Dr. B. Read online

  There was no reply. She gazed out through the fluttering curtains at the sea of sunflowers swaying gently in the breeze that had now sprung up, as if she hadn’t heard the question. A shadow play came to life on the wall behind her, gray veils moving back and forth.

  When she finally resumed her monologue, it was obvious she was reading from one of the sheets of paper lying in front of her on a low table. “ ‘When the woman of old left love behind, she buried herself in darkness and gloom to lead the life of a helpless wretch, whereas the new woman has liberated herself from the thralldom of love and stands proud.’ ”

  She turned to the shadow play on the wall. For a moment it seemed she had forgotten Immanuel’s presence in the room. Whenever he looked back later on the lengthy silence that ensued, it always struck him that it had cast them both, him as well as her, out into another sphere, as if they had embarked on a voyage to quite different places, which in some strange way manifested themselves as the salon in the gray palace on the leafy Swedish island. Did they visit the bright halls in the country house of her childhood on the Karelian Isthmus, or was it the exhilarating tumult of the revolution? The Young Workers’ Party’s bustling headquarters, or the colorless maze of power in later years? Their journey couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two, but it was more real than anything else that had happened to him that day, despite being impossible to explain satisfactorily. He would never forget it.

  Then they were back in the salon, the white curtains dancing ever more merrily in the sunlight flooding the terrace. She turned slowly, but only halfway, so that her famed profile could be seen to full advantage, and explained in the most casual of tones, “These are the ideas with which Miss Lorentzon and I engage in the mornings. When you arrived we were working on a translation of some of my lectures. But tell me now: Why have you actually come to see me?”

  He felt as though his entire body had turned into something alien, something that didn’t quite belong to him. His legs couldn’t decide whether to remain straight or bend at the knee, and as a result his stance was only semi-upright, leaning against the back of a gray armchair.

  “What does Your Excellency mean?”

  “I’m simply wondering what your business is here. You can’t persuade me that the conversation we’ve had was the real purpose of your visit.”

  He heard himself reply in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. It came from his lips, but who was technically speaking, he didn’t know. “Your Excellency, what makes you think that?”

  Now she turned to him so that he could see her face. The beautiful gray eyes, not in the least threatening but absolutely steady, inspected him from top to toe, while she spelled it out, point by point. “I’m not generally mistaken. You introduce yourself as ‘first and foremost German,’ but let me say this: I think I can recognize Jewish intelligentsia when I meet it. The fact that you’re trying to establish yourself at the present time as a journalist for a daily newspaper openly critical of Hitler doesn’t exactly preclude my hypothesis. But be that as it may, it’s plain you haven’t mastered the subject you claim you want to discuss.”

  In a whisper she added: “You want something else from me.”

  Without noticing how, he found himself back in the gray armchair, in a crumpled heap opposite Madame Kollontai. It was all up now, his failure complete.

  With the feeling of resignation came something else: amazement at his own plan, the fundamentally incomprehensible and totally unrealistic idea that he, a journalist in exile, could hoodwink one of the diplomatic world’s most experienced negotiators, a renowned tactician, in the way he had supposed. Would the woman who had miraculously escaped all physical reprisals from the party leadership, despite being regarded as a counterrevolutionary, be so easily deceived? What insane arrogance! Would the woman who negotiated with ministries and embassies and under whose firm direction the Soviet legation operated be duped by him, a man for whom the present situation was so complicated that a cool head was out of the question?

  It all obviously came down to the absurdity of the whole plan. Though it had to be said, when he looked back later, that in principle it could have worked. If only it had involved someone other than Alexandra Kollontai, former People’s Commissar for Education, now a minister and the Soviet Union’s first female envoy to Europe. Had it not been for her, it would have been feasible. But she was the one sitting in front of him now, waiting for an explanation. Why had he really come to see her?

