Heidegger's Glasses_ A Novel Part 4

She turned to leave, but Mueller pulled at her sleeve and handed her the ivory box. It's a puzzle-box, he said. Try to open it.

Elie worked the panels until the box flew open. There was a carving of a plum tree inside.

To spring! said Mueller. To a whole new season!

It's lovely, said Elie, handing it back.

It's for you, said Mueller.

But things get lost here.

Or a certain Oberst gets jealous, said Mueller, pus.h.i.+ng the box at her. Anyway, if you don't take it, I'll have to tell Goebbels a thing or two.

He bowed with a flourish and drove away on the unpaved road. The wheels of his Kubelwagen broke the ice, reminding Elie of shattered gla.s.s.

While Mueller was leaving, Dieter Stumpf was in his s...o...b..x deciding which Scribe should answer Martin Heidegger's letter to Asher Englehardt. It was a nuisance to answer even one letter to the living when so many dead were waiting. But he was sure if he could deliver everything, Goebbels would decide that Lodenstein should live in the s...o...b..x, and he would be reinstated as Oberst of the Compound.

To this purpose, he looked down at the immense room and consulted a list that detailed the background of every Scribe: the list, compiled by the SS, said where each Scribe had been born, their siblings, where they'd gone to school, and what they'd studied. While he read the list, Elie Schacten opened the door to the main room and sat at her desk facing the Scribes. She shoved pencils into jars, put papers away, and took out her dark red notebook. She looked up at Dieter Stumpf in his s...o...b..x. He looked away.

The vast room, lit by kerosene lanterns, would have been dreary except for splotches of color on the Scribes' rakish scarves and fingerless gloves. Stumpf looked from the room to the list and back to the room again. The last time he counted there were fifty-four Scribes, and every one had studied something he didn't understand. But only five had read in philosophy: There was a blond, somewhat wasted-looking woman named Gitka Kapusinki from Poland, who'd been pulled from a deportation line when an SS man heard her speak Czech. And her lover, Ferdinand La Toya, who wore a long black coat and smoked potent Spanish cigars, was s.n.a.t.c.hed from deportation when a guard told him to go f.u.c.k himself, and he'd answered-first in Catalan, then in Italian-under what circ.u.mstances? And Niles Schopenhauer-not related to And Niles Schopenhauer-not related to the the Schopenhauer-who was sent from a work camp because he knew seven languages. There was also Sophie Nachtgarten, who'd published a paper called Schopenhauer-who was sent from a work camp because he knew seven languages. There was also Sophie Nachtgarten, who'd published a paper called Time and The Unicorn: A Treatise on Necessary Truth Time and The Unicorn: A Treatise on Necessary Truth. She'd surprised a guard whose mother came from Norway, regaled him with Norwegian drinking songs, and charmed her way to the Compound instead of Bergen-Belsen. And Parvis Nafissian, with black beetle brows and a trim goatee. He was the only Scribe who'd been forced to write a letter. But when a guard saw he'd written one in Turkish and another in Farsi, he pulled him from the line at Treblinka and shoved him into a Kubelwagen. Nafissian answered almost no letters at all. He read whatever detective stories Elie could find.

Stumpf decided that any of them would do, and-since any of them would do-all five could write the letter together. He was about to go down his spiral staircase to talk to them when Sonia Markova knocked on his door, and Stumpf went through the laborious business of unlatching it. Sonia, who'd once danced with the Bolshoi ballet, had snuck from Russia to see a lover in Berlin, was caught on her way back, and demonstrated three Russian dialects. She had delectable legs, high cheekbones, green eyes, translucent skin, and black curls. She was also clairvoyant and sometimes agreed to secret seances-not only for people who'd died in camps and ghettos but for ordinary people as well-the 19th-century dressmaker, for example, whose seance caused the fire in the upstairs room, or a woman who'd written her lover fighting in the Crimea. Stumpf had taken these letters secretly from attics of people who had been deported or warehouses and old files of government offices. There were letters from b.u.t.ton makers, coach makers, furriers, boat makers, wheelwrights, printers, illusionists, and artists. He thought all the dead deserved answers.

Now Sonia walked in looking gloomy and said she couldn't keep her mind on anything because it was her niece's birthday.

She's ten, said Sonia. And she doesn't even know where I am.

