S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

Fernheim pressed his lips together tightly. Finally he nodded at the doorkeeper, stuck his fingertips into his vest pocket, took out a coin, and gave it to her. Then he turned and left.

Fernheim spent two days in the city. He left no cafe unvisited, nor did he neglect to speak to each and every one of his acquaintances. He went to the cemetery to his son’s grave. On the third day he pawned the present he had bought for his wife, went to the railroad station, and bought himself a round-trip ticket to Lückenbach, the village where Hans Steiner, his brother-in-law, had a summer home. There, years back, Fernheim had met Inge when he was friendly with Karl Neiss, who had brought him along to see her. But Karl Neiss had not realized what was to come of it all.

2

When Fernheim entered the villa, Gertrude, his sister-in-law, was standing on the porch in front of a basket of laundry, folding linens she had taken down from the line. She greeted him politely and poured him a glass of lemonade, but without the least show of joy, as if he had not returned from prison camp, as if years had not passed without her having seen him. When he asked her where Inge was, she looked shocked, as if that were too personal a question. Finally, when he looked at the door opening to another room, Gertrude said, “You can’t go in; Zigbert’s bed is there. Remember Zigbert, the child of my old age?” As soon as she mentioned Zigbert she smiled inwardly for calling him “the child of my old age” when at that very moment a new child was stirring inside her. As she was speaking, Zigbert entered.

Gertrude stroked her boy’s head, arranged the curls tumbling over his forehead, and said, “Moved your bed again? Now didn’t I tell you, ‘Don’t move the bed’? But you, Zigbert, you don’t listen, and you went and moved it again. You shouldn’t have done that, my son.”

The little boy stood wondering what bed his mother was talking about. And if he had moved the bed, why shouldn’t he have moved it? But there wasn’t any bed in the first place. And if there really had been a bed and he had moved it, why, his mother should have been proud that he was big and strong enough to move a bed if he wanted to! But everything that Mother was saying was strange, because there wasn’t any bed. Zigbert wrinkled up his face at this yoke he had to bear. Nevertheless, he was ready to overlook it if there were the least bit of truth in what his mother had said.

By this time Fernheim realized nothing was in the way, but because he respected Gertrude and did not want to make a liar of her, he did not open the door.

Hans must be told that Fernheim is here, thought Gertrude, but if I leave Fernheim alone he could open the door, cross the room, and go right into Inge’s room; and it won’t do for him to see her before Hans talks with him. Anyway, it’s not good that he came just today, with Inge sitting there waiting for Karl Neiss. Maybe Neiss has arrived already, maybe he’s sitting with Inge. There’s no need for these two to come across each other right in front of her.

She saw Zigbert standing by. “Go to Daddy and tell him that…”

“Whom do we have here?” Fernheim stretched his arms out to the little boy and began speaking affectionately. “Why, this is young Steiner of the house of Starkmat and Steiner. What’s this, Zigbert, you don’t say hello to your dear uncle, Uncle Werner, as though you weren’t happy that he came back from prison where the enemy fed him live snakes and gave him snake poison to drink? Come, Zigbert, my sweet, let me kiss you.” He caught hold of the child, lifted him up, and kissed him on the lips.

Zigbert wrinkled up his mouth and glowered. Fernheim took out half of a cigar, lit it with his lighter, and said to Zigbert, “Don’t you want to put the flame out? Open your mouth and blow on it; it goes out almost by itself.”

Gertrude addressed her son. “Go, sweetheart, and tell Daddy that — that Uncle Werner has come and would like to see him.”

As he was leaving she called him back. Gertrude wanted to warn the child not to tell anyone, least of all Aunt Inge, that Fernheim had come, until he told his father first. But realizing that it was impossible to speak in front of Fernheim, she sent him off.

Zigi stopped, waiting for his mother to call him back as she had the first time. Seeing that she remained silent, he left.

“Daddy, Daddy,” he called, “Mommy wants you. A man is here.”

“Who’s here?” Steiner called down from the attic.

“A man,” the child repeated, saying nothing more.

“Go on and tell Mother that I’m coming.”

“I don’t want to,” said the child.

“You don’t want to what?” asked the father.

“I don’t want to go to Mother.”

“Why don’t you want to go to Mother?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“That man.”

“What about that man?”

“Because.”

“You’re acting stubborn, Zigbert; I don’t like stubborn people.”

The child went off crying.

Fernheim sat himself down, as did Gertrude. While she folded her linens, he clenched a cigar stub between his lips. She sat quietly, uttering not a word, while he was astounded at himself for sitting next to his wife’s sister and saying nothing. She waited for her husband to come; he puffed away furiously.

The cigar stub had almost vanished, but still he gripped it between his lips. I see, thought Gertrude, that the new laundress does a good job. The sheet is sparkling white. It needs scrubbing, though. Werner’s coming back — it’s not good. But now that he’s come, maybe there can be an end to this business. The towels gleam more than the sheets, but their edges are crumbled. Obviously, the laundress ironed two towels as though they were one. What’s this, pigeon droppings? Doesn’t she know you have to clean the rope before hanging the wash? Hans still hasn’t come, and I can’t make up my mind whether or not to invite Werner to lunch, since we’ve already invited Karl Neiss. But just so he shouldn’t feel insulted, I’ll pour him another glass of lemonade. He’s looking for an ashtray. He’s already thrown the cigar into the garden.

3

The footsteps of Hans Steiner resounded, and the aroma of the fine cigar in his mouth wafted into the room. He had a vexed look, the kind he wore regularly when having to appear before a stranger. As soon as he came in and saw Fernheim, his pent-up anger doubled. Utter amazement covered his face. Scratching his moustache and scarcely opening his lips, he muttered, “You’re here?”

Fernheim, trying to look cheerful, answered, “There’s a good deal of truth in that, Hans,” immediately extending both hands in greeting.

Hans presented him with two fingertips and said something indistinguishable, without moving lips or tongue. “You’re back,” he added.

Fernheim replied jokingly, “That, we must admit, is correct.”

“When did you come back?”

“When did I come back? I came back two days ago; to be precise, three days ago.”

Hans flicked the cigar ashes into the glass of lemonade. “You’ve been here three days. Then I would assume you’ve come across some people you know.”

“What if I did?” answered Fernheim heatedly.

“If you happened to meet some people you know,” said Hans, “maybe you happened to hear a little something.”

“‘A little something,’ meaning—”

“Meaning there have been some changes made.”

“Yes,” said Fernheim, “lots of things have changed. I wrote that I would come on a certain day, at a certain hour, on a certain train; and when I got there I found the railroad station empty. Actually it wasn’t empty. On the contrary, it was filled with mobs of noisy people who had come to welcome their brothers and sons and husbands returning from the war; but Werner Fernheim, who shed his blood in the war, who was a prisoner of war, who spent a year in a prison camp — no one was available to come welcome him.”