  It occurred to him that the situation was an outright disaster, and a series of realities sprang to mind like a flurry of icy gusts to the soul. First of all: he was on an island and had no control whatsoever over his departure. He recalled the tight-lipped boatman’s less than cooperative body language, his powerful physique, and above all the sports jacket that evidently concealed the fact that he was armed. In fact the villa was probably guarded by other representatives from the Soviet legation. He was effectively a prisoner on this island.

  Once again he had the feeling someone else was speaking through him, in a strong, clear voice: “It concerned a visa question.”

  A faint murmuring was heard from other parts of the villa, but here in the sunlit room everything seemed to stand still. He filled the void with an account to strengthen her suspicion that the conversation hitherto was basically a pretext for broaching other subjects entirely. “As I said, a visa question. More precisely, a transit visa needing to be extended. I’m sure you’ll know the publisher Gottfried Bermann Fischer, who relocated here to Sweden with the assistance of Tor Bonnier of Albert Bonniers Förlag. Bermann Fischer spent the last weeks of the summer with his wife and children in a large wooden house belonging to the Bonnier family south of the city, more precisely on Dalarö. The other week they were visited by Katia and Thomas Mann, who should have been the keynote speaker at the PEN Congress, which was naturally canceled because of the outbreak of war, but Bermann Fischer’s press wants to publish the speech now and distribute it in Germany. You’ll be familiar with his publishing house, now fifty-one percent owned by the Bonnier family and forty-nine percent owned by Bermann Fischer himself. He has found a number of very capable coworkers in the city, and miraculously he has resumed publishing at a level many thought was impossible these days, with the press’s authors spread all over the world. But Zweig, Werfel, and Hofmannsthal are back in print despite the German censor. And Mann as well of course, and Ève Curie, whose successful book about her mother actually provided the financial footing for the company’s recovery.”

  He tried to meet her eye to gain some sense of how his explanation was being received. She was still sitting in profile, which made it impossible.

  “German literature is at stake, and now Bermann Fischer is convinced that the next step requires him and his family to get to America, where Mann has already settled and will provide assistance. The journey will be difficult, of course. I saw the family’s passports yesterday, all five stamped full of transit visas, every one of which has to be renewed on a regular basis to enable international travel. I don’t need to tell Your Excellency what this journey involves. Naturally you’re aware that one has to fly from Bromma to Riga, then on to Velikiye Luki and from there to Moscow. From Moscow one takes the Siberian railway to Vladivostok and then a boat to Yokohama. Finally across the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco in one of the famed passenger ships and onward over the new continent. Not something accomplished in a hurry. But forgive me, are you acquainted with Bermann Fischer, the illustrious publisher of Nobel Prize winner Thomas Mann?”

  The reply came immediately, scornful and not exactly oozing goodwill. “Gottfried Bermann Fischer, publisher of Leon Trotsky’s mendacious book My Life—yes sir, I am well acquainted with him. Did he really send you here? Is this the reason for your visit, the travel plans of the Jewish publisher and his family?”

  He was going to point out that Trotsky’s autobiography had nothing to do with Bermann Fischer, that it was his father-in-law, Samuel Fischer, wh
o had published it, but he stopped himself, recalling that Bermann Fischer had predicted this reaction. Publishing Trotsky would not go unpunished, of that he had always been convinced. Yet he had knowingly backed the proposal. Some had suggested it boiled down to Jewish solidarity being stronger than any ideological differences. It was widely known that Trotsky described Comrade Kollontai’s obsession with sexuality, especially her own sex life, as offensive. In Trotsky’s opinion, probing into matters of sexuality, despite the uninhibited and wild impression it gave, in the end indicated a fundamentally bourgeois disposition. Those were the very words he used: she probes into her own sexuality. Then again, their mutual antipathy was also widely known, and Kollontai had later prevented Trotsky’s entry to Sweden by simply refusing his visa application, which in turn had earned her one of the Soviet Union’s greatest political distinctions, the coveted Order of Lenin. Perhaps her triumphant report on how she stopped Trotsky’s admittance was what saved her from Moscow reprisals. Whatever the case, clearly Bermann Fischer’s publishing house, no matter how crucial to German literature it was held to be, was for Alexandra Kollontai essentially part of Trotsky’s infernal network, possibly even a central part. That the Jewish publisher and his family would receive aid in their plight from her of all people was unlikely.

