Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Over half an hour I persuaded the horny miser to transfer 500 marks to Cologne: 400 for transportation, 80 for new luggage, and 20 for a new goat for Mother Jensen. The latter item was mentioned by the solicitous Nina in a scribbled P.S. on her card: her Mom was doing OK, but in the meantime her goat had also been hit by a train. I told the skinflint that Dr. Dorpmüller could not be held responsible for this accident — that was the inevitable fate of any creature that did its munching at the edge of a railroad track. They would all end up under the wheels: goat, goose, or crossing-keeper. And besides, Mother Jensen was in large part responsible for the birth of this particular Venus; a nanny goat would hardly be an adequate form of recompense.

In addition to money, Silberstern also sent Nina some kisses, which were meant to hasten her departure. But the girl didn’t arrive. The brass bedstead was polished up, the mattresses spread out — all Nina had to do, he told me, was to come and cuddle down next to her unappetizing master. Oh, but that wouldn’t do, I told him. He would have to outfit a separate room for the lady, and surely his apartment was big enough for that. But why, he asked. She would be sleeping with him! Don’t bet on it, I said. The local Aryan German colony would insist on separate sleeping quarters for an Aryan woman. Otherwise she would end up behind bars, and all his money would be out the window!

With sorrow in his heart, and because of what people might say, Silberstern purchased the new furniture. But Nina didn’t arrive. While still engaging in his two peseta entertainments, Silberstern took out his misery on me. And patiently, I placed my neck under his foot. One day he asked me what I would do in similar circumstances. I told him I had no idea: I was good at giving advice to other people, just not to myself. But in a case like this one? Simple, I said. We would have to find out whether the bank had actually paid out the amount he had sent. No way, he said. Confidential transaction. All right, let’s write to Mother Jensen, return reply requested, and ask her whether she has a new goat. Why not send a telegram directly to Nina? That would be an affront to the lady — unless, of course, she wasn’t a lady after all.

Mother Jensen had received her goat. And a few painful, impatient weeks later Silberstern received a postcard from Nina, sent from Berlin: “So sorry. Letter will follow.”

The letter said that she had gone for a spin with a boyfriend and 480 marks. In Berlin the guy went through all the cash with her, and then disappeared. She begged forgiveness and another 500 marks.

“Not one more penny! I wouldn’t dream of it, that filthy sow! I’ve had it with all this deceit and insults!” But he knew how to force her. “Take dictation!”

I composed a long letter containing obscure threats, anticipated triumphs, rank violations of consecutio temporum , and ending with “Very sincerely yours, Silberstern.” Now, he asked, wasn’t that once again a top-notch letter after all this time?

No doubt about it, I said. Especially for a traveling wine merchant who was familiar with the law. “Abduction of a minor” was what it was called in jurisprudence. In former times it could bring you a jail sentence, and today it was a capital offense. His well-educated Nina, that canny, brainy girl, would take his letter to the police, which is to say to some Nazi with a medal for street-fighting, and the next time we visited Herr Hasenbank at the German Shop we would see the Silberstern Affair spread all over Julius Streicher’s Nazi weekly Der Stürmer : “Jewish Swine Seduces Aryan Girl to Mallorca, Isle of Vice!” Watch out, I said. Nina could get dangerous. He was going too far, no chance of a retreat. He must transfer 500 marks minus one nanny goat. By telegraph!

Silberstern sent the money to the widow who held the little red flag at the railway crossing. He received a brief reply saying that the lady had always known that there were decent Jews, and that she was content that her daughter would be in excellent hands with this noble gentleman, especially in this day and age when one’s life was in danger if one had a crooked nose. It was touchingly naive of the widow to write this way; it could have cost Nina her life right away on the railway platform. But Nina was carrying a guardian angel in her hand luggage. She later showed it to me.

Nina fulfilled all the promises displayed in her photos. At eight in the morning, just minutes after disembarking — Silberstern had taken a taxi to avoid creating a scene at the pier. At 8 am the super-broad was standing in our bible-paper room. Great Scott! If I were him, I too would have yanked her away from that railroad crossing and paid her trip in full. Face to face, her brow seemed somewhat less striking than in the photos, but that only increased one’s expectations. The remainder met all the requirements one could place on a Nina, either in real life or in a book about a life. As she stood in our presence in her imposing corporeality, she had already cost Silberstern 1000 marks, and it would now be up to me to see to it that she cost him even more. But Beatrice, who was asked to join in the inspection, later told me that I wouldn’t have to exert myself — everything would take its natural course. And that’s exactly how it went.

The next day at the crack of dawn the magnanimous Mr. Silberstern again stood at our door, this time in a mood of sackcloth and ashes. Had she flown the coop so soon? No, on the contrary, she was still there, but she had locked herself in! How he wished now that he hadn’t followed my advice and had a lock attached to her door! What did he care what people might say? She wasn’t letting him in, and par conséquence … 1000 marks, and now this affûtage ! Despite the man’s obvious distress, this business about affûtage sounded rather erudite, but as a lay philologist I didn’t know what the word affûtage meant, and as a counsel specializing in legal and sexual matters I didn’t dare look it up in my Dupiney. Surely it must mean something very lowdown, something in close connection with the brass bedstead. Beatrice, who at this early hour was unable to avoid the encounter, said that affûtage was strong language. The Nazis and their murderous scourges — those were examples of affûtage . Herr Silberstern crumbled. “That’s just it,” he cried. “That’s just it! Nina has turned out to be a Nazi! Nina, my girlfriend from the most Catholic stretch of railroad in Germany! And an anti-Semite! And she always went to confession!”

I tried to console this victim of affûtage by telling him that a new Reformation had broken out. There were no more Catholics, only Nazis. This was the new German dispensation, bestowed by virtue of the Vatican Concordat. My own mother, who of course didn’t raise goats at the edge of a railroad, was walking the selfsame path of sinister upheaval. But Nina? Surely she was out to gain something by her actions. A person wouldn’t lock out such a generous Adelfried just because she was an anti-Semite. So I asked him, “What’s up?”

“She wants to get to Lisbon. She told me so right away, at the harbor.”

“Aha, so it’s a small matter of extortion. What does she want to do in Lisbon? Has she got some other guy over there?”

“Some count, some highly placed gentleman. And she wants me to pay her way again, or she’ll start making a huge fuss.”

“A real count? Like Kessler? Or is it a con man like Count…?”

This new topic put the traveling wine merchant in his best businesslike form. It was Old Portuguese nobility! He mentioned the name, which was a truly grand one — of world-historical significance, at least in the 8th century. After that, the family enjoyed a great reputation solely inside the family itself. I mustn’t reveal the name, because the Count is still living and is among the friends of my Portuguese friends, who were particularly attentive one day at the Pascoaes Estate when, telling tales as I always like to do, I recounted how Nina withheld her charms from Silberstern’s brass bed, and had him pay her way to Lisbon for a visit with Count… all of my listeners knew this Count in person, and they all knew about his German affair. Nina? Yes indeed, that was her — a dancer, ballet. The Count was head over heels for her. Big family arguments. He threatened to make her his bride. La ci darem la mano, la mi dirai di sí . It’s a shame, I said, that he didn’t follow through. A certain amount of roadbed ballast from the rail line between Cologne and Neuss could have been of use to this noble dynasty. I was given stern looks, even though as a Habsburg bastard I felt I could very well have a say in the matter. The noble poet Pascoaes, who as a poet stood above all questions of bloodlines, later agreed with my assessment.