Harry Mulisch - The Discovery of Heaven

On the threshold he looked at the churned-up expanse of rubble and weeds. It was the mess of a hastily abandoned bedroom, with an unmade bed, all the drawers and cupboards open and clothes all over the floor. There was no one there. Inside, the rails branched once and then again; in the long spaces in between, the selections had taken place between those who were to die immediately and those not until later. To the left of the Lagerstrasse were rows of wooden barracks, to the right only the chimneys. In the distance, at the end of the tracks, he could see the ruins of the blown-up crematoria and gas chambers to the left and right; the back of the oblong sacrificial dish was too far away to see distinctly. He squatted down and put his right hand on the rusty rails. She had ridden in over these. It was as though the motionless silence penetrated him — he did not enter the camp, the camp entered him. The butchers and their victims had all gone — his father as well as his mother: what else was he but the personification of the camp as a whole?

He decided to walk slowly around the four and a half million-square yards. There was a dead person for every square yard of the way.

At the same time as Max was making his five-mile procession in Poland, Ada overcame her indecision and phoned Onno to ask where his friend had gone. Of course Max had treated her shabbily, but on the other hand that silly bosom friendship could not be overlooked; perhaps there had been something really important on the agenda that morning — though he might have mentioned it. In any case he was still in her thoughts, and perhaps she had reacted a little drastically.

Onno sounded surprised, but could not help her. "Somewhere in Poland, or Czechoslovakia or Hungary. You know what he's like. Awful."

What he was like? The meaning of the remark escaped her. "When is he coming back?"

"In about three weeks, I think."

"Did he talk about me?"

"I had the impression that he was sorry things went wrong between you, and so am I for that matter. You were a positive influence on the idiot. But of course that was the purifying effect of music. How is your duo going?"

"It doesn't really exist anymore. Bruno couldn't see the point. I've just auditioned for the Concertgebouw Orchestra."

"And?"

"I'm waiting to hear."

"Why so suddenly?"

"I need to start earning money. I want to leave home. And what about you? Aren't you going on vacation?"

"Me? On vacation? Did you really think I indulge in such petit bourgeois pleasures? Shame on you! You're not on vacation either, are you?"

"Because I can't afford it."

"Where are you calling from?"

"From the Concertgebouw."

"Okay. Let's have a coffee at Keyzer's, on the corner. I'll be right there, and then I'll subject that bohemian horse thief of yours to the searing light of my analysis."

From her table at the window she watched him approach from the Museumplein and cross the road. Max would have seen her at once, probably before she saw him, but Onno looked down at the cobblestones in complete self-absorption, or at least with his thoughts somewhere totally different from where he was. His large, ungainly figure inspired a vague physical distaste in her, but at the same time she found it touching. She could scarcely imagine a greater contrast than that between Max and Onno: Max, whom nothing escaped, who was everywhere at once, and Onno, who always focused on a single point and for whom the rest of the world did not exist.

He seemed pleased to see her. For the first time she was even given a clumsy peck on the cheek.

"What were you so deep in thought about?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"If it's not a secret…"

"It's terribly secret, but I'll tell you anyway. About a magic square." He took a paper from the reading table, sat down opposite her and wrote in the margin:

"Have a good look at that crucifixion. I was wondering what those diagonals xdx and mdm mean, but I haven't worked it out yet. Mdm is probably an abbreviation of 'madman,' but what does xdx stand for? Perhaps something from differential calculus, but Max is better at that than I am. So, how are things? The last time we saw each other was that idiotic evening when you played."

"This is the first time I've been back in Amsterdam."

"What happened between you to make you split up so suddenly? It seemed so idyllic."

"Didn't he tell you?" asked Ada in amazement.

"I didn't ask him."

Obviously, thought Ada, they did not tell each other everything, as Max had maintained. "Then I'd prefer not to say."

Onno nodded and stirred his coffee. "So here we are. Max is in search of his roots, and we're sitting here like the two orphans."

"What kind of roots has he got there, then?"

Onno looked at her in disbelief. "Has he never talked about it?"

"He never talked much."

Onno debated with himself whether it was right for him to tell her. It wasn't as though Max wanted to keep his story a secret, and because he believed that Ada had the right to know, he told her the facts — from the war up to their visit to the National Institute for War Documentation.

When Ada heard about the visit, the penny suddenly dropped. Bring yourself off. At the same time she remained convinced that he wouldn't have reacted like that if anyone else had called to collect him to go to the Institute; it was because it was Onno who rang the bell — Onno, who might go away if he didn't open up immediately, and never, ever come back. But suddenly she understood that too: his parents had once left and never come back. She drank her coffee in silence. Max had suddenly become someone else — like when she opened the curtains in the morning and found that the familiar view had been covered in snow during the night: everything was the same, and everything was different.

To her own surprise, she had missed him there in her quiet back room in Leiden, not physically, because that was still not very important to her, but simply his presence. Except that the presence now turned out to be at the same time an absence; in all those weeks he had not considered her worthy to be told who he really was. Or was it unreasonable to pass judgment on someone who had experienced things she could not even imagine? Just suppose her own father had had her mother murdered and then himself been shot… inconceivable. There was only a thirteen-year age gap between Max and her, but for her the whole war, which her parents were always talking about — and to which she owed her existence — was an event from a dim past. What it finally came down to was that she was superfluous to Max. She had had that feeling the whole time, and now she knew where it came from.

She had made the right decision in leaving him, though it may have been for the wrong reason. He was locked up in himself, and he had not been prepared to give her the key, which Onno turned out to have in his pocket.

"Do you want to go back to him?" asked Onno.

"That's not possible now. Not because you've told me about this, but because he didn't tell me." She could see that Onno felt uncomfortable and was wondering whether he had done the wrong thing. "And what about you?" she asked, in order to help him. "How are you? Are you making headway with your deciphering?"

"Don't talk to me about it. Every morning when I wake up, my bankrupt existence stares out at me hollow-eyed."

"Aren't you exaggerating a bit?"

"A bit? Will you stop insulting me! I exaggerate terribly!"

"So in fact you're doing fine?"

A crooked smile crossed his face. "No, Ada, but I'm getting by."