  She repeated the question, her voice now betraying a degree of impatience, not to say antagonism: “So this was the real reason? Your implied interest in the issues explored in my writings was nothing more than a false pretext, and your famous editor Oeri, our great liberal journalist in Basel, nothing more than a smoke screen. Thus your visit is exposed as an attempt to fool me, lull me into a feeling of intellectual consensus in order eventually, almost en passant, to broach the matter of a visa, as if merely a bagatelle. I believe we have said all we have to say to one another, sir.”

  She rose to her feet and left the room. Immanuel’s heart was pounding in his chest, thoughts racing through his head. The awkward thing was that her version wasn’t far from the truth, even if it had been expressed with a brutality he couldn’t have articulated even to himself. But it was true, he had hoped to raise the subject of the Bermann Fischer family’s predicament at the end of their meeting, after the interview had been concluded. Anything to impress the publisher who had given him relatively well-paid commissions and had actually hinted at the possibility of a permanent position. Nothing could be more pivotal to his current situation, and the whole idea of sorting out the visa problem for the publisher was one of the reasons he had pressed ahead with this visit. Now she had found him out before they had even finished their conversation about the woman question.

  He heard firm footsteps, and Madame Kollontai appeared at the wide sliding door leading to the villa’s inner recesses. He saw his last chance of putting things right.

  “Your Excellency, you exaggerate, or rather, you misjudge the entire situation. Firstly, of course I’m here to discuss your view of society and the issues to which you have devoted a large part of your life. Believe me, Dr. Oeri will be delighted to publish this portrait should you give the newspaper permission. Naturally Your Excellency will be able to read the article in its entirety and have every opportunity to correct any errors or potential misunderstandings.”

  Suddenly she no longer seemed annoyed or even slightly upset. “From my perspective the conservatives mark a pause in history. For all his urbanity in Swiss salons and his self-professed liberalism, Dr. Oeri himself represents just such a pause. A conservative is, as we like to say, a person who admires radicals centuries after their death. A conservative is a person who believes quite simply that nothing really big should ever be undertaken. Nothing new should ever be done. I have no time for such men, and history will prove me right. Thank you for coming. Miss Lorentzon will take you down to the boat.”

  Without further ado she turned and disappeared from view. In her place appeared the smiling young secretary in the immaculate gray linen dress. She showed him out to the terrace, and together they began the climb down to the water.

  The sun was in the southwest of the clear blue sky as they quickly descended one level after another, passing the sunflowers and the huge rhododendron bushes lining the terraces and railings. He broke the silence by asking a few questions about the villa and its irrefutably dramatic past. To his surprise the prim secretary’s account picked up precisely where the boatman’s had ended that same morning. Once again he heard the story of the boat that had caught fire and sunk in the bay, claiming the lives of a groundsman and a young engineer who was about to be wed. This was in Director Kassman’s time, when the house was known for the most sumptuous of society parties. The bride, the translucent woman who had met him that morning, and her brother, the young man in the sports jacket, still worked on the island, carrying out all manner of services for the Soviet delegation.

  “Yes, all manner of services,” she repeated, as if there were some inner meaning to the words. “And not just for the Soviet legation, but for the German one as well. And doubtless for others too,” she added.

  They were close to the water now and could see the boat approaching at full speed. They could already hear the muffled engine noise, which seemed to emanate from somewhere beneath the shining surface.

  “I have informed Madame of my concerns,” she went on, “but she can see nothing strange in it. Everyone needs work these days, she says. But I’m wary of that man and want as little as possible to do with him. We all feel a fondness for the poor girl, but her brother’s hiding something.”