Stumpf said she'd feel better if she held one of his crystal b.a.l.l.s. He hoped this would turn into a seance for all the dead whose letters would be buried in his brother's rye field and wanted to send a group letter asking forgiveness for not answering each one individually. But Sonia sat on the floor, looking like a mound of snow in her ermine coat, and began to cry. When Stumpf asked why she was crying, she said she missed every person in her family.

Even the ones I didn't like.

Stumpf took off her coat and hugged her cautiously, feeling his bulk. Sonia was often sad, and this could trigger his own sadness-deep, inchoate, since he'd been sent below the earth. But if he concentrated on her body, he could almost enjoy her grief because she let him comfort her. Sometimes they ended up on his mattress-she crying, he groping. But not today. Sonia put on her coat and said she was too miserable for love.

Please don't go, said Stumpf. He grabbed one of Sonia's ermine sleeves.

If only we weren't in the lowest tier! he said.

What? Sonia pulled her arm away.

If only there were a tier below us, said Stumpf. With people who could help.

You mean people even lower than us with less air to breathe? How can you think that way? We already live like animals.

Sonia smoothed the sleeve Stumpf had grabbed and walked downstairs. Moments later he saw her at her desk-white fingers poking from dark red gloves.

She looked angry and irresistible. Stumpf went down the spiral staircase to ask her back. But he wanted to disguise his reason for spending any time away from work, so he investigated the paraphernalia against the walls. He knew he was the only example of diligence in the Compound and shouldn't take too much time. So he sorted quickly, haphazardly, and knocked over a bolt of wool. The bolt fell on the telescope, the telescope fell on the tailor's dummy, and the tailor's dummy fell on a clock. The Scribes applauded, and Stumpf was about to creep to his s...o...b..x when he smelled Elie Schacten's tea-rose perfume.

Dieter, she said softly. Just the person I want to see.

Even today after she'd so precipitously taken what he wanted to bury, Stumpf was happy to be intercepted by Elie Schacten. Whenever he saw her, or anything that belonged to her, he felt inexplicable excitement, including her enormous desk, which faced the mult.i.tude of Scribes. It had an aura of omnipotence, dauntlessness-like Elie.

It was to this desk that he pulled up a chair. Elie put aside a list-she never pretended to monitor the Scribes-and gave him a piece of brandied chocolate.

Stumpf savored the brandy exploding in his mouth. Elie gave him three more pieces. He didn't like the way Elie got favors, but he relished the chocolate and schnapps she brought to the Compound and was sure they'd make perfect colleagues if only she believed, as he did, that Germany would win the war. He looked at Elie dolefully and hoped she'd know what he was thinking. She smiled at him and said: I feel sorry for Goebbels, Dieter. He's got too much on his mind these days.

It's hard to be on the edge of victory, said Stumpf.

Exactly, said Elie. And Gerhardt doesn't want to bother him. But the orders are confusing. So it might help if you could call him. You know how to talk to him.

Stumpf had a tick over his left eye. It began to pulse.

No one calls Goebbels, he said.

But you have clout, said Elie.

Of course I have clout, he said. But the more clout you have the more careful you are about using it.

Elie touched his arm and bent her head close. Once more he was enveloped in tea-rose. Maybe the optometrist could come here and write the letter himself, she said. After all, Heidegger wrote it to him.

Elie's hand felt delicious, but the tick was distracting.

That's impossible, whispered Stumpf. We only write to the dead. They need us. They're waiting to hear.

That's why the orders are confusing, said Elie. By the way...I just heard a story about someone who got out of Auschwitz.

You don't mean that f.u.c.king angel they're talking about?

No, no, said Elie, who in fact meant exactly that. It was a woman who got her husband out. His mother was Aryan-just like Asher Englehardt's.

How did she meet her husband?

At a Hitler Youth Meeting.

That's why he got out, said Stumpf. Every young person should go.

Stumpf eyed the square box filled with gla.s.ses on Elie's desk. He moved closer and touched the box with furtive reverence.

Do all these belong to Heidegger? he said.

Just one, said Elie.

How do you know?

Because it's marked, said Elie. She pulled the box close to her.

Does Heidegger have any eye problems?

He might, said Elie, who knew he was only nearsighted.

Then we have to bring him his gla.s.ses.

But not without the letter, said Elie. Or Frau Heidegger will have a fit.

What does she have to do with it?

