Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

In the attempt to gain peace of conscience, I would compromise my intellectual proprietorship, give up my scoop. Unless, somehow, I could cloak the ethical conundrum in a different garb, disguise the players, use cunning, otherspeaking, wield a magic wand and cast facts into parable, truth into fable.

And maybe, in trying to be as objective as possible, in trying to look at myself at a remove, maybe in seeking advice, I was subconsciously wishing to slough off the responsibility for my plan of action by, if not having an outsider make the decision for me, then at least nudging me this way or that. Another voice is good; always good is another voice. Even kings and presidents have advisors.

But then again, I thought, why consult? Why listen to other voices? I had other voices in plenitude in me. Proven by my quavering wavering from this side to that. In fact, so many were the voices, each with a different opinion and slant, I could have opened my own consultation service. One voice, you know this one, said, Go ahead. Its opposite, this one you know too, said, Don’t. Not too exciting these voices, right? Not voices that shatter glass or make you inhale suddenly with astonishment. No subtle variations; neither glorious bel canto nor sultry contralto. No surprising trills or miraculously sustained high notes. Just a monotonous, mundane Yes or No.

And in between — nuanced signals, many of them flying a little breeze-blown banner. But on the other hand… No wonder Harry Truman — sick of economic advisors who said, On the one hand we should do this, but on the other hand — quipped, Will you please find me a one-armed economist?

As my pendulum swung between Yes and No, I decided to postpone a decision for a couple of days. I needed time to think it over (even though one part of me, the larger part to be sure, already knew what the ultimate decision would be — I may be nice and kind and ethical, but I was nobody’s fool), for this was a matter that had historic echoes and ramifications. Page-one news: FILMMAKER DISCOVERS K ALIVE. But as I reread the headline in my mind, my stomach sank. It smacked of the National Enquirer , not the New York Times . Perhaps I would have to get a new headline writer.

But then my decision was put on hold because I was distracted by someone. Not only is the world at large full of surprises; one’s little world has them too.

The next morning I went with my camera bag to the morning service in the Al-tnigh. When everyone was departing, I asked the shamesh:

“May I stay here alone for a while to meditate?”

“Fine with me.” Then he laughed. “But don’t let me catch you going up to the attic.”

I laughed too.

Yossi, standing near me, smiled. “So he wants to meditate,” he said.

“Yes, meditate. Alone,” the shamesh said. “Maybe the attic will magically appear.”

They’re starting again, went through my mind. But I’m going to keep my cool.

“Or maybe the golem,” said Yossi.

Look who’s talking, I thought. You look more like the golem, Yossi golem, than the golem does.

They both began laughing. But it was a weak, an artificial laughter.

“So he can film them, the attic and the golem. For his film,” Yossi added, pointing to my camera bag.

“And meditate.”

“Maybe he wants to rewrite K’s first book, Meditation,” Yossi said.

“Enough!” I screamed. “Men of Sodom! I’ve had enough of your nasty sarcasm.”

They retreated. They backed up and pressed against the wall. As though a storm wind pinned them there. Mouths open. Pale and frightened. But they didn’t say, Sorry! As I turned angrily away from them they slunk out quietly and I was left alone. The silence in the vast space of the shul had its own melody. I don’t know how long I sat there in the humming silence, mesmerized by the ambience of the old synagogue. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Perhaps half an hour.

Then I went up to the bimah. I looked around. Heard, saw, no one. I bent down quickly, opened one wooden door, felt in a crack deep in the cabinet, and took out the envelope with Dora’s letter. If I couldn’t film K, the letter — which no one knew about — would be a small substitute. I held the sheet of paper. From my knowledge of Yiddish I was able to make out the German. Why had K hesitated after the word “nurses”? That hesitation intrigued me. I looked at the first few lines and found the answer to the mystery. A phrase that K had left out when he translated Dora’s letter for me. He had said, “Now that you are away, one of the nurses secretly told me that the lab confirms Dr. Klopstock’s diagnosis.” But looking at Dora’s letter I saw that after the word “nurses,” K had skipped a telling phrase: “you know, Miriam, the pretty one.” Why had K censored the remark pertaining to Miriam, whom Karoly Graf claimed was his mother? There must be a reason. The full sentence should have read: “But now that you are away, one of the nurses, you know, Miriam, the pretty one, secretly told me that the laboratory confirms Doctor Klopstock’s diagnosis.” Here we have another fascinating wrinkle in K’s story. It is Miriam who breaks the news to Dora about the severity of K’s illness. Ulterior motive on Miriam’s part? A purposeful elision by K because he remembers his affair with her? His censoring that phrase certainly adds another dynamic to the film. Karoly Graf had indeed said his mother was beautiful and Dora confirmed it; this entire scenario certainly tilts credibility to Graf’s claim. But enough speculating, I told myself. I have to get moving.

I spent a while trying to figure out where best to video Dora’s letter. Finally, I decided to place it on a slanted wooden Siddur holder and film it first from the back of the bimah, with the Aron Kodesh in the distance, getting in the reading table, the iron grating of the bimah, and in the distance, the great, majestic Holy Ark. And then I would zoom in for a close-up, holding it there until a viewer could read the entire text, which later would be shown in translation.

Just as I was bending down to take the camera out of the bag, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Scared out of my wits — I thought the golem had come down from the attic — I dropped the camera. It gave one bounce and landed on the floor three steps below.

I wheeled. And faced K.

“That wasn’t very nice. Never, never, did I expect something like this from you. You astonish me. You disappoint me. You upset me. Why didn’t you ask for permission?”

K’s face was ashen. His mustache trembled. Anger glistened from every pore of his face. I placed my hand on my heart and, near tears, said I was sorry.

“Why did you do this?” K wasn’t crying, but his plaintive tone was as close to tears as words could get.

I swallowed. My reply came out from a distant speaker.

“You said no to my filming you. I wanted this historic document at least.”

K gripped the railing of the bimah. His knuckles were white.

“I am very disappointed. I trusted you. I trusted you…. Why that odd look in your eyes?”

“I’m wondering how you found out.”

“I have people close to me here. I got two calls this morning.”

Who told you? I wanted to ask. But K’s voice was weak; now wasn’t the time for normal conversation. But K answered me anyway.

“First, my friend the shamesh. Despite our divergent views on the attic, we are very close. And I also heard from another man I’m close to.”

Now I didn’t hesitate. “Who?”

“My relative.”

“You mean the other man? Yossi? How is he related?”

“He’s my father.”

That’s it. This is too much. I’ve put up with every absurd thing he’s told me, including his claim that he’s K. But this! This is too much. He’s in la-la land. Writing a K-esque novel.