  Why Miss Lorentzon of the Soviet diplomatic mission felt the need to share these suspicions with a journalist who was a complete stranger was a mystery to Immanuel, and at that moment it didn’t preoccupy him, for now the boat was alongside and the boatman was once again straddling the boat and the jetty. As if to avoid having to greet the young man, Miss Lorentzon said goodbye, but just as she set off back up to the house, she turned to Immanuel with one last message.

  “Madame would like you to know that the publisher Bermann Fischer may collect a transit visa for all members of his family at the end of the week. If he hands in the passports to our consular department on Thursday morning, she will make sure they are stamped the same afternoon. The embassy is at 17 Villagatan, as you know.”

  The Boy in the Tower

  Immanuel strode briskly toward the German church. St. Gertrude’s was in the Juno district, circled by Prästgatan, Svartmangatan, and Tyska Brinken. It was on the uneven cobblestones of the latter that he was now striding forth, with a sense of purpose that was in no way matched by any clear idea of what awaited him. Light drizzle had made the cobblestones shiny and somewhat slippery. He passed through the massive black gates, which were standing half open, and glanced up at the gilt letters gracing the top, which left no doubt that he was entering German territory: Fürchtet Gott! Ehret den König! Interesting use of exclamation marks, he thought, before noticing that the church door was also partially open. He hadn’t prearranged his visit or even checked the parish office hours. But might he be fortunate enough to meet an appropriate person, maybe even the priest himself? Had they taken his letter seriously?

  The church had an airy, almost square nave. The arches rested on half columns of limestone. The floor was of marble. Black, white, and brown. Despite the half-light he could admire the patterns surrounding his wet shoes. In front of him was the pulpit in ebony and alabaster. But his attention was drawn to something quite different: a group of young seminarists gathered in a tight cluster in the darkness. They were being led around the vast nave by an elderly gentleman who was describing in ringing tones important aspects of the works of art in the church interior. They reflected in a striking way, he explained, the riches that characterized the church community in the Baroque era. The students, presumably all theologians, turned their faces in the direction the teacher indicated. He gesticulated enthusiastically toward the black eagle wings standing out against the golden base of an epitaph.

  “How
might this be interpreted?” the teacher asked, but allowed no opportunity for his audience to respond. He was already on his way toward the pulpit, where he paused for a few seconds before turning his gaze up to one particular window, representing Saint Gertrude herself, the church’s own saint, the patron saint of travelers all over the world.

  “The window was gifted in 1887 by a merchant from Brandenburg. It was the year after the great fire, when the spire collapsed. We’ll probably never know with any certainty whether the fire was the result of arson. But back to the window. As you see, the design dutifully follows the style of the parish seal, featuring our Belgian saint holding a church in her left hand and a chalice in her right. We know very little about Gertrude, save that she lived in Nivelles in the seventh century, and while we know rather more about her cult, we don’t know what decisions led to the creation of this particular window. But given the donor’s own occupation, it’s reasonable to assume he had a hand in it.”

  Scenes formed in Immanuel’s mind. Quite where he had viewed them, he couldn’t recall, but he remembered pictures of the church, in particular a dramatic woodcut showing the great fire: flames engulfing the spire, already disintegrating far up high, close to the sky; the water jets helpless against the mighty blaze; the tower growing more slender and graceful until it was thin as a pen stroke. The image had made so strong an impression that he remembered every detail. At the very top, above the flames, he fancied he could see the weathercock, floating in the gray clouds. The golden weathercock, as he now realized, because that was what the group had gathered around. Everyone’s attention was on the metal object. The cockerel glittered with gold and was almost unscathed, despite toppling through the flames from the clouds.

  The lecture resumed.

  “Eyewitnesses recount that the fire was a spectacle of rare beauty. A report issued the day after the monumental tragedy tells of the spire swaying majestically and then sinking soundlessly into the depths, leaving a towering column of fire to shoot up in its place. Coal-black smoke hung over the city, and the penetrating smell of fire lasted for days.”