dear, unforgettable departed, especially since Niebuhr was a fellow habitué of Blume’s Restaurant.
My work for the day is finished. Georg Kroll has retired into his den beside the office with the new issues of the Berliner Tageblatt and the Elegant World. I could do some more work with colored chalk on the drawing of a war memorial that I have made, but tomorrow is time enough for that. I shut the typewriter and open the window. A phonograph is playing in Lisa’s apartment. She appears fully dressed this time, waves a tremendous bouquet of red roses out the window, and throws me a kiss. Georg, I think. What a sly one! I point toward his room. Lisa leans out of the window and shouts across the street in her hoarse voice: “Many thanks for the flowers! You may be vultures but you’re cavaliers too!”
She shows her predatory teeth and trembles with laughter at her joke. Then she gets out a letter. “ ‘My lady,’” she caws. “‘An admirer of your beauty takes the liberty of laying these roses at your feet.’” She catches her breath with a hoot. “And the address! ‘To the Circe of Hackenstrasse 5.’ What is a Circe?”
“A woman who turns men into swine.”
Lisa rocks with laughter. The little house seems to rock with her. That’s not Georg, I think. He hasn’t completely lost his mind. “Who’s the letter from?” I ask.
“Alex Riesenfeld,” Lisa croaks. “By courtesy of Kroll and Sons. Riesenfeld!” She is almost choking. “Is that the little runt you were with in the Red Mill?”
“He is not little and not a runt,” I reply. “He’s a giant sitting down and very virile. Besides, he’s a billionaire!”
A thoughtful expression crosses Lisa’s face. Then she waves and smiles again and disappears. I close the window. Suddenly for no reason I remember Erna. I begin to whistle uncomfortably and wander across the garden to the shed where Kurt Bach’s studio is.
He is sitting on the front steps with his guitar. Behind him shimmers a sandstone lion which he has just completed for a war memorial. It is the same old cat, dying of toothache.
“Kurt,” I say, “if you could have a wish instantly fulfilled what would you wish?”
“A thousand dollars,” he replies without reflection, and strikes a resounding chord on his guitar.
“Pfui Teufel! I thought you were an idealist.”
“I am an idealist. That’s why I wish I had a thousand dollars. I don’t need to wish idealism for myself. I have that in abundance already. What I need is money.”
There is no possible reply to that. It’s perfect logic. “What Would you do with the money?” I ask, still hopeful.
“I would buy a block of houses and live on the rent.”
“You couldn’t live on the rent,” I say. “It’s too low and you’re not allowed to raise it. You couldn’t even pay for repairs and you would soon have to sell your houses again.”
“Not the houses I’d buy. I’d keep them until the inflation is over. Then they would earn proper rents again and all I’d have to do is rake them in.” He strikes another chord. “Houses,” he says thoughtfully as though he were speaking of Michelangelo. “For as little as a hundred dollars you can buy a house that used to be worth forty thousand gold marks. What a profit you could make on that! Why haven’t I a childless uncle in America?”
“Kurt,” I say in disappointment, “you’re a disgusting materialist. A house owner, that’s all you want to be! And what’s to become of your immortal soul?”
“A house owner and a sculptor.” Bach executes a glissan-do. Upstairs, Wilke, the carpenter, is keeping time with his hammer. He is working hard on a white coffin for a child and is getting paid overtime. “Then I’d never need to make another damn dying lion or ascending eagle for you! No more animals! Never any more animals. Animals are something to eat or shoot or tame or admire. Nothing else! I have had enough of animals. Especially heroic ones.”