Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

“Then why did you choose me? You knew, deep down you knew I would not, could not possibly, obey your ridiculous, immature, childishly willful instructions. If you really wanted your writing destroyed, you could have done the job yourself when you were back home in Prague for those few days, or you would have, could have, chosen someone else. You knew, don’t tell me you didn’t know, that I wouldn’t do it. As it is forbidden to take a life, so it is forbidden to take a life’s work.”

“Do you believe me that I am K?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Then how can you talk to me, argue with me, as though K stands before you and at the same time not believe me?”

I laughed. I laughed at the absurdity of it. I laughed at the absurdity of K standing before Brod in Tel Aviv in 1950.

Brod laughed too..

“Man is a complex, contradictory creature,” he said.

On my way to the door I imagined I was on stage, in a play, and I stopped dramatically. I addressed the first three words to the door, speaking loudly:

“And another thing…” And then I wheeled and faced him. “About the sex passages.”

“What sex passages?”

“Exactly. What sex passages? You took the words right out of my mouth. And out of my books. I’ve looked and looked and couldn’t find them. Why did you delete? Why did you act as a censor? Who gave you permission to impose your prudery on my works? Who gave you permission to be holier than me?”

As I spoke I saw him turn white. And then a wave of rose, reddening to scarlet, filled his face. My God, my Maxie blushed like a sixteen-year-old girl caught by her parents kissing a boy. Like a sky flaming at sunset the flush came over his cheeks, to his ears, to the bridge of his nose, red even up to his eyelids. And I immediately regretted hurting him, embarrassing him. The Ethics of the Fathers in the Talmud states, “He who makes his friend’s face turn white in public loses his share in the World to Come.” But it was just the two of us. No one else was in the room. Still, I felt bad for him. I hadn’t anticipated such an emotion.

“As if ‘The Metamorphosis’ has a lot of sex,” Brod said.

“You know as well as I do it’s not there, so why are you saying that? It’s from The Trial and The Castle and Amerika and other works, works that you recast to your standards.”

“I wanted your works to be acceptable. And accepted. I didn’t want to take a chance of having them rejected just because of those passages.”

“Whose works?” I said slyly.

“Yours.” But Brod choked on the word.

“Aha,” I muttered through barely parted lips. “But you still don’t believe I’m K, do you?”

“No.”

“Then how can you defend yourself so vigorously? And if I were not K, how would I know about the deleted passages, Maxie? You can’t have it both ways.”

Brod did not — could not — reply.

“All right! Then I don’t believe you’re Brod. Why did you put that faux Dr. Brod sign on your door?”

But Max saw the twinkle in my eye. He understood, even after all these years; he got the nuance of my voice, its special comic timbre, and he smiled, then began to laugh.

“If I’m not Brod, and you may very well be right,” and now the laughter faded from his voice and face, “because Brod died that day along with you in the cemetery — if I’m not Brod how can you complain about what I did? You can’t complain about me not adhering to your will, and then complain about censorship. The two are mutually contradictory…. You can’t have it both ways.”

We looked at, we stared at each other. At an impasse. Which way would it turn?

“Then we must conclude,” I said, “that we’re living in a K-esque world where illogic prevails and contradiction is king.”

I think I saw a slight nod. Brod barely, but just barely, ticked his head up a millimeter, down a millimeter.

“Sex maniac,” he said, giggling like he used to.

“Censor.”

“Skirt-chaser.”

“Jesuit. Fanatic. Deleter of holy writ.” I could barely speak for the laughter interlaced my words.

And soon we were both giggling together like we used to years ago in our youth in Prague.

“But one thing is sure,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Maybe I’m not K and you’re not Brod, but the love between these two idiots staring at each other in consternation and laughter and disbelief, both of us miraculously alive, is as strong as ever.”

And we took one, two steps toward each other and embraced like David and Jonathan.

I don’t know whose tears ran down my cheeks onto my neck, mine or Maxie’s.

NOTE:There are noticeable differences between K’s first journal entry pertaining to his visit with Brod in Tel Aviv and the two others. Perhaps the second or third one is, to use K’s phrase in the above entry, “wishful thinking” on his part, words K wanted to say but didn’t. On the other hand, it is possible that all three took place. But for the sake of accuracy and completion all are included. K refuses to comment. “My journals are what they are. I don’t provide Rashi commentary,” he says. (K.L.)

I always wore white shirts, winter and summer. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing any other color. Years back the collars were round, as were the brim and shape of my black derbies. With the passing of time the collars became less round and more and more pointy. Colored shirts came into fashion, checked and dotted and striped ones, like the sheep that Jacob bred on Laban’s farm. But these I would never wear; although I tolerated them on others.

And jeans? Never, nevah, nepa.

Jeans were for peasants.

In 1951, D returned for two weeks and then, surprisingly, three months later to inform me she’s pregnant. But she says she wants an abortion. She says she cannot care for the baby. I refuse. Our child, I explained to her, the family I longed for with her decades ago. Another miracle. An unending series of miracles. And you want this miracle scraped with a surgeon’s knife? No. Not. Never. I’ll find a Jewish couple who will adopt the baby.

I want the child to live.

I don’t accept her flimsy excuse that she’s too old to be a mother and care for a baby. That she’s unsuited.

I will not elaborate on our many exchanges, on my feelings and D’s feelings. Suffice to say that through the shamesh at the Altneushul we found a childless couple, now working in Prague, to adopt the baby. I deliberately did not meet the couple, nor did I want to learn their name. The final arrangements were made by the Jewish Children’s Home, Prague’s famous caring Jewish orphanage.

Now all we had to do was wait.

I can’t speak of the tragedy. Maybe it was my fault. Had I listened to her she would still be with us, with me. But like Rachel she gave life while giving up her own.

Eight days later we had a sad, subdued bris for the little boy. Before the baby was born I spoke of a possible name if it would be a boy. D protested, saying that Ashkenazi Jews do not name children after living relatives and certainly not after a father. I told her it wasn’t after me but after my great-grandfather. We then spoke again about the adoption. She said she didn’t want to be present when the baby was given away — and how prophetic, alas, were her words.

Yes, there was a little tweak in my heart as our baby, D’s and mine, was given away. The Jewish Children’s Home did not tell the couple that the mother had died in childbirth. Why spoil their joy? The shamesh and the officials at the Home liked the couple — bright, intelligent, sensitive — and I knew they would make good parents to the infant.