Goebbels met with her, said Elie. That's why they wrote these orders.

Goebbels met with Frau Heidegger? He's much too busy.

But he did, said Elie. They had a very long meeting at the Office.

The tick started again, and Stumpf put his hand on his forehead to press it down. But it kept skittering and jumping as though his forehead was on fire. And now he remembered that all five Scribes should answer the letter-a matter that seemed urgent since he'd heard about Frau Heidegger's meeting with Joseph Goebbels.

The more Elie went on about needing an answer, the more Stumpf's tick skittered and jumped. Finally he turned to the Scribes and shouted: I need to see the five philosophers.

For heaven's sake, said Elie, leave them out of it.

Letters are their job.

And soon, to Elie's dismay, Gitka Kapusinki, Sophie Nachtgarten, Parvis Nafissian, Ferdinand La Toya, and Niles Schopenhauer were standing around her desk, and Stumpf was reciting the letter and ordering them to answer it.

But we only answer letters to the dead, said Parvis Nafissian.

Or the about-to-be-dead, said Gitka Kapusinki.

Or the almost dead, said Sophie Nachtgarten.

Heidegger's different, said Stumpf.

Which is why we can't answer the letter, said Ferdinand La Toya. It's against the mission.

Then all five leaned on Elie's desk and began to talk about Heidegger as if Stumpf weren't there.

He's all about paths and clearings in the Black Forest, said Niles Schopenhauer. There's no way anyone can think about that in this dungeon.

Except you need a lot more than fresh air, said Sophie Nachtgarten. He's a mystic tangled up in etymology.

I don't agree, said Gitka Kapusinki. He got a lot of things right. But he has no idea how they work in the real world.

This baffling conversation made Stumpf's tick jerk and jump. He pounded Elie's desk and recited the beginning of the letter so loudly the whole room could hear: With regard to your recent remark about the nature of Being, I wanted to emphasize again that it was the distance of my gla.s.ses that made me close to them.

The Scribes laughed, and Niles Schopenhauer said they should translate the letter into their invented language, which they called Dreamatoria Dreamatoria.

Stumpf waved his hand at Niles. It grazed him on the cheek.

Remember your place, he said. You're nothing but a f.u.c.king Scribe.

Don't pull them into it, said Elie. It's not their fault. If anyone catches us bringing a letter, we're in trouble, and if we don't bring one, we're in trouble.

A paradox! said La Toya.

Indeed! said Gitka.

The notion of paradox was too much for Stumpf. He went over to Sonia and asked her to come upstairs. But she said hearing the letter had made her thoughtful, and she wanted to sit at her desk and think about distance.

Dearest Xavier,I had a safe journey, with plenty of food. It's night now. The sky is so bright I can't see the moon or stars, but I'm sure if you came, we could take walks at night, the way we used to.Love,Marie-Claire The tick continued when Stumpf went back to his s...o...b..x, skittering in tandem with his brain. With great misgivings and second thoughts, he decided to disobey a strict order and approach a Scribe who was forbidden from answering letters written in German: this was Mikhail Solomon.

When he designed the Compound, Hans Ewigkeit had cl.u.s.tered most of the rooms using the mineshaft as a reference point. If one stood with one's back to the mineshaft, the kitchen was to its left, the guards' room and officers' quarters to its right, and the main room directly opposite. But the cobblestone street went on for thirty meters to dead-end in a wall that concealed an underground pa.s.sage to the nearest town. And a stone's throw from this wall was a little white house with four pots of artificial roses, an artificial pear tree, and a lead-paned window. The street had no name, but the house had a number-917-engraved in bronze on the door.

Mikhail Solomon lived in this house with his wife, Talia. They had been designated Echte Juden Echte Juden, pure Jews, in charge of answering all correspondence written in the Hebrew alphabet-letters from people the Reich decided were pious. To be sure the letters were in keeping with the motto of Like Answers Like Like Answers Like, the Solomons lived in a house like the one the interior designer Thor Ungeheur imagined they'd lived in before they were sent to the Lodz ghetto in Poland. They had two small kitchens, impossible to cook in, and were allowed to observe their customs, which adhered to the Reich's vague understanding of menorahs and a candle in the shape of a braid. They were forbidden from working on Sat.u.r.day.

