Gregor von Rezzori - Memoirs of an Anti-Semite

I sensed rather than grasped the perfidy in this speech. Still, the reference to being wet behind the ears and above all the image of Puss in Boots stuck in my mind, festered. I am certain it was Stiassny’s allusion to my ludicrous bedizenment that aroused me.

One bright day, wearing my getup, plus the doddering rubber boots, with the fox major’s cap on my head, I strolled from the safe preserve of the tower and the house, the garden and the courtyard, through the gates, and out into the village. I knew I would at least cause a stir; and though I did not exactly reckon with open hostilities, I was ready for them. Of course, I had not dared to spirit one of Uncle Hubi’s sabers off the wall and buckle it on, even though this weapon really belonged to the fraternity arms. But I had my dachshund Max along, my slingshot, and a good handful of lead pellets in my pocket. As expected, after the first dozen paces, I was encircled by a host of curious Jewish children, which increased into a larger and larger, more and more tumultuous swarm as more children came running.

I walked on, my head high, and started up the road to the marketplace. I did not have to show my scorn of the urchins, who danced around me, howling gaily; I ignored them just as when I sat in the coach, next to Uncle Hubi or Aunt Sophie or both of them, and the urchins scattered before the horses’ hooves, and certainly when they fled from the Daimler and then ran around it in the yellow cloud of dust, trying to cling to the trunks strapped on in back.

In front of Dr. Goldmann’s bizarrely turreted and merloned villa, someone blocked my path. He was the same age as I, if a bit smaller and thinner; while better dressed and evidently better bred than the others, he was as unmistakably Jewish. His ruddy, downy face, enfurred by wiry copper curls, was spotted with freckles. He looked like a young ram staring closely into a blazing fire. (“The sun,” Stiassny said later, “it is the sun that the children of the Tribe of Levi contemplate!”) But even more unforgettable than the stamp of this face, the look of a downright smug self-assurance lodged in my mind.

“What is it? Purim?” he asked, blinking when I stopped short in front of him in order — as I imagined — to stare him down and out of my way. I knew that Purim was some kind of Jewish Mardi Gras, with colorful masks and things. I found his question insolent but considered it beneath my corps dignity to reply. Totally unabashed, he raised his hand and touched the foxtail around my cap: “What are you? A Hasidic rabbi?”

Now I had to show him who I was: I struck his hand away. And as though the others were only waiting for a signal, they promptly attacked me on all sides. In a flash, my lovely cap was torn from my head, soon shredded to rags in a turmoil of lifted hands and a general howl of triumph. I could feel the sleeves of my mining jacket separate from the seams beneath the epaulets; a few blows struck me, but I hit back sharply and nastily, taking a more careful and ruthless aim than the chaotic and basically playful assault should have aroused. What made me feel so wretched was the ignominious failure of my dachshund Max. In lieu of defending me, of furiously snapping out around me like a Molossian dog, he withdrew behind me with a whine, and a good portion of the kicks and punches that were meant for me struck him. But to my utmost surprise, the red-headed boy threw himself protectively over the dog, even though my first punch had smashed into the middle of his face. “C’mon, you thugs!” he yelled in a mixture of German and Yiddish. “The dog didn’ do nothin’ to you!”

The turmoil stopped almost at once. Then a resounding clap drove the gang apart. Haller, the blacksmith, was coming from the brewery on his way home for lunch. When he merely struck his horny hands together, it sounded like gunshots. The street was instantly empty. Haller gave me an encouraging nod and went on. Only the red-headed boy remained. He had my dachshund in his arm. Max tenderly wagged his tail, trying to lick the boy’s face. “Just look at the cute little puppy!” said the boy, scratching Max’s creased forehead.

I was about to say, “He’s a miserable coward!” But I did not care to denigrate my dog in front of the Jewish scamp. I said, “He’s still too young to be fierce.”

“Because he didn’t wanna face odds of ten to one?” asked the red-headed boy. “He’d have to be as dumb as a goy — as you, maybe.” He curled his upper lip, and his tongue tested the solidity of his front teeth. He looked even more fire-dazzled than before. “I think you knocked a tooth loose,” he said. “If it falls out, you’ll have to pay for a new one in gold. They don’t grow back twice!”

“Put the dog down,” I said. “He’s not supposed to become a lapdog.”

He gently placed the dachshund on the ground, but Max jumped up again, demanding to be petted some more. The boy fondled Max’s head. “Well, what is he supposed to become?”

“A hunting dog.”

“To hunt what? Butterflies?”

“Sure, butterflies,” I said. “I could show you what he’s already caught.” I was thinking of the glass-covered case in the tower with the collection of extraordinarily beautiful tropical butterflies.

“Why don’t you?” he asked. “Are you afraid I’ll bring lice into your home? I am the son of Dr. Goldmann.” He pointed at the neo-Gothic villa. “You can come to my house even if your butterfly hunter has fleas.”

This was the start of a friendship that unfortunately was not to last very long; but it made that summer, in which so much happened, unforgettable in many ways.

First, I had to decide whether I should take the liberty of bringing Dr. Goldmann’s son into my relatives’ house. The problem was not so much that he was Jewish, but rather the social gap that separated Uncle Hubi and Aunt Sophie from the other residents of the village. I had particularly sensed their distinct reserve toward Dr. Goldmann. Normally, landowners were on friendly terms with the local physician: Uncle Hubi and Aunt Sophie did send their servants and employees to consult Dr. Goldmann about more serious illnesses, but in lighter cases, they tried to get along without him. Aunt Sophie treated these lighter cases herself, with advice from the local apothecary, a Pole, by whom she set great store. But Aunt Sophie and Uncle Hubi would not let Dr. Goldmann tend themselves, and their ironical way of presenting his house as a curiosity to new visitors indicated that there was some special reason for keeping their distance.

Whatever this reason might be or have been, I could tell myself that my kinfolk would have long since entered into social intercourse with Dr. Goldmann had they attached any importance to it. As for using my own discretion to interfere with such abeyant relationships, I knew the social structure of our provincial world was too delicate for that.

For example, I had once heard Stiassny say something that I took literally and no doubt more seriously than he might have meant it: another guest had remarked that Uncle Hubi, who had after all attended a university and finished his studies (albeit without gaining a degree), ought to be considered an academic; to which Stiassny had said, “It is part of the national tragedy of the Germans that their elite is divided into so-called academics and so-called intellectuals.” It was clear that these were two hostile camps. Uncle Hubi had confirmed this himself when, flying into a passion at Stiassny, he exclaimed, “What annoys me most about these intellectuals is that they never come right out and say what they mean. It’s like the artillery: they never aim directly at what they want to hit but instead aim somewhere else so that they’ll hit the place they think they should. Just like Jews.” And Aunt Sophie, as usual endorsing and interpreting what Uncle Hubert said, added (although Stiassny was her declared protégé), “Well, of course Hubi doesn’t mean that all artillerists in the war were Jews, though if a Jew didn’t find refuge in the medical service or the war office, he probably was in the artillery. But Hubi is right: you have to watch what Stiassny means when he carries on like that. And yet he’s good-natured and also very poor.”