Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

It turned out to be long, this letter of mine to Nina, who lived between Cologne and Neuss, at the place where the now fatherless railroad-crossing cubicle stood. It was an epistle filled with nostalgic reminiscences and anticipatory aspirations, replete with “Do you remember” and “You see” and “Let me.” The “Let me’s” were in the majority. As he dictated, the roly-poly bridegroom’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Pearls of lecherous sweat dripped from his nose, apparently the most active organ in a phenomenon of his type. His entreaties and erotic ambulations made him seem like a living page from the immolated treasures of his private collection of pornography. When the invitation to his bride was finished, the author stood in front of his scribe wringing his hands, and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“Very few writers are able to dictate print-ready copy,” I said. “Gerhart Hauptmann is said to have achieved a certain degree of perfection in this art, but he does that lying down. It’s really quite remarkable, your combination of Bluebeard and traveling salesman. Your sentences will pierce the lady’s heart. It’s likely that you will become her destiny.”

My words flattered the cheapskate. He punched his belly with delight, seeing himself in his mind’s eye already sharing his shiny brass bedstead with Nina, sharing their daily bread and their nightly cavorting, sharing an ensaimada on Sundays and reminiscing about sharing finger-licking potato pancakes back in Cologne. Silberstern signed the letter, put his initials on the first carbon and a private symbol on the second. That was his businesslike custom. After all, Nina was a business transaction.

“There!” Silberstern licked the envelope, closed it, put his expensive hat on his brush-cut head, and was ready to march off to the post office.

“Wait, Herr Direktor!” I said. “Shouldn’t we figure out first when the letter will arrive between Cologne and Neuss, just so we can at least imagine at which point the Nazi censor will break it open, make a few phone calls, see to it that Nina gets grabbed, and then make sure that she gets her hair shorn off for committing racial defilement with the “Jewish pig” Silberstern from Würzburg, currently residing in Palma de Mallorca? She’ll be hanged in Klingelpütz Prison, and Adelfried will be murdered by Nazi thugs in the Balearic Gau .”

Vigoleis is not a saint, although at certain times he has come close to a faint trace of saintliness as a result of selfless actions. Nor is he a Christian. Despite his poverty he still has enough clothes to put on. He’s not a bad person, not a cynic, and he doesn’t bear grudges. If Silberstern had paid him a fee for his legal counsel, just a few thousand pesetas as a gesture, so to speak, I am convinced that he never would have thought of badgering the man. This was simply his way of taking revenge. Or was it just a game, the way a cat plays with the mouse?

Silberstern had nothing to say. He broke out in a sweat and took his precious hat back off, no doubt thinking that he couldn’t trust the moisture-proof quality of the leather lining. He wrung his pudgy hands, and drops of saliva appeared at the corners of his mouth. Just a moment ago he was riding toward triumph, but now he was a target of Hitler’s minions! All that money! That brass bedstead!

I offered him consolation. If he would let me have my way once more, we could get Nina out of the Third Reich hale and hearty, just as we had done with his money. We would have to act smartly. The enemy was listening, and above all, we mustn’t underestimate the enemy. We mustn’t think of the enemy simply as a knave, but rather as a hyper-knave. I told him to go back home, light up his seven-branched candelabra, and thank Moses and the Prophets that his father hadn’t given him a first name like Itzig or Isidor, but instead Adelfried. As “Adelfredo” he should send a postcard to Nina, despite the fact that she was a perfect lady, telling her that an old friend in Spain would be delighted if she were to pay him a visit sometime on Mallorca. “ Clima ideal ,” no endemic diseases, no unsanitary kitchens, mortality rate 10.44 per 1000 inhabitants, average humidity…

“There you go again, Herr Doktor, making fun of me! What is all that supposed to mean, mortality, endymic, kitchens…?

“Those are points of comparison, Herr Stern, and they could serve as come-ons for your Nina. In Germany today, the mortality rate is 27.8 per 1000 citizens. I happen to know this figure precisely, because when I wake up every morning I see a column in the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung that contains statistical reports about such things. As for the word “endemic”—by the way, not “endymic,” unfortunately not that — that is the way to describe National Socialism. It has turned out to be Germany’s endemic illness. Nina is educated. She’ll know right away what we’re referring to.”

“There you go again, making disparaging remarks about my homeland! And what’s this about humidity?”

“Likewise for reasons of comparison. Average humidity 68 %, highest elevation 1472 meters, free transportation and lodging, Sunday excursions alone or in group.”

“Free transportation? I beg your pardon, you don’t think I’m going to pay for her trip, do you? She should be happy that I’m letting her come!”

“Who else will pay for it, if not Silberstern? The Führer , perhaps? He’s got other things to worry about. Or maybe the widow Jensen, out of her measly Dorpmüller pension? She’s lucky if she gets 50 marks a month…”

“63.20. And she wouldn’t have got anything if my brother the attorney hadn’t written a letter to the railway authorities. Just think, her husband was standing on an unused spur when the train hit him!”

“One more reason why you’ll have to pay for her trip. But first we’ll have to find out whether Nina is still alive. If her looks are as non-Aryan as you say they are, she’s in big trouble.”

“Oh, but you don’t know Nina! She’s a superb woman, I’m telling you, and she can outfox the SS. I’m going to write her a card right away, and then you’ll see that all I’ve been telling you is the God’s honest truth. I have some pictures that I’ll show you and your spouse. All of them decent, don’t worry. Made by a photographer in Cologne. And besides, she’s Catholic.”

“What a shame. Unclothed women always reveal a clearer picture.”

“I’ve got some of those, too, Herr Doktor. I’ll bring them all.”

“Do that. I’ll give them to Count Kessler, who will pass them on with a few words of recommendation to the son of the current American ambassador in Madrid. You know, that fellow is in charge of the most luxurious nudist club in the Old World, here on Mallorca. That’s where Nina can develop her talents. But first let’s get to that postcard, so we can sneak her out of the Reich as quickly as possible.”

Nina’s reply, written on a postcard, was businesslike, although Mr. Silberstern thought he could read great happiness between the lines. But it caused him to wring his hands just the same. This would, he said, be his ruin. He was being asked to forward 400 marks for the travel expenses! For 300, he said, he himself could travel anywhere in the world. He made some calculations, pulled some grimy papers from his bulging briefcase, and showed me down to the penny how much he had paid for the trip from Aachen to Palma, third-class of course, but including baggage insurance and two salmon sandwiches. Now a battle raged, and it was fought in sight of photos of the Cologne model that were spread out on the table. She was indeed one impressive broad, in certain respects similar to Kathrinchen of the Clock Tower, although Nina showed a sturdier maintenance of the parts of her physique devoted to love-making — presumably Mensendieck gymnastics. And yet there seemed to hover over her most intimate parts a trace of melancholy, which is after all an ingredient in the art of truly grand cocottes. Nina must have been insatiable, but at the same time unfathomable.