Hugo Hamilton - Disguise

Gregor arrived at work every day with his curly hair and a detective hat on his head. He wore white shoes and a tweed jacket, a full contradiction of styles. Martin was equally noisy in colour and style, with long hair and round glasses, carrying a doctor’s medical bag. Gregor’s beard was very black and he had a bright smile that could disarm people even in the most disastrous circumstances. He was taller than Martin, but he had the habit of hunching over to make up for his height, speaking to people from the side, as though he was uncomfortable with the responsibility that his height gave him and wanted to compensate by giving the impression of being smaller, more crouched, more looked after. Martin had the bigger laugh and could often be heard throughout the warehouse, irritating the hell out of the foreman, while Gregor laughed more in towards himself, a laugh that was shrinking rather than expanding.

Life seemed like one long party at the time, with Gregor playing ‘Riders on the Storm’ like an anthem on his guitar every night. Everything revolved around music and sex and drugs. The genius of youth. All that glorious time-wasting and useless enterprise. Gregor remembers taking acid and staring for five hours at his luminous hands, seeing right through the skin like thin parchment at the veins inside, wondering whose blood flowed through them.

On the autobahn outside Frankfurt one day, he and Martin were hitchhiking back to Berlin in the middle of winter when they were questioned by the police. It was a time of mistrust and tension in Germany. A time of protest making up for a time of lack of protest. A time of street demonstrations and rioting and potential terrorists.

It was getting dark early and they were both frozen to the bone. Gregor wore a cashmere coat, which he had picked up for nothing but which was far too small for him, and his detective hat. Martin wore a thin anorak and tennis shoes, hopping around from one foot to the other. There were dirty bits of hardened ice left at the side of the road from the last snow and the only thing keeping them warm was their beards. They cursed each other for the idea of hitching in winter, particularly when Martin’s father had plenty of money and they could easily have taken the train.

They had a hard time getting a lift. Two eccentric figures, one with his bashed-up doctor’s bag and the other with his guitar case, imagining the dreamy heat inside the cars going by. Motorists staring at them with those vacant, alarmist expressions as they passed by. They waited for like-minded people who might take pity on them and kept an eye out for cars like the one-stroke DCV, or the Renault 4, or the Volkswagen; high-mileage, proletarian vehicles that had become a symbol of new, alternative life. They had almost given up hope when a car suddenly pulled up ahead of them. At last, they said, picking up their bags and running towards it. But they stopped short when two men hopped out of the car and confronted them with handguns and badges.

‘Drop your bags,’ one of the men shouted.

They were ordered to step over the rail into an adjoining field. Within seconds, Gregor and Martin found themselves walking away down a slope with the men shouting orders, pointing guns at their backs. It seemed like such a calm place, with crows in the trees, the autobahn out of sight, like a river in spate behind them, and the winter sky fading to an icy blue.

‘Take off your coats and throw them to the side,’ the policemen demanded.

Martin did as he was told and threw his anorak away.

‘And that stupid fucking hat,’ one of the men bawled at Gregor.

Gregor refused to take off his hat, or his coat.

‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded, turning round towards the policemen.

The policemen directed their weapons at Gregor. He had been turned into a suspect by them, but his refusal took on a moral momentum, contradicting their unspoken accusations. Underneath the hippy clothing, there was a need to assert his identity in public, without any shame, without any doubt. This was the moment for it. He smiled, like a flashlight shining through his black beard, while the officers waved their guns and screamed at him to turn away, using the word ‘asshole’ in every phrase. Gregor then became serious, withdrew his smile and stared straight at the officer, telling him that he was refusing to take off his coat in the middle of winter.

‘You won’t get away with this any more,’ Gregor said. ‘I’m Jewish.’

It was like a grenade going off. He was saying it for the first time with great confidence. Everything changed. It was clear that Martin and Gregor were no terrorists. This was just a routine piece of opportunism, two thug policemen deciding to humiliate two free-living hippy wasters. But now it was all going wrong for them. The officers began to shrink back, looking at each other for reassurance. Out there in this ravine with the sound of civilisation so close by along the autobahn, they were asked to stare into the eyes of history. One of them continued bawling out orders for a moment, but the other began to weaken and said it was OK, all they needed was to see identification. Martin and Gregor showed their student ID cards and the policemen backed off, out of that history lesson as fast as they could.

When they got back to Berlin, Martin laughed and said it was the best one he had ever heard yet. He embraced Gregor again and again and said he had ‘saved his ass’ out there on the autobahn. Martin had been carrying an almighty knob of hash, enough to land him in jail and disqualify him from ever working in a legal practice if he had been caught in possession. He had told Gregor nothing about it. They had a fierce argument over it, with Gregor asking how Martin thought he could smuggle such a thing all the way through the GDR when people were searched so thoroughly every time that they had to lay out every spoon, every pencil, every item of clothing on a table by the roadside. Women often had to undergo the humiliating ordeal of displaying all their clothes, item by item while the East German border guards examined it all with great fascination. How did Martin think he could get away with carrying hash through that frontier?

‘You’re my guardian angel,’ Martin said.

He kept repeating the story that evening, laughing in irrational bursts. ‘Wait till I tell everybody about this,’ he said. ‘There we are getting searched on the side of the autobahn and Gregor saves the day by saying he’s Jewish.’

‘But I am Jewish,’ Gregor insisted.

‘I know,’ Martin said. ‘But it’s such a great story. There’s me standing with a fucking massive lump of dope in my pocket, not knowing what the hell to do with it, whether to throw it away into the grass or swallow it or what, and then you tell them you’re Jewish. Brilliant.’

‘I’m not joking, Martin.’

And then it dawned on Martin for the first time to ask questions.

‘How do you know you’re Jewish?’ he asked.

‘I was told by my uncle,’ Gregor replied. ‘Uncle Max. He’s dead now, but he told me the whole story.’

Gregor continued to bring out the facts in small increments, always enough but not any more. Martin absorbed the information, becoming his spokesperson, telling people in advance about Gregor’s background.

‘Saved by a Jew,’ he would say, putting his arm around Gregor and ruffling his hair.

There was no proof that Gregor Liedmann was Jewish, but that didn’t stop people from believing him. In the next few weeks, Gregor went to a doctor and asked to be circumcised. The doctor naturally wanted to know why he was doing this, and once again, Gregor boldly explained that it was for his faith. The doctor arranged the operation, and after that, Gregor made further attempts to place his identity on record. He had marked down his religion as Jewish on official documents. Dues were deducted from his pay packet each month which went directly to the Jewish community, but when he approached the rabbi in Berlin, there were difficulties in establishing any Jewish parentage.