The Solomons were an unlikely pair, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the maws of a cattle car about to leave the Lodz ghetto for Auschwitz. Mikhail was a slight, clean-shaven man who wore a skullcap. Talia was a head taller, had a shadow of a moustache, broad shoulders, and red hair in a long French braid. Before the war Mikhail taught ethics at the University of Berlin, and Talia taught English. The Solomons weren't Orthodox. They ignored Goebbels's orders about keeping to themselves and came to the main room every day to play word games and barter cigarettes. They also used the main kitchen.

Besides the privilege of a house, Mikhail was the only person besides Elie Schacten who could leave the Compound after midnight. Long after the lottery had been drawn for Elie's old room, and the Scribes were making love, eavesdropping, and note pa.s.sing, Mikhail alone could admit he was awake. Then Lars Eisenscher knocked on his door and led him past the main room with bodies on desks, rustling papers, and glissandos of snoring. They took the mineshaft, walked up the incline, and down a stone path to the left of the Compound where they climbed a watchtower almost twelve meters from its entrance.

The watchtower had a steep ladder that led to a platform with a panoramic view of the night sky. And on this platform Mikhail pretended to read the stars. He had explained to the Reich he was a Kabbalist, and Kabbalists need to meditate on the sky after midnight. Didn't Hitler realize that the stars were angels and could predict the future?

As soon as the Reich heard this, they sent a memo: Let the Jew read the stars. Let the Jew read the stars. Mikhail wasn't surprised. Everyone knew Hitler conferred with an astrologer about the war, and Churchill consulted one to predict Hitler's strategies. Mikhail himself didn't believe in angels or astrology. He only craved fresh air and the boundless freedom he felt when he looked at the sky. It was impervious to war, without trenches, countries, or borders. Mikhail wasn't surprised. Everyone knew Hitler conferred with an astrologer about the war, and Churchill consulted one to predict Hitler's strategies. Mikhail himself didn't believe in angels or astrology. He only craved fresh air and the boundless freedom he felt when he looked at the sky. It was impervious to war, without trenches, countries, or borders.

Sometimes he liked to imagine each star was a word, and the sky was a piece of paper. Then the stars unfurled into a phrase-a proclamation for just one night. Sometimes he announced it to the main room in the morning. The last one had been the persistence of fire the persistence of fire.

Dear Mother,I waited for you at the train and you didn't come. Lots of children were on the train and some of them had mothers and fathers. My shoes got too tight so I took them off and lost them. Please come be with me. I love you.Love,Miep Mikhail's grandfather, who actually believed the stars were angels, once told Mikhail that whenever he wanted something-a pair of skates or a new coat-he lit a candle at midnight and prayed to the stars. Mikhail found this outlandish and was abashed that since the Reich came into power, he'd begun to wish his grandfather had been right. But if the stars were angels, they were mute, indifferent angels. Never once had they offered help.

The night after Heidegger's gla.s.ses arrived, the stars were dazzlingly clear. Mikhail saw Queen Ca.s.siopeia's Chair, waiting for Queen Ca.s.siopeia. And Aquarius bearing water-too far away for the water to reach the earth. Six Pleiades were dancing, and the seventh, as always, was hidden.

Tonight he looked at the sky for a shorter time than usual. On that day Stumpf had given him over thirty letters from children. He'd read a few, answered none, and didn't feel like being inventive. Most of the letters had been pa.s.sed over the chain-linked fence of the Lodz ghetto before a cattle car carried the children to Auschwitz. Were these children pious because they used the Hebrew alphabet? Mikhail didn't know what the word pious pious meant anymore. All he felt was relief that he hadn't recognized any of their names. meant anymore. All he felt was relief that he hadn't recognized any of their names.

Lars sat next to him quietly. They'd built an easy friends.h.i.+p during nights when Mikhail read the stars. Lars could sense when Mikhail-who was about the same age as his father-needed time to think and when he wanted to talk. After a while Lars said: Is there a message for the night?

Mikhail smiled. Lars had the same intense green eyes as his son and the same curiosity.

The angels are sleeping, he said.

But you told me they worked in s.h.i.+fts, said Lars.

Sometimes they do, said Mikhail. But even angels have to rest.

Lars climbed on a railing and stared at the sky. He looked younger than his eighteen years.

Didn't they tell you anything anything?

Just one thing, said Mikhail. Haniel, guardian of the West Gates, said: Why bother to answer letters at all? It's better for the dead to be curious.